The fluorescent lights above my desk buzz with their usual aggressive hum, casting everything in harsh, unforgiving angles. I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, but the numbers blur together like watercolors in rain. My coffee has gone cold, and the quarterly projections that were due an hour ago sit untouched in my inbox.
I can't concentrate. Haven't been able to since Tuesday's "meeting", where Garrett and I spent forty-five minutes pretending to discuss player interview schedules while I fought the urge to reach across the table and touch his hand.
My phone buzzes against the desk. The sound makes me jump like I've been caught stealing.
Garrett
Need to review the playoff media rollout plan. My place? 7 p.m.?
His name on my screen is a spark hitting dry tinder. I stare at the message, reading it three times before the words register. The "playoff media rollout plan" is our code now—plausible professional cover for meetings that have nothing to do with work and everything to do with the fact that I haven't been able to think about anything but him for days.
This is dangerous. Reckless. His apartment means privacy, yes, but it also contains risk. We could be seen.
But God, I want to see him. Really see him. Not the careful, professional version he wears like armor at work, but the man who reads Dostoevsky and listens to jazz when he thinks no one is watching.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for thirty seconds before I type back.
See you at 7.
The elevator in Garrett's building climbs with a mechanical precision that feels at odds with the chaos in my chest. Each softdingof a passing floor is a countdown, and my heart answers with a frantic, corresponding beat. The last time I was here, I was running from a blizzard, the danger a physical thing—wind and ice and biting cold. Tonight, the danger is all internal, a quiet, humming wire of heat in my veins. This isn't a storm to be survived. It’s the unsettling quiet that comes after, the moment you have to step outside and see what’s left standing.
The hallway outside his door smells like cedar and expensive cologne from one of his neighbors. I smooth my sweater—cashmere, navy blue, chosen with more care than I want to admit—and knock softly.
The door opens, and Garrett stands there in jeans and a gray Henley that clings to his shoulders. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and the scent of his soap wraps around me like an invitation. But it's his expression thatstops my breath—soft, unguarded, genuinely happy to see me.
"Hi," he says, and the simple word carries enough warmth to melt steel.
"Hi yourself."
He steps aside to let me in, and I cross the threshold into his world.
The loft feels different without the chaos of a blizzard to distract me. Warmer. More intimate. The exposed brick walls glow amber in the soft lighting, and the Mississippi stretches beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows like a dark ribbon threaded with city lights. Jazz drifts from hidden speakers—something complex and melancholy that I don't recognize but somehow fits him perfectly.
Something tender unfolds in my chest. This is him. Not Tank Sullivan, the stone-faced defenseman who treats reporters like hostile interrogators. This is Garrett.
And the terrifying, wonderful truth crashes over me like a wave: I'm not just attracted to him. I'm falling for him. All of him.
"So," Garrett says, opening the refrigerator with a grin that makes my pulse skip, "for our very important 'playoff media rollout' meeting... did you bring the spreadsheets?"
I lean against the counter, watching him move through his space with quiet efficiency. "They're in the car. I figured we could get to them right after you tell me about the emotional state of your sourdough starter."
He laughs—that low, genuine sound that never fails to undo me. "She's thriving, thanks for asking. Bubbling with personality."
"Good to hear. I was worried our last meeting might have stressed her out."
"Nah, she's tougher than she looks." He pulls out a bottle of wine, and I catch the label—that Malbec I mentioned liking weeks ago. Of course he remembered. Of course he went out and bought it.
My chest tightens with something dangerously close to tenderness. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He sets the bottle between us, his fingers brushing mine as I reach for it. The contact sends heat racing up my arm, and from the way his eyes darken, he feels it too. "Besides, I'm pretty sure our fake meeting requires proper refreshments."
I trace the wine label with my fingertip, hyperaware of him watching me. "Very thorough planning, Sullivan."
"I'm a thorough guy."
The words carry weight that has nothing to do with wine or fake meetings. I glance up to find his gaze already on me—not scanning for networking opportunities like at every other event we've attended together, but focused entirely on my face. Like I'm the only thing in his universe worth looking at.
My eyes drift to the bookshelf behind him, landing on a familiar spine. "I see you're still battling Ayn Rand," I say, nodding toward the bookmark jutting from Atlas Shrugged.
