Page 11

VICTORIA

M y eyes fly open to unfamiliar surroundings.

Declan’s bed.

Declan’s arm around me as he sleeps.

Oh God. What have I done?

Panic bubbles up, squeezing my chest until I force myself to breathe. Last night was wonderful—okay, mind-blowingly fantastic if I’m honest—but morning sunlight has a way of burning through romantic fog.

This was supposed to be temporary. Professional. A teaching gig with clear boundaries and a firm end date. Not... waking up naked in a hockey star’s bed with my heart doing dangerous, hopeful things that frankly, make my head ache.

Note to self: wine plus gorgeous hockey player equals terrible decision-making skills.

I need to leave. Need to get some distance, some perspective, before I fall any deeper into whatever this is.

Just as I’m contemplating how to extract myself without waking him, Declan stirs beside me. Before I can pretend to be asleep, his eyes open, those vivid blue eyes, sleepy and warm with affection. When he sees me watching him, a smile spreads across his face—slow, genuine, and disarmingly sweet.

“Good morning, twinkle toes,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough in a way that makes my stomach flip despite my anxiety.

Then he leans in and kisses me, morning breath and all, deep and thorough, as if he can’t think of a better way to start his day. And despite my better judgment, I kiss him back, melting against him as his arms tighten around me. Oh, my god. This man!

When we break apart, I’m breathing faster, my concerns temporarily forgotten. Declan grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Now that’s a proper good morning,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Sleep OK?”

I nod, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. “What time is it?”

He glances at the clock on his nightstand. “Just after seven.”

“Seven?” My eyes widen. “I should—I need to?—”

“Relax,” he finishes for me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “It’s Tuesday. Practice isn’t until this afternoon and you don’t have any ballet classes. No reason to rush off anywhere.”

I bite my lip, torn between the desire to flee and the temptation to stay wrapped in his arms. Before I can decide, Declan disentangles himself and stands, stretching in a way that gives me a delicious view of his naked form. He catches me looking and winks.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” he says, seemingly oblivious to my internal struggle. “Make yourself at home. Coffee’s in the kitchen—my fancy machine looks intimidating, but it’s just one button for regular brew.”

As the bathroom door closes behind him, I flop back onto the pillows, covering my face with my hands. I can still leave. Grab my clothes, write a quick note, be gone before he finishes his shower. It would be the sensible thing to do.

But something stops me. Maybe it’s the memory of his words last night—that this matters to him, that I matter. Maybe it’s the way he looked at me this morning, like waking up beside me was a gift he hadn’t expected. Or maybe it’s just that my body and my brain have reached some kind of agreement that means I’m not ready to run away from whatever this is. Not yet, anyway.

With a sigh, I sit up, wrapping the sheet around me as I glance around for my clothing. My dress is draped over a chair, but getting fully dressed seems like too much effort. Instead, I spot Declan’s discarded shirt from last night and pull it on. It falls to mid-thigh, the fabric soft and smelling of him.

Him.

I find my phone in my purse and settle back onto the bed, checking messages I ignored last night. Two from Shelby, predictably curious about my ‘date,’ and one from Dr. Angelo about next week’s training schedule. Nothing urgent, nothing that can’t wait.

The bathroom door opens, and I look up to see Declan emerge, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest. My mouth goes dry at the sight. The man is unfairly gorgeous, all lean muscle and perfect proportions.

“Hey,” he says, smiling when he sees me still in his bed. “You’re still here.”

I set my phone aside, suddenly conscious of how I must look. My hair a disaster, no makeup, drowning in his shirt. “I am.”

“Good,” he says simply, crossing to his dresser. “I was afraid you might bolt.”

Am I that transparent? “I thought about it,” I admit, watching as he pulls out clean clothes.

“Practical, maybe.” He shoots me a small smile. “But I’m glad you stayed.”

“Declan,” I begin, needing to establish some reality checks before this goes any further. “About last night?—”

His phone chimes with a text alert, interrupting me. He glances at it, a small frown creasing his forehead.

“Sorry, just a sec.” He reads the message, then glances at me, an inscrutable expression crossing his face.

“Everything OK?” I wrap my arms around my knees.

Declan turns to me, hesitation clear in his stance. “Team breakfast at Natalie’s restaurant in twenty minutes. She’s testing new pancake recipes.” He pauses, then adds, “You’re explicitly invited.”

My stomach drops. “Me? But how did they know I?—”

“Apparently we weren’t subtle yesterday,” he explains with a small shrug. “But it’s just the team and partners, not a public thing. And no pressure if you’re not comfortable with it.”

I bite my lip, anxiety flooding back. This is exactly what I was afraid of—becoming part of Declan’s public life, where people would see us together and start asking questions, making judgments. Where the inevitable end of our brief affair would become fodder for gossip.

“I don’t know, Declan. I’m not sure I’m ready for everyone to know about... whatever this is.”

He sits beside me on the bed, careful to keep a respectful distance. “For what it’s worth, they’re not judgmental. The opposite, actually. They’ve been rooting for us since day one.”

“Rooting for us?” I repeat, eyebrows shooting up. “Since when is there an ‘us’ to root for?”

“According to Emile, I mention you approximately seventeen times in every conversation,” he admits with a grin that makes my traitorous heart do gymnastics. “Apparently, my smooth operator status has been greatly exaggerated.”

A smile tugs at my lips despite my brain screaming caution. “Seventeen times, huh?”

“At least.” He reaches for my hand, his touch warm and steady. “Look, we can stay here if you’d rather. Order breakfast in, spend the day just us. It’s completely your call.”

I study him, searching for the catch. Most men I’ve dated would have pushed, made me feel guilty, or simply announced we were going. But Declan waits, seemingly content with whatever I decide.

“What if this doesn’t work?” I finally ask, voicing my deepest fear. “What if we go public with... whatever this is, and then it falls apart? Then I’m not just the failed ballet dancer with the wrong body type, I’m also the woman who got dumped by Sugar City’s hockey star.”

Declan’s eyes soften, and he brushes his thumb across my knuckles. “First, you’re not a failed anything. You built your own studio that changes lives every day.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Second, who says it’s going to fall apart?”

“Statistics? Reality? Common sense?” I try to sound lighter than I feel. “Long-distance relationships have terrible success rates, and I don’t see either of us changing our life plans.”

He studies me for a long moment. “Can I tell you something?” When I nod, he continues, “My grandmother used to say that worrying about tomorrow steals today’s joy. And she was the smartest woman I’ve ever known.” He shifts closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m not asking you to plan our wedding or pick out china patterns. I’m just asking if you want pancakes with people who already care about you.”

Put that way, it sounds so simple. Just pancakes. Just breakfast. Not a lifetime commitment.

“OK,” I say finally. “Pancakes. But I need to go home and change first.”

“You could borrow something of mine,” he suggests, looking relieved by my agreement. “Sweatpants and a t-shirt would probably work.”

I shake my head, a sudden impulse of defiance rising in me. “If I’m going to face your team family as the woman who spent the night with Declan O’Rielly, I’m not doing it in your clothes like some walk-of-shame cliché.”

Declan laughs, and the sound makes me smile in return. “Fair enough. Quick shower at your place, then I’ll drive us to the restaurant?”

“Deal,” I agree, standing and gathering my scattered clothing from the floor.

As I dress quickly in last night’s clothes, I wonder if I’m making a terrible mistake. Spending the night with Declan was one thing—a private moment of weakness, of giving in to attraction. But breakfast with his team, with witnesses? That’s a statement. That’s saying this is something, that we’re something.

In the elevator down to the parking garage, he reaches for my hand, his fingers lacing with mine. I hesitate only briefly before squeezing back, and the smile he gives me in return is worth every bit of anxiety coiling in my stomach.

I’m probably setting myself up for heartbreak. For regret, once I’m back in Peach Springs, alone... But right now, with Declan’s hand warm in mine and the memory of last night still fresh in my body, I can’t bring myself to care.