“You going to invite me in?” he asked. “Or should I eat this pie in the hallway? I’ll need a fork if you choose option number two.”
“Right. Sorry. Come in.” I moved aside and motioned for him to enter.
He stepped past me, close enough that I caught a whiff of his cologne—something woody and warm that made me want to bury my face in his neck. I shoved that thought aside, closed the door, then followed him into the kitchen, where he was setting the bakery box on the counter.
“Place looks different,” he said, glancing around.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Cleaner? Did you . . . did you clean for me?”
“I clean regularly. I’m a clean person. This is perfectly normal levels of clean.”
His smirk only made my nerves spike.
Then his lips curled upward in what could only be called a leer of pride. “There’s a candle lit.”
“I like candles.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. I’m a candle guy. I contain multitudes.”
He was grinning now, that warm, knowing grin that made me feel simultaneously seen and exposed. “You cleaned, and you lit a candle. You’re adorable.”
“I’m an NHL captain. I’m the antithesis of adorable.”
“You’re an adorable NHL captain who cleaned his apartment and lit a candle for our date.”
The word hung in the air between us.
Date.
He’d used it last night, in his text.It’s a date. I’d agreed, but hearing it now, out loud, in person,in my apartment, made it feel different. It made it feel more real, more undeniable.
“Is that what this is?” I asked, not challenging, just double-checking, making sure we were on the samepage. “A date?”
Jacks leaned against the counter, his expression open but careful. “What do you want it to be?”
I considered the question.
Two days ago, I wouldn’t have had an answer.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have even understood the question.
“I want it to be a date,” I said.
The words came out steady and certain, far more certain than I’d expected.
Something shifted in Jacks’s expression—that guarded carefulness melting into something warmer, something almost like relief.
“Then it’s a date,” he said.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without my voice doing something embarrassing.
“So.” He straightened up, rubbing his hands together. “What’s the plan? You mentioned cooking, which I’m assuming means—”
“Thai food ordered from that place you like near the bar. It’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”
