“Are we scheduling secret little sports meetings?” she asked.
“It’s for the project,” I said immediately.
Charm looked at Cade, then at me, and back at Cade again.
“Mm-hmm,” she said.
Cade’s mouth twitched like he enjoyed my suffering and I hated him a little for that.
Unfortunately, not enough.
5
Bliss
By the time Cade knocked on my apartment door at eleven sharp, I had already rearranged the same stack of notebooks on my coffee table three times, burned my tongue on my second cup of coffee, and convinced myself at least twice that inviting him here before Sunday dinner had been a reckless academic decision made by a woman who couldn’t be trusted around dimples.
The apartment smelled like vanilla coffee, warm sugar, and the cronuts Charm Harlen had dropped off twenty minutes earlier with a dramatic warning that if I accidentally fell in love before dinner, she wanted credit for catering the emotional downfall. Sunlight pushed through the thin curtains in soft white bands, brightening the living room enough to expose every cozy, imperfect detail I suddenly wished looked more mature. The pink cheetah print throw blanket folded over the couch had fuzz on it. My coffee table held three notebooks, two highlighters, my laptop, a jasmine and vanilla candle, and one emergency tube of lip gloss Aura had left behind during finals week. A laundry basket sat half-hidden near the hallway because apparently I believed shoving clothes under a cardigan made them disappear.
I glanced at the door, then at the cronuts, then at myself in the mirror by the entryway.
Soft black Red Wings tank top. Denim shorts. Bare legs. Hair down because Charm had threatened me with bodily harm if I put it in a messy bun. Minimal makeup, which had somehow taken longer than actual makeup because the goal had been to look like I had not tried while absolutely trying.
Pathetic.
Academic.
This was academic.
Cade knocked again, a slower, quieter sound this time, like he knew I was already on the other side losing an argument with myself.
I exhaled once, opened the door, and immediately regretted having eyes.
He stood in the hallway holding a cardboard coffee carrier in one hand and a small white bakery bag in the other, wearing pale worn jeans, a black Fury hoodie, and that calm, expensive ease that made him look like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at the same time. His dark hair was still damp at the ends, pushed back carelessly like he had showered after a workout and not once considered the emotional consequences of showing up at my apartment looking like that.
His eyes dipped over me once, quick enough to be polite and slow enough to be a problem, before coming back to my face.
“Detroit?” he asked.
I glanced down at theRed Wingstank top tucked loosely into my shorts. “Careful. That sounded judgmental.”
“It was observational.”
“Mm-hmm. That’s what men say right before they realize they should’ve kept a thought to themselves.”
His mouth twitched. “You invited a Fury player into your apartment wearing another team’s logo?”
“I live in the great state of Michigan. I don’t work for the Fury propaganda department.”
“Tragic. We offer benefits.”
“Do the benefits include free therapy after all the fistfights, or is that separate?”
“No,” he said easily. “We just punch each other and move on with life.”
I stepped back to let him in. “Women would hold a grudge for ten years.”
“That’s because women won’t just let another woman punch them in the face and call it closure.”
