A few weeks. My heartbeat skitters. The logical part of my brain screamsno.The other part—the one still staring at that rent notice—whispersyou could survive this month.
Leo glances past me into the apartment. “You sure? She said you needed the help.”
Ouch.
I cross my arms, trying to summon my backbone. “This isn’t exactly a bachelor pad.”
He gives a faint shrug. “Don’t need one.”
The silence stretches, taut as fishing line. His gaze is steady but not invasive, his presence filling the doorway like gravity. I hate that my pulse reacts before my brain catches up.
Finally, I step aside just enough for him to pass. “Fine. Temporary. Don’t touch my knives.”
He lifts one brow. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As the door clicks shut behind him, my stomach drops.
Temporary roommate.
Famous hockey player.
Walking reminder of everything I swore off.
Fantastic.
The air in the apartment feels different the second Leo steps inside—too full, like it’s suddenly inhaled someone else’s oxygen. He doesn’t say much, just surveys the space in that quiet, assessing way I’ve seen him study his meals at Élan.
He drops his duffel beside the couch. The sound feels final.
“Nice place,” he says after a pause, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “Smells like… lemon?”
I stiffen, caught off guard. “Turmeric-lemon syrup. For recovery drinks.”
His brow ticks up a fraction. “Recovery drinks?”
“I’m a chef,” I say, too fast. “I do private catering. Meal plans. Things with flavor and purpose. You know, for people who like their food to taste like something.”
He nods once, slow. “Fuel.”
My mouth twists. “Food.”
It’s ridiculous how easily one word can feel like a challenge.
He doesn’t push, just studies my little setup like he’s cataloguing everything—the jars of spices, the folded apron, the stack of meal prep containers drying beside the sink. He takes it all in quietly, which somehow unnerves me more than if he’d made himself at home.
“Where’s your room?” he asks finally.
I point toward the hallway. “Mine’s down there. The second bedroom isn’t—” I stop myself. The second bedroom isn’t forsleeping, but explaining that feels too personal. “You’ll take the couch.”
He looks at the sofa—modern, compact, barely long enough for his frame—and nods without complaint. “Fine.”
It should make me feel better, his easy acceptance. It doesn’t. It makes me feel like I’m waiting for the catch.
He pulls off his cap, fabric whispering as it brushes his hair, a faint static crackle in the air before he runs a hand through his hair. The motion is so normal, so unguarded, it feels like a tiny intrusion. My kitchen, my sanctuary, now has this six-foot-three complication breathing in it.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” he says finally, tone neutral. “Just need somewhere quiet to sleep. Shouldn’t be long.”
Something in the way he saysquietmakes my chest tighten. I remember those glimpses of him at Élan—always separate from the noise, the only player who didn’t treat dinner like a spectacle. A man allergic to chaos, now dropped in the middle of mine.
