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ELLIOT

T here’s something surreal about inviting a professional hockey player into your house for ‘not-coffee’ at midnight. Even more surreal when that hockey player is wearing a perfectly tailored tux with a bow tie you tied yourself. But the most surreal part? I’m not panicking.

I should be. My internal warning system should be blaring like a five-alarm fire. The last time I felt this kind of fluttery anticipation was with Jason, early in our relationship. He’d shown up at my apartment door with takeout from that tiny Thai place I mentioned once in passing. So thoughtful, so attentive - until it wasn’t genuine anymore. Until I discovered his attention was divided between me and whoever else caught his eye that week.

Instead of heeding that warning memory, as I close the door behind us, all I feel is a pleasant hum of anticipation mixed with the lingering buzz of champagne and desert night air that somehow still holds heat even at midnight in April.

“So,” Brody says, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like an oversized kid trying not to touch anything in a museum. “Not-coffee.”

“Not-coffee,” I confirm, slipping off my torture devices disguised as stylish heels. The immediate height difference makes me smirk—I’m now a full head shorter than him, craning my neck to maintain eye contact.

“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I forgot how tall you are without my stilts.” I wiggle my freed toes against the hardwood. “Much better.” The cool floor feels heavenly against feet that have been trapped in heels all night - another reason I stay barefoot at home.

His eyes follow the movement, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “I like you shorter. It’s cute.”

“I’m thirty-six years old. I am not ‘cute’,” I inform him with as much dignity as I can muster while stretching my aching feet.

“Fine. Vertically economical. Efficiently packaged. Fun-sized.”

“Digging yourself deeper, Carter.”

“Height-challenged? Altitudinally diminutive?”

I can’t help laughing, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Part of my charm?” he suggests hopefully.

“We’ll call it that,” I concede, heading toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m getting water. Want some?”

“Please.”

I watch Brody stalk around my living room. This is my sanctuary, my carefully curated retreat from the world. I’ve had exactly three visitors in the past year: Sarah, my mother, and the cable repair guy who I’m pretty sure thought I was a shut-in.

Now there’s a six-ish foot hockey player examining my family photos like they hold the secrets of the universe. I should feel invaded. Instead, I feel... something else. Something warmer and more dangerous.

I take longer than necessary filling our water glasses, using the moment to collect myself. I’m a grown woman who’s been married and divorced. I’ve negotiated corporate contracts and once told off an author with three Pulitzers for his abuse of passive voice. I can handle one hockey player without losing my composure.

When I return with two glasses, he’s exactly where I suspected—examining my bookshelf, head tilted to read the spines.

“You weren’t kidding about Pride and Prejudice,” he comments, pointing to my collection.

“I never kid about Austen,” I reply, handing him a glass. “It would be sacrilege.”

He accepts the water but doesn’t drink, his eyes still on me with an intensity that makes my skin warm. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told. Usually not as a compliment.”

“It absolutely is.” He sets his glass down on a coaster—brownie points for that—and takes a step closer. “I had a really good time tonight. Even with the hockey wives brigade and Jason’s spy network.”

“Weirdly, so did I.” I set my own glass down, suddenly needing something to do with my hands. “Though if Melissa invites me to that brunch one more time, I may have to fake my own death.”

“Too drastic. We could just move to Canada. Hockey wives can’t survive those winters, it’s too hard to wear designer shoes in six feet of snow.”

“’We’?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the flip my stomach does at his casual use of the plural.

“Figure of speech?” he offers, a hopeful smile playing at his lips.

“Nice try.”

He shrugs, unrepentant. “Worth a shot.”

We stand there for a moment in mildly awkward silence.

“So,” he says finally, voice dropping to a register that does funny things to my insides. “You mentioned something about wanting to kiss me since the dance floor?”

“Did I?” I feign confusion. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“My mistake.” He takes another step closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “Must have been some other beautiful woman in a red dress who said that.”

“Must have been.” I resist the urge to step back, to maintain the safe distance I’ve kept from men, especially hockey players, for the past three years. “I would never be so forward.”

“Never?” His eyes are challenging, playful.

“Well.” I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “Hardly ever.”

“That’s a shame.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear so gently that it makes me catch my breath. “Because I’ve been thinking about kissing you since you opened your door that morning and yelled at me for locking myself out.”

“That was three weeks ago,” I point out, trying to sound amused rather than affected by his proximity.

“I’m aware of the timeline, Waltman.” His thumb traces along my jawline, feather-light. “I’ve been keeping very detailed records.”

“Stalker tendencies aren’t attractive, Carter.”

“And yet here we are.” His smile is slow, confident. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “You invited me in for not-coffee. Which we’re not having.”

“The night’s still young.” I attempt a casual tone that absolutely fails to materialize. Instead, my voice comes out slightly breathless.

“Is it?”

Brody is looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes it hard to remember all the reasons why this is a terrible idea. He’s too young. He’s a hockey player. I’ve been down this road before and the crash was spectacular.

But then he raises his hand to my face again, fingers gentle against my skin, and those reasons are all suddenly very far away.

“Elliot,” he says softly. “I’m going to kiss you now. Unless you tell me not to.”

The moment stretches between us, possibility hanging in the balance. I should tell him no. I should take a step back. I should remember that I’m too old and too cynical for this kind of breathless anticipation.

Instead, I find myself nodding almost imperceptibly.

His smile is brief, victorious, before he leans down, closing the distance between us. The first brush of his lips against mine is gentle, tentative, a question rather than a demand. I answer by sliding my hands up his chest to curl around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Something shifts then, the kiss deepening into something hungry and urgent. His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me slightly to better align our bodies. I make a small, embarrassing sound in the back of my throat that seems to spur him on, one hand sliding up to tangle in my hair.

The world narrows to this moment, to the feel of his body against mine, the taste of him—champagne and chocolate from the dessert we shared at the gala. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed like this, like I’m something precious and necessary. Like I’m the air he needs to breathe.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine.

“Wow,” he says, voice rough. “That was…”

“Adequate?” I suggest, unable to help myself.

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest against mine. “I was going to say ‘mind-blowing,’ but sure, ‘adequate’ works too.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He pulls back slightly to look at me, eyes dancing with amusement. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I prefer ‘challenging.’”

“Of course you do.” His thumb traces my lower lip, making me shiver. “Challenging. Maddening. Brilliant.” Each word is punctuated with a soft kiss. “Beautiful.”

“Now you’re just showing off your vocabulary,” I murmur against his lips.

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He grins, pulling me closer again. “I’ll take maybe.”

This time when he kisses me, it’s slower, deeper, the kind of kiss that makes you forget everything except the person in front of you. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, skimming down my back, curving around my hips—each touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

I should be embarrassed by how eagerly I respond, by the way my body arches into his touch like a cat seeking warmth. But there’s something liberating about letting go after so long holding myself in rigid control. About giving in to the simple, physical pleasure of being wanted.

The distant, still-rational part of my brain notes that Brody Carter is alarmingly good at this. Of course he is—he’s a professional athlete with the physical discipline and stamina that comes with intensive training. He’s probably had more practice than I care to contemplate. But the rest of me doesn’t care about the scoreboard, only the game being played here and now.

I’m not sure how we end up on my couch, but suddenly we’re there, my dress hiked up indecently around my thighs, Brody’s bow tie completely undone and hanging loose around his neck. He’s half on top of me, one hand braced beside my head, the other tracing maddening patterns up my leg.

“We should slow down,” I gasp as his lips find the sensitive spot just below my ear.

“We absolutely should,” he agrees, making no move to stop. “Any minute now.”

His mouth trails down my neck, and I tilt my head to give him better access, my hands running along the strong planes of his back. The weight of him pressing me into the cushions is intoxicating—solid and warm and real.

It would be so easy to let this continue, to lose myself in sensation and worry about the consequences tomorrow. I haven’t felt this alive, this desired, in longer than I care to admit. But a persistent voice in the back of my mind reminds me that I’ve learned the hard way what happens when you let passion override common sense.

The memory flashes vividly – finding Jason’s phone when he was in the shower, the text notification that popped up from ‘A’ with a heart emoji. Opening it to find a conversation history that made my stomach drop through the floor. How he’d explained it away as ‘just flirting,’ and I’d wanted so badly to believe him that I’d ignored the warning signs for another six months.

“Brody.” I push gently against his chest, creating space between us. “I’m serious.”

He immediately pulls back, concern replacing desire in his eyes. “Too fast?”

“A little.” I sit up, adjusting my dress and trying to regain some composure. “It’s just... this is all happening very quickly, and I’m not…”

“It’s okay,” he says when I trail off, his voice gentle. “We can take this as slow as you need.”

I look at him with his hair disheveled from my hands, lips slightly swollen from our kisses, bow tie askew—and feel a surge of something dangerously close to affection.

“It’s not just about speed,” I try to explain. “It’s about... practicality. You’re not even thirty. I’m closer to forty. You’re a hockey player, constantly traveling, surrounded by women half my age. I’m a technical editor who gets excited about proper semicolon usage.”

Even as I say the words, I hate how insecure they make me sound. I’ve never been one to fish for compliments or seek reassurance. But something about Brody Carter makes me feel off-balance, like the rules I’ve carefully constructed for my life no longer apply.

His expression shifts from concern to something more serious. “First of all, semicolons are sexy as hell.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Focus, Carter.”

“I am focusing. On the fact that you’re overthinking this.” He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing small circles against my palm. “Yes, I’m younger. Yes, my job involves travel. But none of that changes how I feel about you.”

“And how exactly do you feel?” I challenge, pulling my hand away. “We’ve known each other for three weeks. Or two decent conversations from three years ago, if you want to be technical.”

The sudden vulnerability that flashes across his face catches me off guard. It’s gone almost immediately, replaced by determination, but I saw it—a crack in the confident facade.

“I’ve been thinking about you since I was twenty-four, since I got traded to Boston,” he says quietly. “That conversation at the Christmas party... it stuck with me. When Tommy mentioned you lived here, that you might be at the complex when I moved in, I?—”

“Wait.” I hold up a hand, my stomach twisting with a sudden nauseating lurch. “Are you saying you knew I lived here before you moved in?”

He hesitates, which is answer enough.

“Brody.” My voice is surprisingly steady despite the blood rushing in my ears. “Did you intentionally move in next door to me?”

The guilty look on his face makes my stomach drop. I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my water glass. My hands are actually trembling.

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” he begins, but his expression tells me everything.

“Then what was it exactly like?” I step back, putting distance between us. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds an awful lot like you orchestrated this whole thing. Like you deliberately inserted yourself into my life without my knowledge.”

“Not orchestrated,” he protests, rising to follow me. “I just... when Tommy mentioned you lived here, I thought it might be a sign. A second chance to talk to you. That’s all.”

“A sign,” I repeat flatly. “So what was the locked-out incident? Divine intervention? Did you deliberately lock yourself out so you’d have an excuse to knock on my door?”

He has the grace to look embarrassed. “That was genuinely an accident. I really did lock myself out.”

“But the shirtless part? The coffee? The ‘oh, I remember you from that Christmas party’?” The back of my throat burns with a familiar tightness that precedes tears - tears I refuse to shed.

“All real,” he insists, hands spread. “I swear. Yes, I knew you lived here. Yes, I specifically requested this unit because it’s next to yours. But everything else—the coffee, the tacos, tonight—that’s all been genuine, Elliot.”

I pace my living room, feeling suddenly trapped in my own home. The desert-themed artwork on my walls - carefully selected pieces from local Phoenix artists - now seem to mock my attempt at creating a controlled life. Part of me is flattered, I suppose, that he would go to such lengths. But a larger part is unnerved, verging on angry.

I’ve spent three years rebuilding my life on my terms, carefully arranging my independence after having it shattered by Jason’s betrayal. The idea that someone has been orchestrating events around me without my knowledge—however well-intentioned—feels like another man deciding he knows what’s best for me without consulting me first.

“You should have told me,” I say finally, my voice tight. “From the beginning. The very first day at the park.”

“I know.” He runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “I meant to, but there never seemed to be a right time. And then it had been too long, and I worried you’d react exactly... well, like this.”

“Like what?” I cross my arms, defensive. “Like I don’t appreciate being manipulated? Like finding out you’ve been making decisions that affect my life without my knowledge might be upsetting?”

“That’s not what I was doing.” His voice rises slightly, the first hint of frustration breaking through.

“No? What would you call it then?” I can hear my own voice taking on that cold, precise tone I developed during the worst of the divorce proceedings.

He takes a deep breath, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I’d call it... being drawn to someone who made an impression on me. Someone I couldn’t forget. And when an opportunity presented itself to see her again, I took it.”

Put like that, it sounds almost romantic. But I’m not in the mood to be charmed. The sour taste of betrayal is too familiar, the memory of Jason’s silver-tongued excuses too fresh even after three years.

“Why me?” I ask suddenly. “We talked for what, half an hour at a party? What could possibly have been so memorable?”

Something shifts in his expression—a softening, an opening. “Do you really want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” The sharpness in my tone makes me wince internally, but I can’t seem to soften it.

He nods, moving to sit on the arm of my sofa. “You were reading in the corner of the study while everyone else was getting drunk and gossiping. When I asked you about it, you didn’t brush me off or give me some vague response. You asked if I’d read it, and when I said no, you spent fifteen minutes explaining why Mr. Darcy wasn’t actually a jerk, just misunderstood.”

I feel heat rise to my cheeks at the memory. “I was hiding from Jason’s teammates’ wives. You were a convenient distraction.”

“Maybe,” he acknowledges with a small smile. “But you were also the first person at a hockey function who asked me what I was reading instead of what my plus/minus was. You treated me like a person, not a hockey statistic. And when I told you I was in the middle of ‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ you lit up. Do you remember what you said?”

I did, actually. “’It’s the greatest revenge story ever written, or the greatest love story, depending on how you read it.’”

“Exactly.” His smile widens. “And then you went on this passionate analysis about how Dantès’ revenge was really about reclaiming his identity after it was stolen from him. How revenge wasn’t the point—restoration was.”

I feel slightly disoriented, hearing my own forgotten words echoed back to me.

“I don’t understand what that has to do with you moving in next door to me three years later.” My voice sounds less certain now, even to my own ears.

He stands, taking a tentative step toward me. “Your eyes, Elliot. When you talked about books, about ideas that mattered to you, they lit up. You became a different person—passionate, engaged, alive. And then Jason came over, drunk and condescending, and I watched that light just... turn off. I saw you retreat behind this polite mask, and it was like watching someone disappear right in front of me.”

I swallow hard, caught off guard by the accuracy of his observation. No one had ever noticed that about me before – how I would retreat into myself when Jason was being particularly difficult, how I’d developed that mask as a survival mechanism.

“So what, you appointed yourself my rescuer? My knight in shining hockey pads?” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed in ways that have nothing to do with my dress.

“No.” He shakes his head emphatically. “I just... remembered you. And wondered sometimes if you’d found your way back to that version of yourself. The one who lit up talking about books.”

The simplicity of it, the sincerity in his voice, catches me off guard. It would be easier if he’d admitted to some shallow attraction, some hockey player conquest mentality. This thoughtful explanation is harder to dismiss.

But I’ve learned the hard way not to trust pretty words and seemingly heartfelt declarations. Jason had those in spades—right up until the moment I found that second set of messages. Not just the first woman, but others. His explanation had been so believable the first time. Not the second. By the third, I could finally see the pattern.

“I think you should go,” I say finally, wrapping my arms tighter around myself.

“Elliot—”

“Please.” I don’t look at him, afraid of what I might see in his eyes—or worse, what he might see in mine. “I need to think.”

He stands there for a moment, and I can almost feel his internal debate. Then, with a sigh that sounds like defeat, he nods.

“Okay. I’ll go.” He moves toward the door, then pauses. “But Elliot? I meant what I said. About how I feel. It wasn’t just a line.”

I don’t respond, and after a moment, I hear the door open and close softly behind him.

Alone in my living room, lipstick smudged and hair disheveled, I sink back onto the couch and press my fingers to my temples.

What the hell just happened? One minute I’m having the most intense make-out session of my life, and the next I’m kicking him out because... what? Because he admitted to being interested in me before moving here? Because he deliberately chose to live near me? Or because finding out he had plans I wasn’t aware of triggered every abandonment and betrayal issue Jason left me with?

“Get it together, Waltman,” I mutter to myself, reaching for my water glass with still-trembling fingers.