FOUR MONTHS LATER…
By the time Naomi steps into the elevator for her eleventh-floor apartment, her phone is clinging to five percent battery, her inbox chimes with a frenzy of unread messages, and her brain is still buzzing from the pitch meeting she wrapped three hours ago with the athletic-wear brand Hollis has been chasing for months.
She ran the meeting herself—presented the proposed digital strategy, walked them through the campaign calendar, and fielded questions without breaking stride. They loved it. Every slide, every idea, every number. The clients had nodded along, engaged and impressed, already throwing around phrases like long-term partnership and cross-channel amplification by the time she hit her final talking point.
Richard had been there, technically. Sitting at the far end of the table like a well-tailored, preppy statue, chiming in for high-level account questions. He’d let her take the lead without hovering, without second-guessing her wording or jumping in to rephrase. It was the first time she felt like he saw her as more than the girl who writes good copy.
To his credit, during their prep meeting he had made the uncharacteristic concession that she was, in fact, the best person to be in front of the client. Then he ruined it with, “Yoga pants and hair scrunchies are more your thing.”
Naomi can’t help the glow spreading through her chest as the elevator dings open. She exhales as she makes her way down the corridor, already reaching up to tug her curls out of their twist. It’s still disgustingly hot outside—one of those syrupy Toronto summer evenings where the streetcars move like they’re underwater—but the second the lock clicks open, the heat is forgotten.
The smell hits her first. Garlic, sesame, and a savory, caramelized richness. Definitely not whatever frozen atrocity she left in the back of her freezer.
She blinks. “Oh my god.”
Inside, Garrett is barefoot and shirtless in her kitchen, looking profoundly out of place in the tiny space—like someone photoshopped a Viking into a Pinterest apartment.
He glances over, expression unreadable, then nods toward the stovetop. “Dinner in five.”
Her heart does that annoying swoop thing it’s been doing for the past…oh, forever.
It’s been two weeks since he arrived in Toronto for his off-season goalie training stint. Two weeks of morning coffees and shared grocery lists and post-work sex that borders on religious.
And somehow, she still gets a thrill every time she walks through the door and sees him here.
“You cooked,” she says, dropping her bag by the door. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
Garrett tosses her a look over his shoulder, dry as ever. “All you ever order is takeout. Someone had to intervene.”
“What did you make?” she asks, stepping in behind him and wrapping her arms around his middle. She buries her face between his shoulder blades and inhales—soap and sweat and something undeniably him. “Smells amazing.”
“Stir fry,” he says, before turning and stooping low enough to capture her mouth in a kiss that melts her entire day away.
Naomi’s hands circle his neck as he effortlessly lifts her into his arms, and she laughs into the kiss—right before it turns toe-curling. His mouth is hot and slow on hers, tongue sweeping past her lips. One broad palm slips under her thighs to anchor her, the other cupping the back of her head like she’s fragile, even though they both know she’s anything but.
When he finally pulls back, her heart is thudding, her breath is gone.
“Hi,” she breathes, slightly dazed.
“Hi,” he murmurs, his mouth quirking. Then he sets her down, gives her backside a firm smack, and says, “Go change. Dinner’s ready.”
She stumbles back a step, grinning. “You know, I could get very used to this.”
“You mean being fed real food by someone with basic motor skills? Yeah, wild concept.”
She sticks her tongue out at him and heads down the hall, peeling off her blazer as she goes. In the bedroom, she kicks off her heels and swaps her work clothes for a cropped tank and a pair of soft drawstring shorts so short her cheeks peek out. Because yes, she’s dying to be comfortable after a long day, but also: there’s a man in her apartment.
A very hot, slightly growly man who knows how to cook and ruin her in bed.
So. Priorities.
By the time she pads barefoot back into the kitchen, Garrett’s already dished up two bowls of stir-fry and has lit the ridiculous fake candle centerpiece she keeps on the table as a joke. It flickers like an actual flame. It’s extremely unnecessary. She loves it.
“Garrett. This is enough to feed a small village.”
He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “You’re small. It just looks big.”
She narrows her eyes. “This is a mountain.”
