I think about how she leaned into my touch—just for a second—before reality tore it away. How her breath changed when I said her name. The heat between us, so charged, so close, before the sound of footsteps crashed it all down.
If I want to know the real Sloane—not the marketing director with the firewall gaze, not the woman managing perception likeoxygen—I need to get her out. Away from the arena. Away from the surveillance. Away from the pressure to perform.
My phone feels heavy in my hand. My thumb hovers over our message thread. I type, the words coming out raw and unfiltered.
This hiding is killing me. We need to go out. For real.
I stare at the message. Too much. Too fast. It's a demand, not an invitation, and it ignores every risk she’s taking. I delete it, the frustration still simmering. I need a better play. Something that gives her an out.
Finally, I settle on something cryptic enough to maintain plausible deniability.
Know any good places to find stories that don't involve hockey? Could use a tour guide.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then immediately want to throw my phone out the window. What if she doesn't get it? What if she does get it and thinks it's stupid? What if—
My phone buzzes.
Sloane
A bookstore, maybe? Unless a poetry section is too much excitement for you.
Relief floods through me so fast I actually laugh out loud in the empty truck. She gets it. And she's teasing me. I grin as I type back.
Never. I know a place. Wild Rumpus Books on Grand Ave. It's... different. Sunday 2pm?
Intriguing. See you in the stacks.
Come in disguise.
Wild Rumpus Books feels like someone's incredibly well-read grandmother's house—all mismatched furniture, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and the kind of comfortable chaos that comes from prioritizing books over aesthetics. Afternoon light filters through dusty windows, casting everything in golden warmth.
I'm early. Fifteen minutes early, because sitting in my apartment pretending to focus on anything else wasn't an option. I've been wandering the aisles, picking up books without reading them, my attention fixed on the door like I'm waiting for the game-winning play.
The bell chimes.
My heart kicks against my ribs like a puck hitting the boards.
She's here.
Sloane stands just inside the entrance, scanning the store with that focused intensity she brings to boardrooms and press conferences. But something's different. Softer. Dark jeans instead of tailored slacks. A loose cream sweater that makes her look both powerful and approachable. Herauburn hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders—no severe ponytail, no corporate armor.
She looks like herself. Just Sloane.
Our eyes meet across the store, and I watch her face soften. Shy warmth. A slight uncertainty that makes my chest tight with the urge to close the distance between us.
"Hey," she says, weaving past a display of local authors and a tabby cat sleeping on a stack of mysteries.
"Hey yourself." I close the book I haven't been reading—something about urban planning that might as well be written in Sanskrit for all the attention I've paid it. "Find it okay?"
"GPS and divine intervention." She glances around, taking in the towering shelves and cozy reading nooks. "This place is incredible. Very niche. Very you."
"Very me?"
"Thoughtful. Layers you don't show everyone." Her cheeks flush slightly, like she's revealed more than intended. "How did you find it?"
"Used to come here as a rookie. Needed somewhere quiet to think that wasn't my empty apartment." I gesture toward the back corner. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."
I lead her past fiction and self-help, past dusty cookbooks that probably haven't been touched in years. The history section sits tucked away like a secret, quieter and more private.
