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Which, as it turns out, is my favorite part.

The last six weeks have been something of a whirlwind. Between Bishop's games, my internship at Wilder House, and trying to finish my manuscript, we've barely had time to catch our breath.

But we've made the most of it.

There was trivia night at O'Shea's, where Jax and Kiley spent half the evening arguing over answers while Avery and I exchanged increasingly suspicious looks. Bishop kept asking Jax when he'd started caring so much about impressing Kiley, which earned him a very creative suggestion about where he could shove his questions.

Then came the All-Star break, when Bishop whisked me away for a few days of skiing and discovered that being good at hockey doesn't automatically qualify someone to teach winter sports.

Especially when his student is me, I fell approximately seventeen times. He laughed approximately seventeen times. And I made him buy me hot chocolate every time.

Honestly, I think I came out ahead.

But tonight is Valentine's Day, and for the first time in weeks, neither of us has anywhere else to be.

Bishop promised he'd handle dinner.

I told him pizza was perfectly acceptable.

He told me to trust him.

Two months ago, those words might have terrified me. Tonight, they make me smile.

Which is why I'm standing outside our penthouse at six thirty, wondering why the man who can barely remember to put his socks in the hamper has suddenly become so mysterious.

I unlock the door. And stop. “Oh.” That's all I've got. Just oh.

Because the penthouse looks like something out of one of my romance novels. Which is particularly unfair considering he still doesn't know I write them.

Candles flicker along the entryway and across the living room, their warm glow reflecting off the windows overlooking Chicago. Soft music plays from somewhere near the kitchen, and a trail of pink and red rose petals leads toward the hallway.

Actual rose petals.

On the floor.

In Bishop's apartment.

I glance down at Darcy, who's sitting beside the console table looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Well,” I tell him, “Apparently somebody's been busy.”

He blinks. Then bats at a petal.

“Don't eat that.”

“Already had that conversation with him.”

I look up.

Bishop is leaning against the hallway entrance, wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders.

His blond hair is slightly messy, and there's that familiar crooked smile.

The one that has been causing problems for me since I was old enough to know what a crush was.

“Hey, Ken.” I look around again. “Did you rob a florist?”

“Not exactly the reaction I was going for.”