Page 10

Mila

F or the first time in what feels like forever, I slept through the night.

Like, actually slept. No waking up at two a.m. in a cold sweat, no heart-thudding fear from phantom phone vibrations. Just a blissful, uninterrupted rest. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I feel safe here in Penn’s home.

Who knew all it took to feel that way was twelve-foot steel gates, motion-activated cameras, enough square footage to lose a marching band, and let’s not forget… a large, angry hockey player?

After Penn left for practice this morning, I spent a good chunk of time wandering the house.

Not in a snoopy way—I didn’t peek in drawers or rifle through his closet—but I did explore.

The man clearly likes modern architecture.

Everything is sleek and minimalist—glass, steel, matte-black finishes.

There are clean lines, abstract art, and furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum.

Not uncomfortable, just… not my vibe. My aesthetic is more cottage-chic-meets-used-bookstore. His is… dark academia meets GQ .

I found a home theater, a full bar and a temperature-controlled wine cellar.

The workout room, though? That is a gem.

Fully stocked with weights, a Peloton, a treadmill and one of those fancy mirror things that talk to you while you do squats.

I got in a good hour of yoga and strength training, then rewarded myself with a protein smoothie and a salad I made from his ridiculously well-stocked fridge.

Seriously, his pantry and fridge are impressive. I’d expected bachelor fridge—beer, condiments, maybe some takeout leftovers. But no. Fresh greens, oat milk, tofu, berries, avocados. Enough pantry staples to run a cooking class. He even has vegan mayo. Who has vegan mayo just lying around?

It was so unexpected. Completely at odds with what I would think of a bachelor, professional athlete.

It would make any person wonder that maybe there’s more to Penn than scowls and grunted one-word answers, but I don’t have to wonder about that.

I remember Penn from all those years ago and somewhere inside, his true nature lurks.

Back then, he was serious when it came to the game of hockey, but off the ice, he was all teasing smiles and affable humor.

He was a leader on the Wraiths and always the first to help a guy out.

He was thoughtful and dedicated to his sport.

Yeah… really not surprised by how well set up his kitchen is because he’s a man who doesn’t do anything in half measures.

That’s evident in his star status in this league. He is the best player, after all.

After working on a few design projects on my laptop and responding to client emails, I decide to shower.

The en suite guest bathroom is fully equipped with fancy soaps, shampoo and conditioner—my stuff is all bargain-bin products, so I give myself permission to enjoy the little luxuries.

After a steamy shower where I scrub, shave and polish, I slather a lovely scented lotion all over my body.

While that soaks into my skin, I get started drying my hair, which is always the longest part of my ritual.

I was blessed with ridiculously thick, soft locks that I wear down to my mid back in long layers.

My mom—back when she still loved me—called it unicorn hair because it always behaved exactly as I asked it to.

If I wanted loose waves, I got them. Perfectly straight and sleek—no problem.

Curly ringlets from a hot iron—they always held.

But first, I have to dry it. I grab a leave-in conditioner from my toiletry bag—also bargain priced, but it does the job—and work it through the ends.

I nab my travel hair dryer from my bag and unwrap the cord before plugging it in.

It’s been with me for years, a cheap but reliable little thing that’s seen plenty of hotel rooms and even some hostels when I traveled through Europe after graduating college.

I flip the switch and wait expectantly to see what it does. Because it’s old, it’s also temperamental. It sputters like an asthmatic chipmunk.

I frown. That’s… new.

I smack it against my palm a few times, because that’s what you do with electronics when they don’t cooperate. It coughs a little, but then the airflow starts and it heats up in no time.

Satisfied, I bend at the waist, flipping my hair forward and aim the dryer at the roots. I start humming, then full-on singing as I work—“Anti-Hero” by Taylor Swift, because obviously—and I’m mid-chorus when it happens.

A horrible whir .

A painful jerk .

And then—

“OH GOD, NO!”

A large chunk of my hair gets sucked straight into the back of the dryer and wraps my hair so quickly and tightly, the unit is pulled straight to my scalp where it knocks against my skull.

The dryer makes a high-pitched eeeeeeee sound, starts to smoke, and dies with a sad puff.

The cord goes slack as the plug falls from the outlet.

What in the hell?

My eyes dart around, looking for some ghostly culprit that did this and that’s when I see the protective screen lying on one of the fluffy bath rugs. It must’ve come loose when I banged it, and now my hair is tangled in the exposed fan.

I freeze, bent over, the dryer still attached to the back of my head like a mechanical parasite.

“No, no, no, no, no…,” I whisper, trying to pull it free gently. My hair doesn’t budge.

I try twisting. Nope.

I try yanking. Big mistake.

“Motherf—” I grit through my teeth, trying not to panic.

This can’t be happening. I try again, yanking and shimmying the dryer, only to let out a frustrated grunt that becomes a flurry of curses. “Stupid piece of shit—why the—ugh!”

Panic starts as a slow simmer in my chest, but frustration builds fast—hot and tight, coiling beneath my skin like a fuse burning toward a powder keg.

I hate this. I hate feeling helpless. I hate that my life has spiraled so far out of control that even my hair is now turning against me.

Every time I think I can catch a break, something happens.

In this instance, something ridiculous and humiliating that reminds me how close I am to unraveling.

This isn’t just about the dryer—it’s everything. The threats. The isolation. The way Penn looked at me like I was a burden. I can feel it—this wild, seething volcano of emotion bubbling in my throat—and no amount of deep breathing or rational thought is going to hold it back.

I brace myself, gather all my frustration, and scream. Not a dainty yelp. Not a feminine cry.

An all-out, banshee wail of rage and despair, and I let it go on and on and on until I run out of air. I suck in another lungful, because that wasn’t enough of a purge, when the door slams open so hard, it bangs against the wall.

“Mila!”

Penn’s voice is fierce, panicked—and there he stands in the doorway to the bathroom like he’s ready to throw down with an intruder.

I scream from the surprise of it and nearly leap out of my skin, realizing I’m wearing nothing but a mop of wet hair with a dead hair dryer glued to my scalp.

“What are you doing?” I shriek, trying to cover my breasts with my free hand. No, wait… more embarrassing to have my lower lady bits exposed, and my hand goes there.

Penn doesn’t seem to notice and instead roars back at me, “What am I doing? I thought someone was attacking you!”

We stare at each other. I’m naked, tangled up in a broken appliance. He’s wide-eyed, jaw clenched, looking one second away from Hulk-smashing someone into drywall.

And that’s when he notices I have no clothes on.

He doesn’t seem confused by the burned-out blow dryer stuck to my head but instead, his eyes travel slowly down the front of my body.

My breasts are fully exposed and damn my treacherous nipples harden under his gaze.

Over my belly, eyes flashing slightly at my piercing there, and then landing for a long moment on my hand covering my crotch.

I’m embarrassed, flustered and… slightly turned on by my predicament. I mean, Penn Navarro is as gorgeous as they come and he looks like a deity of vengeance with his heaving chest.

It’s completely awkward though and I break his trance by saying, “It’s stuck.” I’m not sure if it’s my response or the panicked sound of my actual words, but his eyes fly up to meet mine. “I can’t get it out.”

He looks from my flushed face to the dryer, and I see his expression shift from horror to confusion to barely restrained amusement.

“I swear to God,” I growl, “if you laugh…”

He coughs, straightens, then glances away like he’s trying very hard not to notice I’m naked. I watch as he nabs a fresh towel from the small linen closet beside the shower and holds it out to me, keeping his eyes averted.

“Thank you,” I murmur as I take the towel, but I have no way to wrap it around my body. I can’t let go of the hair dryer as I’m afraid the weight will pull out my hair. “But… I can’t get it around me.”

“Why not?” he growls, clearly uncomfortable.

“I can’t let go of the hair dryer and I need both hands to wrap the towel around me.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and with his head still turned away, he sidesteps cautiously toward me, extending his arm. “Let me hold the dryer.”

It’s awkward but I take his outstretched hand and guide it to my hair’s captor.

When he grabs hold, I quickly position the towel around my body, tucking the corner in tightly at the center of my chest. I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror and I’m shocked to see Penn watching me in the reflection.

So much for the gentlemanly action of turning his head away.

He was getting just as good a peep show in the mirror.

Irritation flashes through me, not because he copped an eyeful, but because there’s no way he did it because he’s attracted to me. He considers me nothing more than a pain in his ass.

“Can you help get this out of my hair?” I snap, causing his neck to twist so he can look down directly at the problem.

“How the fuck did that happen?” he grouses, tilting his head left and right to see how badly I’m stuck.

“The protective screen came off,” I mutter.

“How did that happen?” he presses.

“The stupid thing wasn’t starting up and so I hit it on my palm a few times. It must have knocked it off,” I retort angrily.

Penn chuckles and it’s a surprising sound. While I don’t know anything about this modern-day Penn Navarro, he hasn’t once given me any indication he emerged from our shared trauma with his sense of humor intact. Apparently, I’m wrong.

“Penn… please get this off my head.” His eyes come to mine and while I see a bit of humor, I see a little pity.

His jaw tightens, but he nods once. “Yeah. Okay. Just hold still,” he commands, and then I feel a whole lot of tugging as he tries to work my hair loose.

“This thing is toast,” he mutters after fiddling for a while. “Might be easier to just cut the hair.”

“No!” I yelp, jerking away, but it’s painful and I immediately hold still.

He lifts a brow. “It’s just hair.”

I scowl. “ It’s my hair and I don’t want to cut it short. ”

He sighs and goes back to work. “You’d still be beautiful with short hair.”

My breath catches. He doesn’t seem to realize what he said. He’s focused on the task, but the words echo in my chest. Beautiful.

No one’s called me that in a long time.

I blink hard and whisper, “Please… just try to get it out.”

“I’m working on it. Hold still.”

The next several minutes are filled with delicate, tedious untangling. Penn sits on the closed toilet lid while I kneel in front of him, head tilted, trying not to move as he works the twisted strands free. His hands are steady and surprisingly gentle.

“Never thought I’d be detangling hair in my guest bathroom today,” he mutters.

I laugh softly. “Never thought I’d get attacked by a hair dryer in someone else’s house.”

That earns me the smallest of smirks.

We lapse into a companionable silence for a bit before I break it. “So… what have you been doing the last ten years? Other than becoming a hockey god and moving into a billionaire bunker.”

He snorts. “Not much and I’m not a billionaire yet.”

“Thanks for the clarification,” I mutter.

“Let’s see… played in the minors for less than a year, got called up, signed with Florida, then Pittsburgh. That’s the highlight reel. Nothing too exciting off the ice.”

“Come on,” I tease. “No wild escapades? Secret dog rescue hobby? Competitive sushi-eating trophies?”

His lips quirk. “I did race cars a few summers during the off-season. One of my Florida teammates got me into it.”

My eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Got second place in an amateur circuit. Scared the hell out of my coach and pissed off my life insurance carrier, so I had to quit when they threatened to drop me.”

I grin. “You’re a closet adrenaline junkie. Makes sense.”

He shrugs. “What about you? Aside from accidentally electrifying yourself?”

I giggle. “Moved to Florida, lived with my aunt. Studied graphic design, started freelancing. I do mostly book covers now. Indie romance authors are my bread and butter.”

He glances at me in the mirror. “That why you were singing Taylor Swift?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s a vibe , okay?”

He chuckles and, for a moment, it’s easy. Light. Like we’re two old friends catching up instead of two people bound together by something dark and broken.

Eventually, he gives one last tug, and I feel the dryer slip free.

He holds it up triumphantly. “Got it.”

I stare at the mangled mess of my hair in the back grate and groan. “That poor dryer.”

“May it rest in pieces,” he says solemnly, tossing it into the trash.

And then, something in his gaze softens. Lingers. It’s just a moment. But I feel it.