Page 41 of In My Hockey Era (Must Love Hockey #1)

HOCKEY EVER AFTER

Lucy

T he restaurant is the kind of place that makes me wish I’d worn a fancier dress.

Not that I’m underdressed—Mia made sure of that before I left my apartment—but there’s something about the soft glow of candlelight, the gleam of crystal glasses, the quiet hum of conversation around us that just feels… elevated.

Bennett looks entirely at home, leaning back in his chair, broad shoulders relaxed, one hand lazily wrapped around the stem of his wine glass. He looks good. Annoyingly good. Black button-down rolled up to his forearms, top two buttons undone to show off a peek of his glorious chest.

I lift my own glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down. “It’s about time you took me out on a proper date.”

His lips curl slightly, amusement flickering across his face. “Oh yeah?”

I gesture to the candlelit table, the lobster appetizer, the wine that costs more than my weekly grocery budget.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m very sentimental about all the times you’ve shown up at my apartment with takeout, and of course, I’ll always cherish that one very romantic time we spent eating nachos at the arena, but… this is nice, Wilder.”

His smirk deepens. “I had to set the bar high. Make sure you don’t go getting any ideas about trading me in for some guy who takes you to Chili’s.”

I arch a brow. “What’s wrong with Chili’s? Their southwestern eggrolls are killer.”

He laughs. “Then I’ll take you there. But only on our six-month anniversary.”

I nearly choke on my wine, barely managing to set the glass down without spilling. “Oh? We’re already making it to six months?”

His grin is lazy, cocky as ever. “Unless you plan on dumping me before then?”

He’s insufferable. And yet, warmth spreads through my chest anyway.

The server appears, placing our entrees in front of us—perfectly seared steaks, creamy mashed potatoes, a side of truffle fries I definitely don’t need but will eat every last one of.

I pick up my fork, ready to dig in, when I feel it.

Bennett’s gaze.

I glance up, and catch him watching me, his expression unreadable but steady, like he’s drinking me in.

I raise a brow. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it, just shrugs and says, “Still getting used to having you back, Quinn.”

My stomach flips.

I love how he just bares his soul—says whatever’s on his mind.

Dinner passes in a blur of easy conversation.

We argue about the latest ridiculous team trade rumors, I tell him about the elderly woman from work who called me “a very nice young man” because I had my hair pulled back, and he nearly chokes on his water laughing.

It’s effortless, this back and forth we have. It always has been.

The plates are cleared, the last sip of wine finished, and I’m debating whether or not I have room for dessert when Bennett leans back in his chair, watching me with that unreadable look again.

“Wanna take a walk?” he asks casually.

I tilt my head. “A walk?”

“Yeah. There’s a place I saw earlier that I think you might like.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge if he’s messing with me. But his expression stays frustratingly neutral.

I hesitate, just for a second. But then his hand extends across the table, palm up, waiting.

And before I can overthink it, I slide mine into his.

“Alright, Wilder. Lead the way.”

The night air is crisp as we step out of the restaurant, the glow of downtown lights reflecting off the sidewalk. My heels click against the pavement as we fall into step together, the hum of the city buzzing in the background.

I have no idea where we’re going, but Bennett’s hand is warm and steady against the small of my back as he steers me down the block, so I let him.

A few minutes later, we stop in front of a cozy little shop tucked between two taller buildings, its windows glowing soft and inviting against the night.

I blink up at the gold-lettered sign hanging above the door. Addison’s Books .

A bookstore.

I glance at him, brows raised. “You brought me to a bookstore?”

His lips twitch. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, it’s just… unexpected.”

He huffs a laugh, reaching past me to push the door open. “Come on, Quinn. Live a little.”

The moment we step inside, I swear I breathe in happiness. The scent of paper and ink and something warm and familiar fills the air. The place is quiet, peaceful, with wooden shelves stretching floor to ceiling and warm amber lighting that makes everything feel soft and cozy.

I let out a slow exhale, rolling my shoulders back. “Okay. You did good, Wilder.”

Bennett smirks. “I know.”

I shoot him a look, but the truth is, I’m kind of swooning. A candlelit dinner followed by a bookstore? It’s almost too good. Too thoughtful.

I step further inside, trailing my fingers along the spines of books as I wander between the shelves. Ben follows, hands in his pockets, watching me like I’m the one he’s here to see.

“You actually read, right?” I tease, glancing over my shoulder. “Or is this all just a carefully curated PR stunt?”

He scoffs. “Excuse you, I read.”

I laugh. The truth is, I’m just teasing him.

“What kind of books do you like?” he asks after a moment.

I tilt my head, considering. “A little bit of everything. Mystery, nonfiction…”

He smirks. “Hockey romance?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance, Quinn.”

I sigh dramatically, turning down another aisle. My fingers graze over a hardcover, and I pause, pulling it from the shelf. It’s a beautiful edition of Pride and Prejudice —dark green leather with gold-embossed lettering, the kind of book you buy just to have, just to hold in your hands.

I trace the cover absently. “This was my mom’s favorite,” I say without thinking.

Bennett doesn’t say anything right away. When I glance up, he’s watching me—not teasing now, just listening.

I clear my throat, setting the book back. “We used to read together at night sometimes, before bed. She’d do all the voices.”

His voice is quiet. “She had good taste.”

Something in my chest squeezes. I nod, swallowing hard.

Bennett watches me for another beat, then reaches up and grabs the book again. “You should get it.”

I shake my head. “It’s expensive.”

“So?” He shrugs, holding it out. “Consider it a gift.”

I stare at him. “Bennett—”

“Nope.” He shakes the book slightly, urging me to take it. “Let me do something nice for you.”

My throat tightens.

It’s just a book. A simple, beautiful book.

But when I reach for it, my fingers brushing against his, it feels like something more.

“Okay,” I say quietly, tucking it against my chest. “Thank you.”

He nods once, then steps back, slipping his hands into his pockets again.

“Alright, Quinn,” he says, the teasing edge creeping back into his voice. “Let’s find you something with a bare-chested dude on the cover before we go.”

I snort. “Are you going to read it too?”

He grins. “If you want, I’ll read it.”

I pause, narrowing my eyes. “You’re serious?”

He shrugs. “Why not? Might actually be fun.”

I bite my lip, considering. “Okay. Deal.”

And with that, I spin on my heel, marching straight toward the romance section. Because if Bennett Wilder is actually willing to read a romance novel, you better believe I’m making it count.