Unprofessional, I remind myself.
“Are you okay?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything. He seems to be drinking me in the same way I just did to him, as though I’m ice water on a scorching hot summer’s day.
Take a sip. Quench your thirst.
No, no, no. What am I thinking?
“Can we talk?” His voice is gruff. “I know it’s late.”
He doesn’t apologize for coming here uninvited. There isn’t even a hint of contrition, as though he has every right to show up well past regular work hours. I don’t even know how he knew my address. Politeness, and a desire to be near him, almost makes me open the door wide. I haven’t seen him in two days, which shouldn’t feel long, but it does.
Then I remember I’m not letting men dictate my boundaries anymore. Or I’mtryingnot to.
“It’s after midnight. This can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“I wanted to see you.” Logan’s jaw is set at a stubborn angle.
“You can’t just show up at my house. I don’t even know how you got here.”
“My driver knows the island like the back of his hand. I told him to take me to Sawyer Tucker, and that’s what he did.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Because you don’t want me here?”
“That’s not…” I tuck my phone into my pocket, and I scrub my hands along my face. “I need boundaries.Weneed boundaries.”
He scans my expression, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. When he finally responds, he says, “If I say I won’t come to your house again like this—unless you ask me to”—and his lips quirk into an almost smile, as though he thinks that outcome is possible—“can I come in now?”
“You came here straight from the plane?”
“I did.”
I worry my lip, trying to decide if letting him in means I’m caving on my boundaries, or if the fact Iwantto let him in means the boundary isn’t necessary anyway. My instincts were systematically eroded, and I’m not even sure if the places I’m patching up are the right ones. I’m just covering up the losses, hoping the right thing sticks.
“Okay,” I say, drawing back the door and stepping to the side. “But you don’t come again unless we’ve agreed to meet. This isn’t… We have aprofessionalrelationship.”
“Sure, doc,” he says, and although his words could be condescending, he sounds contrite, as though he’s only now registered that he’s overstepped.
He gazes around the foyer, and he peers over my shoulder toward where the house opens up to a kitchen, living room, and a formal dining area.
“Is this a sit-down conversation?” I ask. “You’re not hurt or anything?” Then I worry that maybe heisgoing to fire me.Despite the chemistry between us, I know his primary concern is hockey and playing well.
“Not hurt,” he says, jamming his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. “If I can come in, though…”
I lead him through the foyer, into the living room.
“Nice place,” he says.
“I bought it when I returned to the island from Northern University.” What I don’t say is that I loved this house, every brick, piece of furniture, and bold paint color, until last year. Until Dalton walked through it and showed me the skin and bones and guts of this place through his eyes. Now I can’t seem to take off his glasses. All the ways my home doesn’t measure up to some standard he set, that was never mine, and yet I let it become mine.
“It’s so… bright,” he says. “Fitting. Feels like you.” There’s the briefest hesitation. “I like it. A lot.”
Such a simple comment shouldn’t almost break me, but tears prick at the back of my eyes, threatening to pool. “Thanks,” I say, my voice husky.
“Are you okay?” He touches my arm, and I press my fingers into my temples before facing him.
“It’s just late,” I say because I can’t tell him anything else. I shouldn’t. Boundaries are necessary.
