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His eyes flash, showing me the familiar glint that used to shine in them when his mind went to dirty places. “For the record,” he says, “I never felt obligated to take anybody out after I fucked them. And I didn’t. I’ve only everwantedto take you out.Onlyyou.”

Hearing the F word come from that mouth does annoying things to my lady bits, and I have to silently tell my ovaries—and other parts—to calm down. Because seriously? Why does he have to say that? And, more importantly, why does my stupid, stupid heart have to react?

“Oh” is the only intelligible thing I have to say. Because he really wants me to believe he’s never taken girls out to breakfast after hooking up? It’s hard to fathom.

I shake my head, not wanting to think more about it. “I should go. I’m meeting Skylar who—” I stop myself when I look at the message left by the person in question. “—just cancelled on me,” I murmur in disappointment. Shoulders slumping, I look up from my phone. “The baby is sick.”

He stands a little taller. “The baby?”

“Skylar and her boyfriend, DJ, have a son,” I explain. “Daniel Bridges Junior. He played on the football team. He’s the one who introduced us at the bonfire.”

A lightbulb goes off in his head. “Yeah, I know DJ. I didn’t know he had a kid. That’s…” He makes a thoughtful noise and doesn’t dwindle on the topic. “Go to breakfast with me.”

My lips part as if to answer, but the words stay lodged in my windpipe.

He slides a hand into his jeans pocket. “If you don’t have plans, I’m free. I’m sure I could convince Ann to make you a mimosa even though it’s not Sunday.”

Rubbing my lips together, I study him. He lets me watch him, his posture straight, his face genuine yet somehow unreadable. He wants to have breakfast together?What is happening?

“Ann retired. She said it was too much on her feet since she turned sixty-three.”

The older woman was my favorite waitress. She used to put extra whip cream on my waffles and extra champagne in my mimosa. The other women there aren’t bad, but they’re definitely stingy on their serving sizes.

Alex clicks his tongue thoughtfully, but it doesn’t deter him from trying again. “That’s unfortunate. I liked her. But I’m sure there are other people I could talk into slipping some champagne into some orange juice at the very least. You’re already up and ready. Get breakfast with me.”

Get breakfast with me.Why does that piss me off and make my heart do a little jig at the same time? That bitch can’t figure out what it wants. “I don’t know—”

“I know I fucked up. Let me take you out for apology waffles,” he cuts in, sincerity in his tone that almost comes off as a veiled plea.

It throws me off. Like, really off. “Apology waffles?”

He dips his chin, his eyes raking over me. They’re softer than they were before, warming me more than the sun was moments before. “Or eggs. Or pancakes. Just say yes. I…” He pauses, his tongue, which I know to be a very dangerous and skillful part of him, drags along his bottom lip before he releases a breath. “I missed you. Okay? I miss…” He gestures around us. “This.”

Lindon? “You’re a professional hockey player, Alex. How could you miss college in the middle of nowhere New York?”

A little scoff rises from his throat. “Trust me, it’s not hard to miss this. I’m sure you’ll understand soon enough. Life after this really slaps you in the face.”

If he expects me to feel sorry for him, I don’t. I heard rumors about what he made when he signed with the Penguins. It isn’t like he’s struggling. Not like most of us will right after graduating with our degrees and trying to make the most out of entry-level positions that barely pay rent.

Yet, it doesn’t make me want to tell him no. Because there’s something in those eyes that seems so masked and…pained. He’s always been good at hiding his emotions. Too good. But something in him has cracked enough where they’re starting to seep through.

Alex is showing me the bits and pieces I used to see. Before he left Lindon, and me, behind.

So, I readjust my bag and sigh a little extra heavy like agreeing is a burden. I don’t want him to know it’s not. “Fine. But you better convince somebody to put extra whip cream onmy waffles. And we’re taking my car, so I don’t have to endure any of your crappy music.”

I turn to walk the rest of the way to my car when his words almost stop me in my tracks. “I downloaded two of John Mayer’s albums to have them in my playlist. The guys give me shit once in a while when they steal my earbuds and listen to what’s playing.”

He…what?

I open the driver’s side door and try to seem unfazed. “I’ll have to make you download Taylor Swift next. Then the guys will really give you a run for your money.”

His lips kick up on one side. “Who says I don’t already listen to her?” he questions, stopping at the opposite side of the car and looking at me from over the top. “Try me, Olive.”

My eyes narrow.

Then I slide inside.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN