Page 13

The moment shatters. Thankfully , I think as I sit back quickly, breath caught in my throat.

Auguste clears his, pushing to his feet and collecting our plates and empty coffee cups. “Let me clear this up.”

“I don’t think so.” I snatch the cups off the stack of plates he’s holding and head inside. “You baked the cake and brought the coffee, it’s only fair I clean the dishes.”

“You have a dishwasher.”

“Exactly.” I wink over my shoulder, catching him flagrantly checking me out.

Oh boy, my whole body heats from his attention. My heart pounds into my ribs.

Then, when we’re inside, he places the plates in the sink and says, “I'm sorry.”

I glance over at him. Disappointment gripping my chest at his apology. I don’t want him to be sorry for checking me out. I like his eyes on me… his attention makes me feel good…

“For this week,” he clarifies. “I hurt you and then I was a dick.”

“Yeah,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “You were.”

He nods, looking genuinely apologetic.

Still, I meant what I told him the other morning—as gorgeous as he is and as much as I’m starting to like him, he doesn’t get off the hook so easily.

As such, I lift my chin and tell him, “Do it again, and I'm stealing your puppy. Also, I’ll have my dad put you on death drills for the rest of the season.”

That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Noted.”

We both look down when a sudden stream hits the floor.

“Oh fuck.”

Samson is peeing. Right next to us.

Auguste moves like he's about to throw himself on a grenade.

“I—shit, I didn’t?— ”

“Relax,” I cut in, crouching beside the pup. “Babies always have accidents. We’ll get some puppy pads while we’re at the pet store.”

With a scratch behind Samson’s ears, I lift him up and clean his wet paws with some kitchen paper. Meanwhile, Auguste watches, something soft flickering in his eyes.

And just like that, we settle back into the mess of whatever this is.

Like he never froze me out.

Like we didn’t start with a puck to the face and a grudge.

Like we might actually be something else entirely.

The pet store is massive, full of pastel toys and overpriced collars.

Auguste is pushing the cart while I go into full-on puppy parent mode—even if Samson isn’t mine.

I’m picking up treats and chew toys and staring down entire aisles of food options while I google them one by one on my phone and weigh up the pros and cons with Auguste.

Samson rides in the front basket, tiny paws draped over the edge as he looks around—drooling and flopping his head back with cartoonish drama like he’s a kid in a candy shop.

“He’s ridiculous,” I snicker as we pass the treat station on the way to the collar aisle and Samson barks at the stand.

“He’s you,” Auguste says from beside me, completely deadpan.

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, pretending to inspect a rack of grain-free treats. “Drama. Pretty. Impossible to ignore.”

“Pretty?” I say, arching a brow.

Auguste just smirks, but a rosy tinge glows on his cheeks, softening the chiseled edges of his face.

God, the man is infuriating—infuriating, confusing, way too attractive, and now he’s holding up two collars like we’re actual co-parents in this weird little pet store moment.

I reach for one—a dark brown leather collar that’s soft and broken in around the edges—and he hands it to me without a word. Then I grab a couple of gold heart-shaped tags and head to the engraving station.

I clip the first onto the collar we picked out while the next one is being finished.

When the assistant hands it to me, I hold it up to the light. “It’s perfect.”

I don’t think. I just do it .

On my tiptoes, I fish Auguste’s chain out from under his hoodie and unclasp it before I thread the second tag on.

Auguste doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

“ Samson’s human ,” I murmur, running my thumb along the engraved text. “Now everyone knows who you belong to.”

The moment my fingers brush the column of Auguste’s throat, his hands come down—sharp, sudden—gripping my hips like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

I freeze.

He does too.

We’re locked in this suspended, breathless stare.

His eyes are dark green in the store’s overhead lighting—stormy, feral. Fixed entirely on my mouth. My tongue darts out without permission, and I hate how shaky my breath is. I hate how aware I am of every single inch between us—and how much I want to close it.

Then—

YAP!

Samson lets out a squeaky bark that echoes far too loud for his tiny lungs.

I leap back, startled, bumping into a stack of chew toys behind me. Auguste swears under his breath, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “Dude, you’re supposed to help me, not cockblock me.”

My cheeks are blazing hot as he goes back to the cart and we continue to the checkout.

I don’t call him out on his remark.

Mostly because I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

By the time we’ve loaded Auguste’s Lexus with all the doggy paraphernalia, the sun is setting and we find ourselves at a quaint little Italian bistro across the street.

The evening is warm and we sit outside, tucked away at a quiet patio table.

The evening air hums with soft laughter and the clink of silverware, and a warm breeze tugs at the ends of my curls.

String lights flicker above us, giving everything a buttery glow.

It’s cozy and wonderful, not where I saw myself this evening.

I fiddle with my silverware.

Auguste just watches me.

“Please tell me you like Italian,” he says with a hint of trepidation.

I breathe in deep, settling the nerves that have taken over my stomach. My muscles are tense, and after my swim last night and this morning, they’re not happy with me. “No—I do. Pasta Puttanesca is one of my favorite dishes.”

“So what’s wrong, Princess?”

My heart skips a beat at the endearment.

“It’s just… been a long week and I woke up at the crack of dawn to catch the sunrise up on the rooftop.”

He nods, slow and knowing. “And then you went for a swim.”

“Aren’t you weirdly good at noticing things?” I say, trying to lighten the moment.

His mouth tilts. “Not weird. I just observe… it’s a middle child thing.”

Something in my chest pulls tight.

A waiter comes to drop off our food, and when it’s just us again, the quiet settles into something thicker. Dense with the weight of what’s unspoken.

“Consider this a thank you,” Auguste says suddenly, “for all the stuff you helped pick out for Sammy.”

I poke at my pasta taking in the way he’s still observing me. The same way he was watching me eat the cake he made me. “Or you could just admit you like my company.”

Auguste doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look away either.

So, I lean in across the table, eyes holding his. “Can I ask you something personal?”

His jaw tightens even though he nods.

I start slow. Soft questions. Easy things.

“Favorite meal?”

“Steak,” he says, without hesitation, gesturing down at his plate.

“First fight?”

He lifts a brow. “On or off the ice?”

I grin. “Both.”

“Off the ice? My brother—étty is a cocky bastard when he wants to be. On the ice? Some kid who grabbed my stick wrong when I was twelve. Got a black eye and a penalty. Worth it.”

I laugh. “Worst injury?”

Auguste taps the edge of his water glass. “Cracked ribs. Took a puck to the side and kept playing. Dumb choice.”

The questions slow. Shift. I hesitate at first.

There’s a flicker of surprise in my chest—like I can’t quite believe I’m asking the next one, or where it came from. Maybe it’s all Delilah’s fault with her nonstop big talk and spicy book banter. Or maybe… I just want to know something real about him. Something no one else ever gets to know.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

He watches me. The candlelight flickers in the bright forest green of his eyes.

“No.”

The syllable whacks me in the gut. It’s so final.

I raise my brows. “Too cynical?”

“Hmm… too practical,” he replies, voice low. “But I believe in wanting someone before you know why.”

Oh. He’s a lust to love man. That makes a lot of sense to me, given he likes to observe and study people.

Something in my chest stutters— Is that what he’s doing to me? Observing? Studying? Lusting?

I look away first.

Then—quietly, almost like I’m trying to diffuse my own thoughts—I ask, “Where’s home? I mean—real home.”

Auguste’s expression shifts. Softer now.

He doesn’t answer right away. “Rimouski. Small town in Quebec. Cold as hell.”

“Do you miss it?”

He nods slowly. “Sometimes. It’s the little stuff I miss. My mom always made too much food, even when it was just the five of us. My dad would fall asleep during movies and swear he was just resting his eyes. My sister used to steal my hoodies—still does when I’m home…”

Quiet settles between us again while we eat and the conversation percolates.

Then, with his voice rough around the edges, he adds, “I don’t miss the town. Or the people. Just… them . My family. The way things felt when we were all in the same room. Simple. Safe.”

I cover his hand with mine on the table and squeeze. My thumb brushes his knuckles. “That sounds really nice. The way you talk about them. It’s like you remember every detail that mattered.”

He looks at me. Holding me in his deep gaze. It feels like he’s remembering me too. Every detail of me in the here and now.

A waiter bustles past with an order, bursting the bubble of my daydream.

I pull my hand back. Our feet bump under the table—just a graze of my foot against his ankle—but neither of us moves .

We eat in silence after that. A kind of quiet that feels oddly full instead of empty.

Then, out of nowhere, Auguste asks, “You have a boyfriend back home?”

I blink. “A boyfriend? No. No. ”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just leans back in his chair, takes a sip of water, and then?—

“Good.”