I laugh, but it’s brittle. “You forget—Grayson cured me of that type. Permanently.”
Maya sobers immediately, guilt flashing across her face. “Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I swirl my wine, forcing a shrug. “He just taught me a line I should’ve learned sooner.”
“What’s that?”
“‘No athletes. No distractions. Not again.’” The words come out like muscle memory—sharp, practiced, necessary.
Maya studies me for a beat, then nods slowly. “You’re stronger now, Sage.”
“Stronger,” I echo softly, staring at the catering gear gleaming through the cracked door of my second bedroom. The sheet pans, the mixer, the lined-up jars of turmeric and cardamom—those are my real investment. Not love. Not men with ice skates and bad timing.
The clock ticks past one. Maya yawns, promising brunch plans we both know we’ll cancel, and hangs up.
I linger in the quiet a moment longer, finishing my wine. The lease sits on the coffee table, taunting me. My pulse keeps whispering the same refrain:Find a way. Keep moving. Don’t fall back.
When I finally drag myself to bed, I set the lease aside and mutter under my breath, like a vow: “No athletes. No distractions. Not again.”
Outside, the city hums on, unaware that my world’s about to collide with exactly the kind of distraction I swore off for good.
Morning blurs in through the blinds, too bright for how little sleep I got. I shuffle toward the kitchen, hair a tangled mess, still half-dreaming about unpaid bills. The city outside hums awake—honking horns, the faint screech of gulls from the bay.
The apartment feels both too big and too small at once. My catering studio takes up the second bedroom, every counter gleaming from last night’s late-night cleaning spree. It’s organized chaos—sacks of flour stacked beside labeled jars of spices, sheet pans lined like soldiers. My future, measured in stainless steel.
I make coffee strong enough to wake the dead and check my bank app like it might have changed overnight. Spoiler: it hasn’t. Numbers glare back at me—disappointing and unbudging.
The intercom buzzes suddenly, sharp and jarring. I nearly spill my mug. “Seriously?” I mutter, padding over to the panel.
“Miss Winslow,” Mrs. Patel’s clipped voice crackles through. “Good morning. I believe we’ve solved your problem.”
My pulse jumps. “My—what problem?”
“The vacancy. Temporary placement, just as we discussed. He’ll be up in a moment.”
“Wait, what vacancy? Mrs. Patel, I didn’t—” But the line clicks dead.
I stare at the panel like it personally betrayed me. A heartbeat later, a knock rattles the door.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
I glance around the apartment—wine glass still on the coffee table, couch blanket askew, a pile of mail half-open on the counter. Perfect.
When I open the door, the hallway light hits like a spotlight. Standing there, framed in it, is six feet of broad shoulders, duffel bag, and trouble.
Leo Voss.
He’s dressed down—gray hoodie, joggers, baseball cap pulled low—but it doesn’t disguise the face I’ve seen a dozen times at Élan. The one that barely looks up from his meal while teammates flirt with the servers. The one that seems carved from quiet control.
He glances toward Mrs. Patel disappearing down the hall, then mutters, “Temporary roommate.” mutters, voice low, gravel-smooth. His eyes flick toward Mrs. Patel’s retreating form at the end of the hall.
I blink, completely thrown. “Roommate?”
“Pipe burst in my unit,” he says, like this is the most normal situation in the world. “She said this was available.”
“It’s not,” I blurt automatically. “I mean, it wasn’t—this isn’t?—”
He adjusts the strap on his bag, expression unreadable. “Look, if it’s a problem, I’ll talk to her again. I just need a place for a few weeks.”
