“I am not!”
“Fix it,” he cuts in. “Clarify the story. Get ahead of it. And until this calms down, maybe don’t be seen hanging off Bryce at center ice. Or anywhere. I'll worry about his image from now on.”
That last part hurts more than it should.
My dad studies me for a beat, his expression shifting. It’s less executive fury now, more father alarm. “Annabelle… is there anything going on between you and Bryce?”
My pulse jumps. Of all days for this conversation.
I clear my throat and aim for casual, the kind of breezy confidence I do not currently possess. “Defineanything.We talk. He exists. I also exist. Very normal workplace adjacency.”
Dad just stares.
I sigh. “Fine. He’s… a friend. A good one. A very tall, extremely athletic, unfairly handsome friend who sometimes brings me coffee and asks about my day and looks at me like I’m… something.”
He blinks. “Annabelle.”
“Oh my God, relax. It’s not like we made out in your office. We’re adults.”
His brows shoot up. “So youare…”
“Nope!” I cut in, voice way too loud. “No labels. No headlines. No father-daughter HR meetings. Just… stuff. Maybe. Potentially. Hypothetically. Unofficially.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose like he regrets his entire life. “Annabelle, for the love of God!”
I throw my hands up. “I can’t help it, Dad. Have you seen him? The man looks like he was handcrafted by the hockey gods specifically to ruin my self-control.”
He chuckles.
“You keep things boring right now,” he says. “For his sake. For yours. For the team. And please, for the sanity of everyone involved, no more public meetings with your ex.”
“That wasn’t public on purpose,” I say.
“The cameras don’t care about intent,” he says flatly.
“I know,” I say, shoulders sagging. “I know. Sorry, Dad. And I’ll keep things boring. For now. I promise.”
The door shuts behind him.
I stand there, breathing hard, fingers digging into my arms.
For a moment I don’t feel like an executive or an owner’s daughter or a woman who knows what she’s doing. I feel like a teenager who got caught sneaking out, except instead of climbing down a trellis, I had coffee with my ex-fiancé and admitted to my father that I'm hot for Bryce Blackhorn.
Could this day get any worse?
I sink onto the couch and drag a hand over my face.
My phone buzzes again.
I pick it up, because apparently I enjoy pain.
New post. Different account. Same photo. New headline.
ARE ANNABELLE HACKER AND MARK CUMMINGS WORKING ON THINGS?
I snort. “Working on my last nerve, maybe.”
Almost on cue, another notification pops up.
