“You did good,” I murmur, steadying her.
She tilts her head up with a smug smirk. “And you’re having a good time with me.”
“I am,” I confirm with a nod.
“You’re not even gonna deny it?” Her brows shoot up.
“No.”
She blinks, then grins—perfect teeth and mischief. “I think you’re smitten, Captain.”
She yelps with a laugh as my hand lands on her ass. “Careful.” I lower my voice.
I know I should check myself; I don’t want this to end. But maybe there’s truth to that word she tossed at me—smitten. What does it feel like to be smitten? I don’t think I’ve ever felt it, but doing an axel just to see a girl smile is dangerously close.
Chapter seventeen
~JESSICA~
Fabric drapes over every available surface of the atelier. A bolt of silk is slung over a chair, muslin hangs half-pinned on the dress form, seams sketched in red marker. Scraps litter the floor beneath my feet, paper patterns overlapping where they dropped mid-thought.
I tug the tape measure from around my neck and scribble a note in the margin of my sketch, then immediately cross it out, replacing it with a sharper line.
The place between my legs aches faintly when I shift my weight, reminding me of what Dom and I did. I shake my head, reach for another pencil, but my mind drifts anyway.
I still don’t know what to call what he took me on. A date feels… loaded. Romantic in a way that implies intent: candles, expectations, a future tense I don’t think he’s ready to conjugate yet. But it also wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t PR. It wasn’t an obligation. He didn’t have to rent out an entire rink, teach me how to skate, or give me a piggyback ride.
I smooth fabric over the form, my hands moving automatically, muscle memory taking over while my thoughts spiral.
He didn’t deny it when I teased him about having fun. That thought sends a quiet thrill through my chest, sparkling and persistent.
I pin a seam, step back, tilt my head. I don’t know what Dom wants. I don’t know what this is turning into. I don’t know what this means to him.
My phone buzzes on the worktable and I peel my eyes off the mannequin to check who it is, expecting either Dom or Dannie.
Unknown number.
I sigh, already tired. Probably another reporter who found my name by proximity and wants a quote about Dominic Moreal’s sex life, playoff routine, orwhether I’m “handling the pressure” of dating a professional athlete. It feels like I applied for a public interrogation when I agreed to this arrangement.
I let it buzz twice more before swiping to answer, forcing my voice into polite boredom. “Hello, this is Jessica.”
“Hi, Jessica. This is Elena Cruz. I’m a coordinator with the Horizon Collective. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
The name slides through my brain and doesn’t immediately land.
Horizon Collective.
“Um. No. No, you’re fine.” My brows pull together.
“Great. I’m calling regarding your portfolio.”
I blink. “My… portfolio?”
“Yes. We recently reviewed submissions and recommendations for our upcoming Emerging Designers Showcase in Los Angeles, and your work came up through a referral. We spent some time with your digital portfolio and concept work, and I wanted to reach out personally.”
The room tilts just a degree. Enough that I grip the edge of the table.
“Oh,” I manage. Brilliant. Articulate. Pulitzer-worthy.
