"I know you think he's an arrogant Neanderthal, but he's still your subject. Professional objectivity, remember?" A pause, then an eye-roll that makes me smile. "Fine. But if this interview goes sideways, don't blame me."
She hangs up and looks at me, contrite. "Sorry. Best friend. Journalist. Currently convinced her latest assignment is going to be a disaster."
"Anyone I know?"
"Probably. Hockey player. Apparently has a reputation for being... difficult with female reporters."
The protective instinct that flares up surprises me in its intensity. "She meeting him somewhere public?"
"Already handled." Her smile is softer now, touched with something that might be gratitude. "Thank you. For caring about someone you don't even know."
"I care about you," I say, the words coming out more intense than intended. "Which means I care about the people who matter to you."
The honesty lands heavier than expected. More real. But instead of deflecting or stepping back, she moves closer.
"Garrett..."
We're standing in a narrow aisle between towering shelves, surrounded by stories and golden light. Time slows. The bookstore around us fades until there's nothing but her—the way afternoon sun catches the copper in her hair, the soft curve of her mouth, the way she's looking at me like I'm the only thing in her universe.
"Sloane," I say, my voice rough with something I'm not ready to name. "I'm not playing games anymore."
"Neither am I," she whispers.
When I lean down to kiss her, it's warm and comfortable. This is deliberate. Tender. A promise instead of a secret. Her lips are soft and sure beneath mine, and when she sighs into my mouth, I taste something that makes me not want to stop.
Her hands fist in my jacket, pulling me closer, and I'm drowning in the rightness of this—holding her in the golden light of a place that feels like sanctuary, hidden in winding bookshelves, finally free to show her exactly what she means to me.
We break apart slowly, foreheads resting together, sharing breath in the quiet space between heartbeats.
"We should go," she whispers, but she doesn't pull away.
"Separately," I agree, though every instinct I have is screaming to keep her close.
"You first." She's smiling now, soft and slightly breathless. "I need a minute to remember how to function around other people."
I press a kiss to her forehead—gentle, reverent, a promise of more to come—and force myself to step back.
"See you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
I walk away before I can change my mind, past new releases and sleeping cats, toward a future that suddenly feels full of possibility. At the register, I buy the first book I can grab without really seeing it.
Through the window, I watch her emerge from the history section five minutes later, browsing the poetry shelf like nothing world-changing just happened. But I catch the way she touches her lips when she thinks no one is looking.
14
Sloane
An empty conference room on a Tuesday night. Not exactly romantic.
But with Garrett's apartment a revolving door for teammates—including my brother—and my place off-limits for the exact same reason, our options are nonexistent. A bar or restaurant? Too public. Too risky. The bookstore had been perfect, stolen and brief, a glimpse at something real before reality crashed back in.
So here we are. Conference Room C. Where I can pretend to work late on the Northstar account if anyone asks. Plausible. Professional. A perfect lie.
I close my laptop. The snap echoes in the sterile quiet, louder than it should be. The proposal I'd pulled up as cover stares back at me, untouched. My shoulders ache—not from hunching over spreadsheets, but from the tension I've been holding for the last hour, waiting.
My phone buzzes against the table. Another alert from the PR team. Subject: URGENT - Caleb Jones Livestream Gaffe. I silence it without reading past the preview. Another fire to put out. It can wait until tomorrow.
