Page 8

DECLAN

“ W ait,” I say, before Victoria can take a sip. “We should toast to something, shouldn’t we?”

She pauses and looks at me with a hint of amusement. “What are we toasting to?”

I consider for a moment, taking in the sight of her. Victoria Fletcher in my apartment, wearing that burgundy wrap dress that hugs every magnificent curve, her dark hair loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual severe bun. She’s so fucking beautiful.

“How about...” I raise my glass, searching for the right words. Something not too intense, but not too casual either. “To taking chances.”

Something that looks like uncertainty flickers in her eyes before she smiles and raises her glass to meet mine. “To taking chances,” she agrees, the crystal making a delicate chime as our glasses touch.

I watch as she takes her first sip, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation. “This is lovely,” she says, setting her glass down.

“I can’t take credit for the wine,” I admit with a grin. “Luc recommended it. The guy’s practically a sommelier these days, thanks to Natalie’s influence.”

Victoria smiles, lifting her glass for another sip. “They seem sweet together.”

“They are,” I agree, moving to check on the lasagna in the oven. “They balance each other perfectly. She brings out a side of him I don’t think any of us knew existed before.”

Grabbing some mitts, I pull the lasagna out and set it on the counter. The rich aroma of tomato sauce, herbs, and melted cheese fills the kitchen, and I hear Victoria’s appreciative inhalmitts,e.

“That looks incredible,” she says, moving closer to peer at the dish. The golden-brown cheese on top bubbles slightly at the edges, revealing layers of pasta, meat sauce, and ricotta beneath. “You really made this yourself?”

“My grandmother’s recipe,” I say, absurdly pleased by praise. “Gran insisted that every O’Rielly man should know how to make at least three dishes properly. Lasagna, Irish stew, and a decent roast chicken with all the trimmings.”

“Smart woman,” Victoria comments, taking another sip of her wine. “Very practical.”

“She was,” I agree, the familiar pang of loss softened by the warm memories. “She practically raised me while my parents worked. Had me in the kitchen as soon as I could reach the counter on a stool.”

Victoria’s expression softens. “You must miss her.”

“Every day,” I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. “She passed during my sophomore year of college. Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry,” Victoria says, reaching out to briefly touch my hand. The simple gesture of comfort feels more intimate than it should.

“It’s OK,” I say, turning my hand palm up in invitation. When she hesitates, then places her hand in mine, my heart does a ridiculous little skip. “She would have liked you, you know.”

“Oh?” Victoria’s eyebrow lifts skeptically, but she doesn’t withdraw her hand. “How can you be sure?”

“Gran always said I needed someone with substance. Someone who would challenge me.” I run my thumb across her knuckles, enjoying the small shiver it elicits. “Someone who wouldn’t just fall for the hockey player persona.”

Victoria’s eyes search mine. “You hardly know me,” she says softly.

“I know enough,” I reply, reluctantly releasing her hand to serve our meal. “I know you built your own studio from nothing. I know you’re passionate about making dance accessible to everyone. I know you work harder than anyone on the team, showing up early and staying late to perfect your lesson plans.”

I slide the spatula under a generous portion of lasagna, the layers holding together perfectly as I transfer it to a plate.

“I also know that you drive three hours each way on weekends to check on your studio in Peach Springs, even though you must be exhausted.” I continue to serve my own portion, hoping she doesn’t notice the slight tremor in my hands. “And I know that when you demonstrate a movement, your entire face changes—like you’re transported somewhere else entirely.”

Victoria looks startled, as if she hadn’t realized I’d been paying such close attention. “You’ve been watching me.”

“Hard not to,” I admit, adding a small side salad next to each slice—mixed greens with cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices, and a light vinaigrette I prepared earlier. “You’re incredible when you teach.”

Victoria’s cheeks flush that delightful shade of pink I’m quickly becoming addicted to. I grab our plates and gesture toward the dining room where I’ve set the table with actual napkins and my good dishes. Not the fancy stuff that my designer put in the apartment, but the set my grandmother used to bring out for special guests when I was growing up.

“This way.” She follows, and after I set down our plates, I pull out her chair, enjoying her surprised smile at the gesture. I want her to understand that this isn’t just some casual hookup for me. I want this to be special.

Victoria sits, smoothing her dress beneath her. “Thank you. This all looks amazing, Declan.”

I take my seat across from her, watching as she takes her first bite of lasagna. Her eyes close briefly, and a small sound of pleasure escapes her that sends heat straight to my groin. Jesus, if she makes sounds like that over food, I can only imagine what she’d sound like in my bed.

“This is incredible,” she says, opening her eyes. “Your grandmother taught you well.”

“Thank you,” I reply, taking a bite of my own. “Hmm. It’s not quite as good as when she made it, but it’s one of the few recipes I’ve actually mastered.”

“To your grandmother, then,” she says, lifting her glass.

I lift my glass to meet hers. “To Gran.”

As we eat, conversation flows easier than I expected. Victoria tells me more about her studio in Peach Springs, her eyes lighting up as she describes her students—from tiny preschoolers taking their first dance steps to elderly folks who come for mobility classes. I tell her more about growing up in Pine Creek, how terribly I wanted to play hockey even though we didn’t have a team there, and how my parents drove me hours each way for practices in the nearest city.

“I can’t imagine making that kind of sacrifice,” Victoria says, shaking her head as she takes another sip of wine. We’ve moved to our second bottle now, a comfortable warmth settling between us.

“My parents were incredible,” I agree, topping off our glasses. “They worked extra shifts to pay for equipment, tournaments, everything. My dad would drive through snowstorms to get me to practices. Never complained once. Well, except for that time I wanted to dance with my cousin.”

I notice a slight shift in Victoria’s posture. “You wanted to dance?”

“Just that once,” I clarify quickly, an old discomfort rising. “My cousin Molly was in this recital. She was showing me her routine, and I thought it looked fun. I was eight.”

Victoria studies me, her head tilted slightly. “What happened?”

I shrug, trying to keep it light even as I remember my father’s face—the disappointment, the barely concealed disgust. “Dad shut it down. Fast. Said hockey players don’t dance.”

“But here you are now,” she says with a small smile. “Taking ballet.”

“Ironic, right?” I take a larger sip of wine than intended. “Dad would probably have a stroke if he knew.”

“Are you two close?” Victoria asks softly.

I hesitate, fork pushing around the last bit of lasagna on my plate. “We were. When I was younger. Hockey was our thing, you know? But after I got drafted... things changed.”

“How so?”

“He had this vision of what my career should look like. Very traditional.” I set my fork down, leaning back in my chair.

“My dad thought I should be this tough enforcer type. Throwing punches, intimidating other players.” I shake my head. “When I started focusing more on skill, on finesse... he took it as some kind of personal rejection. Like I was saying his way wasn’t good enough.”

Victoria’s eyes soften with understanding. “That must have been difficult.”

“It was. Still is.” I take another drink, feeling the warmth of the wine spreading through me. “We barely speak now. He watches my games—I know because Mom tells me—but he never calls. Never visits.”

“I’m sorry,” Victoria says, and I can tell she means it. Her hand reaches across the table, fingers brushing mine in a gesture so simple yet so comforting that my chest tightens.

“It’s fine,” I lie, because that’s what I always say. “What about your parents? Are they supportive of your dance career?”

Something shadows her expression briefly before she smiles again. “They were,” she says, setting down her glass. “My mom especially. She’s the one who first put me in ballet classes when I was four. Said I was always dancing around the house, might as well learn to do it properly.”

“And your dad?”

“He came around eventually.” Victoria’s smile turns wistful. “At first he thought it was a waste of money. We weren’t exactly well-off. But the first time he saw me perform...” She trails off, eyes distant with memory. “He cried. Tried to hide it, of course, but I saw. After that, he never missed a recital.”

“You said ‘were’ supportive,” I note gently. “Past tense.”

Victoria’s expression shifts, a subtle sadness settling in her eyes. “They were killed in a car accident my final year of college. Black ice on a rural road.” She takes a sip of wine, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond me. “That’s actually why I moved back to Peach Springs after I left the Granite City Ballet Company. I inherited their house, and it just seemed right to go home.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching across the table to take her hand. This time, she doesn’t hesitate to lace her fingers with mine.

“It was a long time ago.”

We stay like that for a moment, connected, until Victoria gently withdraws her hand to reach for her wine. “So, tell me about your teammates. They seem close, like a real family.”

“They are,” I agree, grateful for the slightly lighter topic. “Luc’s been like a big brother to me since I joined the team. Calvin’s the steady one we all count on. Emile’s the kid brother who somehow has his life more together than the rest of us.”

“And you?” Victoria asks, a smile playing at her lips. “What’s your role in this hockey family?”

“I’m the charming one, obviously,” I reply with an exaggerated wink that makes her laugh. “The one who keeps things light when the pressure gets too heavy.”

“Is that hard sometimes?” she asks, surprising me with her perception. “Being the one who’s always supposed to be fun and lighthearted?”

The question hits closer to home than I expected. “Sometimes,” I admit, revealing something I rarely share. “After a bad loss or when someone gets injured... yeah, it can be tough to be the guy with the jokes. But someone has to do it, you know? Keep morale up.”

Victoria studies me with those perceptive dark eyes. “There’s a lot more to you than most people see, isn’t there, Declan O’Rielly?”

“I could say the same about you, Victoria Fletcher,” I counter, holding her gaze.

The air between us feels charged again, heavy with possibilities. I clear my throat. “How about dessert? I didn’t bake it myself, but there’s tiramisu from that Italian place downtown.”

“I’d love some,” she says. “But first, could I use your bathroom?”

“Of course.” I point down the hallway. “Second door on the right.”

As Victoria excuses herself, I begin clearing the table, trying to calm my racing heart. The evening is going better than I could have hoped. There’s an ease between us that I wasn’t expecting, like we’ve known each other much longer than a few weeks.

By the time she returns, I’ve plated the tiramisu and moved us to the living room, thinking the couch might be more comfortable—and yes, maybe bring us physically closer together.

“Mmm. I love tiramisu,” Victoria says as she settles beside me on the couch, just close enough that our arms almost touch.

“Fair warning. I have no self-control when it comes to dessert,” I say. “If you blink, I might steal yours.”

She laughs, takes a bite, and closes her eyes with a soft hum of pleasure. The sound travels through me like a jolt.

If she makes noises like that over dessert…

“You’ll have to fight me for it,” she says, eyes still closed, and for a second, all I can think about is pinning her down. In the playful way. And maybe not-so-playful, too.

“I don’t know,” I tease, leaning a bit closer. “I’m pretty determined when I want something.”

Her eyes open, meeting mine, and the air between us shifts. “Yes,” she says softly. “I’m starting to see that.”

We finish our dessert in charged silence, hyperaware of each other’s proximity on the couch. I take our empty plates to the kitchen, giving myself a moment to regain my composure. When I return, Victoria is standing by the windows, looking out at the city lights.

“Thank you for dinner,” she says as I approach, her voice quieter now. More tentative.

“The night doesn’t have to end yet,” I say, stepping beside her. Close, but not touching. Not yet. “We could watch something, or... I could give you the grand tour. Full access.”

Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile. “Full access, huh?”

I shrug, playing it cool even though my pulse is anything but. “Open floor plan, generous host. The perks write themselves.”

Victoria turns to face me, something resolute in her expression. “Declan, I—” she begins, then stops, seeming to search for words.

“What is it?” I take a small step closer.

“I’m just... I’m not sure what I’m doing here,” she says, barely louder than a breath. Her hands twist slightly at her sides. “This isn’t like me. I don’t let things get blurry. I don’t let people get close when I know it’s temporary.”

“Who says this has to end?” I challenge, closing the distance between us.

She looks up at me, doubt clear in her eyes. “Be realistic, Declan. You’re a professional hockey player living in Sugar City. I run a small ballet studio three hours away. How would that even work?”

“I don’t have all the answers,” I admit. “But I know how I feel when I’m with you. I know that I think about you constantly. I know that kiss in the parking garage nearly broke me.” I reach up, fingertips brushing her cheek. “And I’ve wanted another one every minute since. And right now? It’s not even a want. It’s a need.”

Victoria’s breath catches, her eyes darkening. “I should say no,” she whispers, but she’s leaning into my touch. “I should walk away right now.”

“But you’re not going to,” I murmur, bringing my other hand up to frame her face.

“No.” Her breath washes over my face as she lifts up on her toes. “I’m not.”