Page 11

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

DELANEY

I ’ve been working for Maxwell Park for an entire week now, and I have to admit, it hasn’t been as bad as I originally thought it would be. In fact, I haven’t found much—or really anything—about him that I detest.

Well, there was that time the cap wasn’t screwed back onto the milk jug, and when I pulled it out of the fridge, it fell to the floor.

So, to be clear, he’s not perfect. Then again, that might’ve been a simple mistake, or if I’m being totally honest, it could’ve even been my fault.

Apparently, I’m working pretty hard to find flaws.

I’m not saying my overall leeriness of all men has disappeared, but maybe I was wrong about this particular one.

While I miss my Newmeister boys terribly, this gig is undeniably better.

It pays more, and Max lets me do whatever I want.

Order new crib sheets because I read they’re better for a baby’s skin?

Sure. Switch pediatricians because I got a weird vibe from the first one?

Go for it. Add some loud, colorful Care Bears to Caroline’s magazine-worthy, perfectly posh nursery just because not only is “Care Bear” her nickname, but the vibrant colors are good for her development? Absolutely.

Max gives me full rein to do what I think is best. He trusts me completely.

At first, I was pushing boundaries on purpose, convinced I’d eventually see his jerky side come out.

Hopping on his computer and ordering a car seat with his credit card on day one—without even mentioning it—was bold.

Definitely something I never would’ve pulled with the Newmeisters.

I can picture Mrs. Newmeister’s face if I’d tried something like that.

I would’ve been booted from that house before the package even shipped.

But Max? He’s not like the Newmeisters. Or anyone else I’ve worked for, really. He’s sweet. Charming. Loving. Kind.

And drop-dead gorgeous.

Wait.

I shake my head, close the dishwasher and hit the start button.

That last little fact? Completely irrelevant.

I open the new junk drawer—or, more accurately, the pretty felt-tip pens and sticky-note drawer—another little upgrade I’ve made to the house. It used to be full of plastic lids, but I never figured out what they belonged to, so I tossed them and declared it the new stationery drawer.

Grabbing a purple felt-tip marker and a pink heart-shaped Post-it, I open TikTok on my phone to the video I favorited and jot down chickpeas, pickles, and dill —the three things we’re missing from the recipe. Once I’m done, I stick the note on the fridge.

“Chickpeas?” Max’s voice startles me.

I spin around with a gasp, finding him leaning against the doorway, grinning.

Hand to my chest, I say, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He steps closer, closing the space between us until he’s standing right in front of me. I can feel the warmth radiating off him and smell the clean mix of soap, laundry detergent, and something else that could only be described as… masculine sexiness. He’s obviously freshly showered after his game.

“Decided not to go out with the guys?” My voice comes out a little squeaky—his proximity is messing with my equilibrium.

“Nah. I just wanted to get home.”

“She’s been asleep for a while.”

He nods. “Yeah, I figured. She was probably dozing off around the time the game started.”

“Seven.” I grin.

“Seven.”

He reaches past me, and I hold my breath as he grabs the sticky note off the fridge. “So… what’s up with the chickpeas?”

I step to the side, needing a little space. “I’ve been stuck on ChickpeaTok. There are so many recipes I want to try.”

“First of all, we’re talking about garbanzo beans, right?”

“Yep. Same thing. Different name.”

He raises a brow. “Okay… and second—what the hell is ChickpeaTok?”

I open the drawer again, tuck the sticky notes and pen away, then close it.

“You know how TikTok has themes? Like BookTok for readers, FitTok for gym rats, BeautyTok for makeup tutorials? ChickpeaTok is like a super niche corner of FoodTok. Or maybe it’s part of VegetarianTok?

Or HealthyFoodTok? I don’t know, exactly. ”

He throws his head back and laughs. “No, I had no idea any of that existed.”

“No?” I raise an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re not all over HockeyTok.”

“HockeyTok?”

“Yeah, I checked it out. There are some cool plays and highlights, but honestly, a lot of it is thirst traps.”

He blinks. “What kind of thirst traps?”

“You know, the ones where you guys do that thing… when you're on your hands and knees, and you’re thrusting your hips toward the ice? It looks very…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Suggestive.”

“You mean when we’re stretching?”

I huff. “If that’s what it’s called.”

He grins. “Stretching is kind of crucial. Helps us avoid injuries.”

“Well, it just looks like you're enjoying it a little too much is all.” I shrug.

“Please tell me you’re kidding.” He’s trying not to laugh.

I narrow my eyes. “You really don’t go on TikTok, do you?”

“Nope. Instagram is about all I can handle. But it sounds like I might need to check it out. Still confused why you’re on… garbanzo-bean-Tok.”

I smirk. “Because a chickpea video showed up in my feed, and I stopped to watch it. Now TikTok thinks I’m obsessed, so it’s feeding me more.

And of course, I keep watching them, so I’m feeding the algorithm.

It’s a vicious cycle. But there are so many recipes.

There’s this chickpea ‘tuna’ salad—without the tuna—that looks amazing. ”

“You could just make regular tuna salad,” he suggests, clearly amused.

“I’m in too deep now. No turning back from ChickpeaTok,” I say with faux seriousness.

He laughs.

“Don’t worry,” I continue. “I’m also on BabyTok, where I’m learning all sorts of parenting tricks. And for some reason… ParrotTok. Which is wild because I’m not even a bird person. But there’s this one foul-mouthed gray parrot who’s constantly cussing out his owner, and I can’t stop watching.”

“I learn more about you every day,” he says with a smile. “Like your obsession with sticky notes. You do know there’s a Notes app on your phone, right?”

I roll my eyes playfully. “I know about the Notes app. But I’ve always been a stationery girl.”

He shrugs, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fair enough. Who am I to change you?”

Everything about Max—and his sheer proximity—makes my body heat and my heart race.

I can’t deny the attraction I’ve felt this past week.

I look forward to waking up just to see him.

I count down the hours until he gets home.

And I can’t help but notice the parts of Caroline that remind me of him—like the shape of her smile and the way her eyes squint at the corners when she grins, turning almond-shaped.

She’s such a beautiful baby. A total mini Max.

I love watching him with her. He’s such a natural.

It’s hard to believe he’s only had her in his life for a few weeks.

I’ve admittedly done some light social media stalking—and just because he doesn’t go on TikTok doesn’t mean he’s not on there.

He’s in more videos than I can count as the gorgeous young star of last year’s Stanley Cup–winning team.

I’ve never been a sports person, especially not hockey, but I’ve watched every single clip I could find of him playing. Multiple times.

Of course, I’ve seen the off-ice stuff as well.

He’s usually got a beautiful woman on his arm—and there have been more women than I can count, too.

Not that every girl who’s posted a video with him has slept with him…

but I can’t stop my brain from wondering how many have .

Not that it’s any of my business. It’s not.

I’m here for Caroline. He’s my boss. End of story.

Nothing is going on between us.

There will never be anything going on between us.

Max reaches past me again, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts, and sticks the note back on the fridge. He gives me a quick smile before turning to the drawer and pulling out a pad of sticky notes. He scribbles something down.

Sriracha.

He peels it off and leans past me again to add it to the fridge.

“Would you mind picking me up some sriracha when you’re getting all your beans? I’m out.”

I swallow hard. “Of course.”

He tucks the pen and pad back into the drawer and closes it.

I shake my head, trying to clear the delicious way he smells from my brain. “So how was your game?”

He smiles wide, and my heart twists.

“It was great. We won by two goals. I finally reclaimed my starting position.” He steps forward and takes my hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thanks to you.”

“No.” I force a smile and quickly pull my hand away, rushing to the sink and grabbing a sponge to wipe an imaginary spot on the counter. “That’s all because of your hard work.”

He steps beside me again, reaching for a glass from the cupboard.

“I can’t play well when I’m exhausted. So once again, I’m giving the credit to you.” He fills the glass with water from the fridge and takes a long sip.

I watch the way his neck moves as he swallows, then mentally slap myself. What is wrong with me?

It’s too soon to ask for time off. I’ve only been here a week, and he’s finally back in the lineup. We’ve just gotten into a rhythm. But I clearly need to get laid or something because I’m acting like a feral cat ready to pounce. I’m better than this.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” he asks, setting his glass in the sink.

“No, I…” I force a yawn. “I think I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Okay. Sure.”

I start to leave the kitchen, but before I can fully escape, he says my name—and I stop in my tracks.

“Laney.”

I inhale slowly through my nose, paste on a smile, and turn back. “Yeah?”

“Thank you so much for all your help with Caroline. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re here. Truly. I just… you’re happy here, right?”

“Yeah. Of course. And no problem.” I nod—probably a little too quickly.

“Okay. Well, let me know if you ever need anything.”

I know exactly what I need—but unfortunately, Max won’t be the one supplying it.

That job tonight belongs to a battery-operated, phallic-shaped piece of rubber.

“Sure,” I say, giving him a quick wave before scampering off to my room, where I’m sure to be severely underwhelmed— even on the top setting .