Page 34

I stare at the guestroom, my belongings scattered across the hardwood floor like evidence of my complete lack of direction.

The space is beautiful—floor-to-ceiling windows, crown molding, enough square footage for a small apartment—but it’s also painfully bare.

No dresser, no chair, no hangers in the closet.

Just a nightstand and a queen bed with expensive-looking linens and my entire life spread out in chaotic piles.

I sink onto the ground and start sorting through everything, creating organized piles. Work clothes in one pile, casual clothes in another, underwear and workout gear stacked neatly near the window where the afternoon light streams in.

It takes me hours to organize everything properly, my back aching from sitting on the floor. I search my phone for those plastic drawers that fall apart easily. But then I remember that this is temporary, and spending money on something dumb seems foolish.

My phone chimes with an email notification, and I’m grateful for the distraction. It’s from HR—formal language about Riley being replaced. I appreciate the heads up. They are requesting that I help her ease into the role. Yes!

After another twenty minutes of arranging and rearranging, my throat feels like sandpaper. I need water, and probably some food, though the thought of navigating Slater’s kitchen feels like entering awkward territory.

I pad down the hallway in my socks, the hardwood floors cool beneath my feet. The house is quiet except for the soft hum of appliances and the distant sound of someone typing.

Slater is sitting at the kitchen island with his back to me, hunched over his laptop in a way that suggests he’s been there for a while.

His shoulders are broad, tapering to a waist that’s all lean muscle under his gray t-shirt.

His dark hair is still slightly damp from a shower, curling at the edges.

I try to move quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever he’s working on, but the kitchen is unfamiliar.

I open the first cabinet. Plates and bowls.

The second reveals an impressive collection of protein powders and supplements.

The third is filled with matching storage containers that have never seen a leftover.

“Cups are there,” Slater says pointing to the cabinet on the far right.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

I grab a glass carefully as I make my way to the refrigerator. It’s one of those massive stainless-steel monsters with a water dispenser in the door, and I fill my glass while ignoring Slater.

He’s focused on his screen, jaw tight with concentration, and there’s something almost vulnerable about seeing him like this. Not the cocky hockey player or the damaged bad boy, just a guy doing homework.

“Do you need a dresser for your clothes?” he asks, not looking at me.

I turn around and lean against the counter, drinking my water and considering the question. “This is only temporary, so I won’t need one.”

He shrugs, finally leaning back in his chair and meeting my eyes. “I’ll have it arranged.”

“Arranged?” I can’t help but mock the formal way he says it, like he’s ordering office supplies. “This is only temporary, so I won’t need one.”

“I’ll have it arranged,” he repeats, and this time it sounds like a demand rather than an offer.

I shrug and take another sip of water, deciding not to fight him on it. If he wants to spend his money on furniture I’ll only use for a few days, that’s his choice.

“How’s your hip?” I ask, genuinely curious. He was limping slightly when we got home from Milwaukee, though he was trying to hide it.

“Doing your exercises is helping.”

I nearly choke on my water. “Oh, you’re doing my exercises?”

He nods, and there’s something almost shy in the gesture. “Yeah, and it’s helping, so thanks.”

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I set my cup down on the granite counter, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. “Are you ever going to officially get help? I’m not as qualified as my new boss will be. Riley has been replaced. I’ll meet her on Monday.”

“Cool,” he says.

“Yeah, just got the email. I need to help smooth out the process, which is funny given that I’m new to the job as well.”

He nods.

“You should get your hip checked out, Slater. They’ll give you an MRI to see how bad the tear is. I can be the person in charge of your chart at the arena, but Riley is gone now, so...”

He’s nodding with his hands clasped together in front of him, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. “You want me to go on the record,” he mumbles.

“Yeah. Think about it,” I say, holding onto the glass. “Okay. I’m going to hop in the shower.”

“You can use mine.”

I freeze, my hand dropping the empty glass in the sink. “Why?”

“The hallway one doesn’t have soap.”

I smirk. “I have my own soap, Slater.”

“Okay,” he says simply, turning back to his laptop.

There’s something different about his energy right now—calmer, more controlled. Less of the coiled tension that usually radiates from him.

“Are you okay?” I ask before walking away. “This is like the most normal conversation we’ve ever had.”

He nods politely, fingers already moving over his keyboard. “Busy with homework.”

As I leave the kitchen, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted. The Slater who just offered to buy me furniture and thanked me for physical therapy exercises is a far cry from the man who just said that he would do anything to fuck me.

I wonder if this is his new and improved idea. Charm me until my panties slip off.

I head back to my room to grab clean clothes and toiletries for a quick shower. The hot water feels amazing after the long day of travel, washing away the lingering scent of airplane recycled air.

It’s only when I turn off the water and reach for a towel that I realize my amateur mistake. No towel. I’m standing dripping wet in Slater’s bathtub he never uses. Great.

I knock on the wall. “Slater!”

Silence. Of course.

“Shit,” I mutter, trying to wipe off as much water as possible with my hands so I don’t create a trail of water across his floors. I check underneath the sink for spare towels but find only one extra toilet paper roll and cleaning supplies.

“Slater!” I call again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

I inch toward the door, being careful not to slip on the wet tile. Maybe I can make a run for my room and grab something—anything—to dry off with.

But before I can even reach for the handle, the door opens without hesitation.

“Shit!” I shout, my hands flying to cover my breasts and between my legs while he stands there frozen for a moment too long. His eyes widen, then travel down my body before he seems to snap back to reality.

I grab desperately for the shower curtain to cover myself, but it’s only the lining which happens to be clear, offering zero coverage. In my panic, I stumble backward and fall right into the tub with a loud crash, yanking the curtain down with me.

“Shit. Are you okay?” He steps forward immediately, offering me his hand.

“Get out!” I shriek from my humiliating position in the bathtub.

He rushes out and slams the door shut behind him.

“Towel, Slater. I need a towel,” I yell, remaining curled up in the tub like some kind of mortified pretzel.

The door opens again, but this time his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m not looking. Here.” He drops a fluffy white towel into the tub without opening his eyes.

I untangle myself, looking at the curtain I have to fix.

“Are you covered?” he asks, giving me a moment.

“Yeah,” I say, wrapping the towel around myself.

He opens his eyes and offers me his hand again. This time I take it, letting him pull me up from the bathtub. His grip is warm and steady, and for a moment we’re standing closer than we should be in the steamy bathroom.

“You shouldn’t have barged in here,” I say, clutching the towel tighter. I can feel the heat in my cheeks.

“You called for me.”

“Yeah, but you’re supposed to knock or say something, not just walk in here!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but there’s something in his voice that doesn’t sound entirely apologetic. “It’s not like it wasn’t ever going to happen.”

The casual way he says it, like seeing me naked was inevitable, makes my face burn with embarrassment.

“I’ll take care of this,” he says, pointing at the curtain.

I storm out of the bathroom and back to my room.

I get dressed quickly, my hands still shaking slightly from adrenaline. But as I pull on my clothes, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s going to walk in on me again. I glance around the room paranoid, suddenly very aware that this door doesn’t have a lock.

When I finally work up the courage to leave my room to have a talk with him, I find the living room empty. I walk to his bedroom door and knock firmly.

No answer.

I open it slowly. His room is empty too, but his bathroom door is open.

“Slater. Are you decent? We need to talk.”

A moment later, he walks out with his shirt off, and I have to force myself not to stare. God, he’s perfect. All lean muscle and defined abs, with a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. There’s a small scar on his ribs that I hadn’t noticed before, and I wonder briefly what caused it.

“Boundaries,” I manage to say, keeping my voice steady. “We need to talk about boundaries.”

He stops walking when he sees me, and something shifts in his expression.

“If we’re going to live together, please, we need to set some basic ground rules,” I plead.

“Okay. Yeah.” He starts walking closer to me, and I wonder why he keeps advancing when I’m trying to have a serious conversation, and I know he can hear me just fine over there.

“Knock on the door if it’s closed,” I say, taking a small step back.

He nods, taking another step forward.

“If we call for each other across the house, please just say ‘yeah’ and not silently walk over.”

“Okay,” he says, stepping even closer.

My eyes flick down his body involuntarily, taking in the way his muscles move under his skin. “Why is your shirt off?”