Page 8

Chapter eight

Mandy

I knock on Nate’s door with my arms full. I’ve got my lamp in one hand, tote bag slung over the other, and my favorite ceramic mug wedged between my elbow and ribcage.

He opens it almost instantly, like he was already standing there.

“You move fast,” he says, leaning against the frame with that lazy grin. “Should I clear out a drawer too?”

“Don’t tempt me,” I shoot back. “I color-code.”

I push past him and into the apartment, taking a slow, sweeping look around.

It’s clean. Shockingly so. Like he either lives like a minimalist hockey robot… or just shoved everything he owns into a closet.

“Okay, it’s giving ‘hockey cave with potential,’” I declare, setting the lamp down on the kitchen table. “This lighting situation is tragic.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You need a specific vibe to memorize case law?”

“Absolutely. Ambience is half the battle. So, which room is the official study cave?"

Nate gestures toward a door down the hall. "Second one on the left. It doesn’t get used for much. There’s just a desk, a chair, maybe some ghosts."

I shoot him a look. “If I find one, I’m making it quiz me on tort reform.”

I grab my lamp, make my way to the room and flip on the overhead light.

It’s simple, but not bad. There’s a sturdy desk along one wall, a rolling chair that definitely looks like it’s seen a few late-night strategy sessions, and a low bookcase with a random mix of hockey gear and a few trophies.

A futon sits beneath the window, folded neatly, with a gray blanket draped over the arm.

No frills. No clutter. It just screams bachelor.

I smile to myself, set the lamp down on the desk and plug it in. The yellow glow immediately softens the space, making it feel less like a spare room and more like mine, at least temporarily. Then I unpack my mug, a stack of notebooks, and a highlighter pouch so aggressive it could signal aircraft.

Nate watches from the doorway like I’m installing IKEA furniture.

“Is this part of some nesting ritual I should be worried about?”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t bring throw pillows.”

He watches me with a curious smile. “You’re really doing it. Taking over.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave the testosterone unbothered. But this…” I wave at the study nook I’ve unofficially claimed, “this is mine now.”

“Noted.”

I sit, open a notebook, and pretend I’m going to study. Instead, I glance around again. The apartment’s quiet in a good way. Comfortable. Like him.

There’s a knock at the door. Nate shoots me a look. “Expecting backup?”

“Nope.”

We both go to the door. Kira breezes in like she’s been here a dozen times already, carrying a canvas tote overloaded with snacks, a candle, and a mini cactus in a pink ceramic pot.

“Ladies!” she sings. “Study session upgrade. You’re welcome.”

She drops into a chair and looks around. “Okay, this is… surprisingly not gross.”

Nate folds his arms. “I’ll take that as a glowing review.”

Kira grins. “You should. Mandy’s usually allergic to man caves.”

“I cleaned,” he deadpans.

She hops off the couch. “Where’s the new digs?”

“Over here. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

I take her down the hall and Nate follows. And, as soon as she peers in, she says, “Oh, you’re nesting. This is serious.”

“Kira,” I warn.

“What?” She surveys my desk. “You brought a lamp, a mug, and those neurotic highlighters. That’s girl-code for ‘claiming territory.’”

“I’m claiming peace and quiet,” I say. “Which I clearly won’t get with you here.”

Kira shrugs. “I just wanted to see the setup. And maybe flirt with the tall one a little.”

Nate raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Kira winks. “I like your confidence.”

I groan again. “Please don’t encourage her.”

He chuckles. “Too late.”

Kira now walks around the apartment like a realtor, and then points to the couch. “This could use a throw blanket. Maybe a decorative tray.”

“You’re terrifying,” Nate mutters.

“Thank you.” She pulls out her phone. “I’ll send you links.”

I look at Nate, exasperated. “I swear, she’s not usually this intense.”

“She’s fine,” he says with a laugh. “Kind of like a caffeinated interior designer.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Kira calls from the kitchen.

“Just wait,” I whisper to Nate. “She’s going to open your fridge and do an inventory.”

“I’ve already accepted my fate.”

“You’re a brave man.”

“I gave you a key, didn’t I?”

That shuts me up.

Because I’m smiling too much.

And he notices.

And suddenly, this whole ridiculous study setup feels a little too much like something else entirely.

Kira stretches out dramatically across the couch. "I vote we carb-load. I need garlic knots like I need air."

Nate leans on the wall, arms crossed, amused. "There’s a place two blocks down. Best garlic knots in the city, if you don’t mind red-checkered tablecloths and servers who call you 'sweetheart.'"

"Do they judge you for ordering extra cheese?" I ask.

"Only if you don’t," Nate says.

Kira claps her hands. "It’s settled. Operation Carbs Commences."

We bundle up and head out into the cold.

It’s one of those wintry nights where your breath fogs up immediately and your hair threatens to freeze if you breathe wrong.

But there’s something charming about it too.

The sidewalks are lit with strings of twinkling lights,and the bite of cold in your lungs making everything feel sharper.

The restaurant is small, loud, and smells like heaven. There’s a giant plastic tomato in the window. It’s the kind of place that hasn’t updated its menu since 1983.

We slide into a red vinyl booth and Kira immediately opens the menu with a dramatic sigh. "This is already the best night of my life."

The waitress, probably in her sixties and wearing cat-eye glasses, appears with a notepad. "Drinks, kids?"

"Sangria for me," Kira chirps.

"Same," I say.

Nate leans back. "Do you do draft beer or are we talking bottled nostalgia?"

"Draft," the waitress replies, unimpressed.

"Beautiful. Surprise me."

She nods and disappears. Kira leans over the table. "Okay, question: worst date you’ve ever had. Go."

Nate raises an eyebrow. "You first."

"Fine. I once got set up with a guy who showed up twenty minutes late wearing a fedora, told me he didn’t believe in utensils, and then ate sushi with his hands."

I nearly choke on air. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"I wish. He said chopsticks were a colonial conspiracy."

Nate snorts into his water. "That man is unhinged."

"Wait, it gets better. Halfway through, he took off the fedora and said, 'I feel like you haven’t seen the real me.' And underneath was... a second fedora."

I actually slap the table, wheezing. "A nested fedora?!"

"It was like a magic trick gone terribly wrong…hat after hat, each one worse than the last."

The drinks arrive and Nate lifts his glass. "To double hats and zero shame."

Kira turns to Nate. "Okay, your turn. Locker room superstition. Don’t pretend you don't have one."

He sips his beer. "Fine. I wear the same socks on game day."

"Like... same pair?"

"Same exact pair. Washed, obviously. But yeah. I've had them since juniors."

"You mean to tell me the fate of Detroit's defense depends on a pair of ancient socks?"

"Don't disrespect the socks. They've seen things."

I giggle into my drink. "I suddenly feel unsafe."

"You get on the ice with guys who haven’t changed their laces since 2015 and tell me who the real risk-takers are."

Kira mock-gasps. "Hockey players: emotionally stunted golden retrievers with superstitions and laundry skills."

I snort soda straight out my nose.

Nate calmly passes me a napkin. "She’s not wrong."

I dab my face, laughing too hard to care. "You're really just a bunch of muscled-up toddlers."

"With better balance," he says. "Most days."

Just then, the waitress returns, ready to take our order. She doesn’t bother with a greeting. She just flips open her pad and levels us with a no-nonsense look.

Kira goes first. "We’ll start with garlic knots, obviously. And I’ll do the penne alla vodka. Extra parmesan. Like a criminal amount."

The waitress jots it down and gives her a nod. "Good choice, sweetheart."

Mandy raises a brow as she orders. "I’ll have the baked ziti, please. And can I get a side salad with that? No onions."

"You got it, sweety," the waitress replies.

Then she turns to Nate, who just hands over the menu with a lazy smile. "Meatball pizza. Extra sauce. And a Caesar salad."

The waitress smirks. "Nice and messy. That’s how we like it. Good call, sweetheart."

She walks away with the efficiency of someone who’s been dealing with people’s nonsense since the 70s.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Kira leans in. "Did I just earn a ‘sweetheart’? I feel honored."

"She gave us all one," I point out. "We're officially in the club."

Nate raises his glass. "To honorary sweethearts. May we never sit at a table without red vinyl seats again."

I sip my sangria, shaking my head. "You were right about the 'sweetheart' thing. It's a whole brand here."

"She’s got that vibe," Kira says, lowering her voice. "Like she’s raised six kids, wrangled eight grandkids, and still manages to host Sunday dinner without breaking a sweat."

"Yeah," Nate nods, smirking. "You can tell she doesn’t take crap from anyone. Probably sews Halloween costumes, makes her own meatballs, and drives a tank of a minivan."

I laugh. "And if her grandkid mouths off? Boom. Silent stare. That kid’s apologizing before dessert hits the table."

Kira grins. "Honestly? I feel safer knowing she exists. She’d probably fight off a bear with a rolling pin and then bring you a plate of cookies afterward."

Just then, a loud thud comes from the kitchen, followed by a crash and a yell.

We all freeze.

The waitress reappears a second later like nothing happened and sets a tray of garlic knots on the table. "Don’t ask."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Nate replies smoothly, eyes twinkling.

We dig in. The knots are everything Nate promised and then some…pillowy, buttery, and absolutely drenched in garlic. I’m halfway through one when I realize Nate and Kira are arguing over whether spaghetti is an acceptable first date food.

"It’s too risky," Nate insists. "Slurping? Sauce splatter? No one looks good eating spaghetti."

"Please," Kira counters. "If you can’t handle me at my sauce-stained worst, you don’t deserve me at my mozzarella-stick best."

"That sounds like a dating app bio," I mutter.

Kira beams. "I should update mine. That’s gold."

Our food arrives, steaming and glorious. We pass around bites like we’ve been doing it for years. Nate steals one of my ziti noodles. I steal a meatball. Kira tries to barter garlic knots for Caesar salad croutons.

Then it happens.

As Kira leans to grab the parmesan shaker, her elbow knocks over her sangria glass. It topples in slow motion, wine splashing, ice cubes clinking, red liquid cascading directly into Nate’s lap.

He jerks up with a yelp. "I’ve been struck."

Kira gasps. "Oh no! Your jeans!"

"My dignity!"

The table is chaos. I’m already blotting napkins at his leg like a frantic dry cleaner. Kira’s half-laughing, half-apologizing. The couple at the next booth is watching us like we’re a live sitcom.

"I swear," Kira says between giggles, "I didn’t mean to baptize you in sangria."

Nate sighs dramatically. "First the socks confession, now this. My image is ruined."

"At least you smell like citrus and regret," I offer, failing to hold back laughter.

He grins at me through the catastrophe. "You did say ambiance was half the battle."

"This isn’t ambiance," I say, shaking my head. "This is a food fight disguised as a bonding moment."

When the chaos dies down, the waitress returns with a few extra napkins and club soda.

We eat the rest of our meal with extra laughter, soaked napkins everywhere, and a quiet, ridiculous kind of joy I didn’t expect to feel tonight.

It’s honestly the best study break ever.

We bounce between topics: law school horror stories, hockey travel mishaps, and the great debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. (It does. Nate's wrong.)

By the time the bill comes, we’re all warm and full from the food and the laughter, a cozy haze settling in like we’ve been doing this for years.

Nate casually reaches for it before we can even make a move. "My treat."

Kira raises an eyebrow. "Look at you, Mr. Gentleman."

"Chivalry isn’t dead," I tease. "Just apparently in hockey skates."

He shrugs like it’s nothing. "You two suffered through my sock confession and a sangria tsunami. Least I can do."

"Well, thanks," I say with a smile. "We’ll make sure to put it in your gentleman file. Right between 'good taste in restaurants' and 'tolerates chaos with grace.'"

Kira adds, "You're stacking points, Jones. Keep it up, and we might let you hang out with us again."

Outside, the cold hits again, sobering but not in a bad way. We walk under a canopy of string lights, boots crunching softly on the salted sidewalk. The streets are alive even on a cold night, tiny bistros glow with golden light, their windows fogged from hot food and customers inside.

A bakery across the street has a tray of fresh cannoli in the window, and a couple walks a fluffy poodle past a boutique that’s still lit up with colored lights strung around the doorframe.

There’s a row of brick townhouses down the block with wreaths on the doors and smoke curling from chimneys.

Every detail feels like a winter postcard, like something you'd miss if you weren't paying attention.

When we reach our building, Kira veers off to grab the mail from the lobby, humming some retro pop song under her breath.

That leaves me and Nate. Side by side.

"Thanks for dinner," I say, shoving my gloved hands deeper into my coat pockets. "That was actually... fun."

"Glad we went. Hope your new study hall works out."

We stop just before the elevators. I look up at him and say, "Nate, thanks again for dinner and the room. I guess I will wait for Kira."

"You're quite welcome. I am going to head upstairs and get out of these wet and now cold pants."

We don’t kiss.

But we hover.

That close-but-not moment, full of potential and tension and all the things you don’t say out loud.

He tilts his head, just slightly. "Night, Mandy."

"Night, Nate."

He enters the elevator. I wait for Kira. My heart is pounding like I ran a sprint.

It was just a study room setup.

Just pizza, pasta, books and borrowed space.

So why does it feel like I just cracked open something I won’t be able to close?