I hadn't expected such honesty. "That's... really admirable. You know, my mom grew up in foster care…”
“I didn’t know.”
I tip my glass toward her, ceding her point. “Yeah. She works in family law now. She said the same thing, about wanting to make a difference for families like hers.”
Sloane adjusts her posture, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's definitely something I care about. Family. Helping families. What about you? Is hockey your passion?”
Her question takes me by surprise. I thought my answer would be an immediate yes, but so much of what I love about hockey is wrapped up in my family being on the ice with me. I blurt, “Hockey is all I’ve ever known,” which I know isn’t the same thing, and Sloane’s face reveals she hears the difference. “But family is really important to me.”
Her expression darkens, and I try to work out where I messed up, remembering she mentioned her grandmother. I decide tolighten the mood, lean in to what she and I have already established as talking points. “Plus, you know, I’ve got that sock money.”
Sloane wiggles her bare toes on the couch, and we both laugh.
I shift slightly closer to her. “What else should I know aboutyou?"
Our eyes meet for a moment, a brief, silent recognition of the main thing we know about one another: our shared connections to Josh Grentley. And then it’s like he’s gone from the conversation, from our thoughts, from our consciousness.
"Not much to tell." She glances around the apartment again. "I'm a lot less interesting than all this suggests you are."
"I doubt that." I study her, the way her fingers trace the stem of her wineglass, the slight tensing of her shoulders when she feels my gaze. "You're the most interesting woman I've met in a long time."
She laughs, but there's a nervousness to it. "You don't even know me."
"I'd like to." The words come out more sincere than I intended, closer to the truth than I'm comfortable with.
Her eyes meet mine, and something shifts in the air between us. The pretense of casual conversation falls away, leaving only the raw awareness that's been simmering since she walked through my door. Since the ski house, if I'm honest.
She sets down her wineglass with deliberate care. "Tucker."
"Yeah?"
“You and I cannot be a thing.”
My heart rate doubles. "No?"
She shakes her head, then moves toward me with sudden purpose, closing the distance between us. “What happened was a one-time thing. Just sex.”
I swallow, worried the wine will solidify in my throat. “Right. Terrible idea. Nothing we should repeat.”
She runs a hand along the leather on the back of the couch. It’s indecent, the way she drags that finger along. “But I’m here anyway. And that already doesn’t look good.”
I scoot closer to her. Just a millimeter. “Nobody’s looking, Sloane.”
Her lips find mine, soft and warm and tasting of wine, and any remaining restraint I might have had evaporates.
I pull her onto my lap, her knees straddling my thighs, my hands spanning her waist. She makes a soft sound against my mouth, sending heat racing through me. This feels different—less frantic, more deliberate, but no less intense.
"I've been thinking about you," she murmurs against my jaw. "I tried not to, but I couldn't stop."
"Same," I admit, trailing kisses down her neck. "Every day."
Her hands find their way under my shirt, cool palms against the hot skin of my chest. I tug at the straps of her sundress, exposing her shoulders to my mouth. She arches into me, her body remembering mine.
"Last time," she says, her breath catching as I find a sensitive spot, "you said I could have anything I wanted."
"Still true," I reply, meaning it more than she knows.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes dark with desire but also something more searching. "I want you. Right here. Right now."
