Page 17 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

SEVENTEEN

My spoonful of Ben & Jerry’s Marshmallow Sky freezes mid-air as heavy footsteps echo down the hall leading to the kitchen.

The crew left a few hours ago, and as far as I know, the girls are all asleep.

Dominic rounds the corner, heading straight for the pantry without registering my presence, like a man on a mission.

“Good date?” I ask, then lick the spoon clean.

He does a weird jump-spin that makes me laugh. He clearly wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up for a midnight snack. “Shit, I didn’t see you there.”

Crossing the room, he leans against the cabinets opposite where I’m perched on the island counter. “Got anything good?” He nods toward my stash. “Is that popcorn?”

Before I can answer, he reaches over and steals a handful from the bowl near my hip.

“It’s the best combo,” I say, eating a few kernels. “Salty and sweet.” I scoop another bite of ice cream.

He grabs more popcorn, cramming a handful in like he hasn’t eaten in days. “Kind of like us. You’re salty, and I’m sweet.” He tries and fails to hold back his grin.

I roll my eyes. “Hungry?”

“You have no idea. Did you know we’re not allowed to eat on dates? Never mind—don’t get me started. Can I get some of that?” He takes the pint before I can answer, loading his spoon with way more ice cream than any normal person should eat in one go. Pretty much asking for brain freeze.

“Hey, don’t use my spoon!”

He pauses with the bite inches from his mouth. “Why not?”

“I don’t want your germs.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“And Emma’s germs. There’s way too much spit-swapping around here for my comfort.”

He shoves the ice cream into his mouth anyway, talking around it. “There’s a whole lot less than you think. We didn’t kiss. Unless you’re worried about what I picked up from kissing her cheek?”

His eyes flick to the doorway, then back to me. To the pint he’s still holding. Then back to me again. “I asked to kiss her,” he confesses. Like he owes me some kind of explanation.

“Oh—”

“I regretted it almost immediately,” he cuts in. “What the fuck is wrong with me? I should want to kiss her. I like her.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he is me.

“That’s great. I like Emma.”

His gaze jumps to mine, brows pulling together. “You do?”

“Yeah. I was planning to tell you. She’s my front-runner. You two make a good match.” The last part sticks in my throat a little, but it’s true. They do make sense. On paper, anyway.

“Oh. I’m glad you think so.” He shifts his weight, staring into the pint and scraping at the melting edges without taking a bite.

Then finally, like he’s come to some kind of conclusion, he digs in for another oversized scoop. “Why is this ice cream blue? It doesn’t taste blue.”

I laugh, taking the pint back. “Does blue have a taste?”

“I imagine it to be sweeter, like cotton candy?”

I can’t even fault that logic. It kind of makes sense. I hold up the container so he can read the label. “It’s marshmallow flavored. Called Marshmallow Sky . Hence the blue.”

“Kind of like your eyes,” he says, his gaze locked with mine, before quickly averting it.

I don’t realize I’ve taken another bite—and infected myself with his germs—until the cookie dough and marshmallow goodness hits my taste buds. I shift, pulling my feet up and hugging my knees to my chest.

“So, if you asked to kiss her and you didn’t…” I can’t help but start.

“She said no. Which was fine. Good, even.”

I raise a brow. “Good?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t even know. My head’s a bit fucked up, I think.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” I surprise myself by asking.

But he looks so lost, I can’t help but try to do…

something. I’ve never seen him this way, conflicted and unsure.

He’s usually so confident. The surge of protectiveness I feel shocks me, not only because it’s him , but also because it’s not something I feel for most people. I’ve always been a loner.

His gaze returns to mine, and I think he might actually say more, but instead, he breaks the contact again.

“Nah.” He rummages through cabinets until he finds a protein bar. “How was your night?”

“Good,” I echo. Apparently, good is the theme of the night.

He arches a brow. “Give me more than that. What did you do?”

I slide off the counter, return the pint to the freezer, and go back for more popcorn.

“I do the same handful of things here. It’s actually mind-numbingly boring.

” I leave out how claustrophobic it feels.

“Once the crew shows up, we’re not allowed to leave the property without approval.

It’s kind of ridiculous. I’m dying to get out, even if it’s on another date with you,” I add, trying for a joke. It doesn’t quite land.

“What time do they get here? When do you wake up?”

I don’t tell him I’m usually up before the sun. That most nights I don’t sleep well. And why does he even care about my sleep habits? “The crew gets here around seven a.m., and I’m usually up around five.” I don’t mention that’s on a good day.

“Perfect. Why don’t we walk together in the mornings?”

“Where? I have no way to get around.”

“All you have to do is go down to the beach, turn right, and you’ll reach my villa in”—he tilts his head from side to side—“five minutes, tops. Do you have something bright, or better yet, reflective? I’ll wait for you on the beach, and I’ll be able to see you when you walk…

although I’m sure you won’t run into any trouble in this neighborhood. ”

“You’re up that early?”

“Yeah.” He finishes off the protein bar and raises his head toward the ceiling as he chews. “Most of the time.”

I don’t question it because it actually sounds kind of perfect—maybe minus the company. Though even that’s becoming harder to complain about.

“Yeah, all right. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” He reaches out his hand, and I shake it.

It’s the first time I’m grateful for my internal clock. I don’t have a phone to set an alarm, and the nightstand version they gave us would wake up my roommates, which kind of defeats the whole sneaking-out plan.

I slip out of bed and feel my way to the dresser, slowly opening the drawer I know holds my activewear, praying it doesn’t creak.

I grab what I hope is a sports bra, leggings, and some kind of shirt.

As I tiptoe into the bathroom, I’m relieved to hear the soft, steady breathing of my still-sleeping roommates.

When I finally see my outfit in the light, I’m glad I found all the right pieces and that they match. Which shouldn’t be a surprise with most of my wardrobe being neutrals. Black. White. Beige. Maybe the occasional hunter green or plum, but I’ve never been one for anything bright or colorful.

I change, flip the bathroom light off, and ease the door open. I hate being cold, so I risk the creaky drawer one more time, hunting for something to block the ocean breeze I know will hit this early.

“Mia? You okay?” a sleep-heavy voice, I’m pretty sure is Summer, asks.

“I’m good. Just going for a walk. I can’t sleep,” I whisper.

“Oh.” Sheets rustle. “I’ll come with you. You shouldn’t be out alone at… whatever time it is. But definitely too late to walk alone.”

“Don’t worry. It’s nearly morning. And I’m going with Dominic.”

“Oh.” There’s a longer pause after the single syllable this time. “Be safe.”

“I will. Go back to bed.”

There’s more rustling, then a soft exhale as I slip out of the room.

Dominic is exactly where he said he’d be, high on the beach, closer to the dunes than the water.

Even from a distance, he practically glows.

I didn’t know it was possible for one person to wear that much reflective material.

He’s got on a neon backward ballcap, reflective details catching on his shirt logo and the stripes down his shorts. And are his sneakers actually glowing?

I glance down at myself. Aside from the white T-shirt, mostly hidden beneath a hunter-green flannel, I probably blend right into the lightening navy sky.

I quicken my steps, not wanting him to think I bailed.

When I’m close enough to speak—shouting doesn’t feel right in the early-morning stillness—he gives me a once-over, scanning me from head to toe.

“I see you ignored the ‘wear something bright’ memo,” he says.

“I see you wore enough of it for both of us.”

“I guess we balance each other out.” He smiles, but I don’t acknowledge the comment.

His so-called villa sits a couple of hundred yards back, perched high above sea level. I’ve heard production refer to it that way, but let’s be real, it’s more like a modern mansion.

“You a big fan of modern design?” I ask.

His brownstone, next to my brother’s, might look charming from the outside, but Ryan always complains about the interior. About its sharp-edged, glass-heavy aesthetic, and this temporary house matches that description.

Instead of answering, he counters, “I take it you’re not?”

I shrug. As we move farther along the beach in quiet agreement, I try to picture what my dream house would even look like, and come up completely blank.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had my own place, so I guess I’ve never really thought about styles.”

“You don’t want your own place?”

Do I? I think I do… eventually. But a home means roots, and roots are what I’ve spent my whole life running from. I wish I were the kind of person who found comfort in having a place of their own. A spot in the world that feels like mine. Not just physically. A place with meaning. With belonging.

But staying still? That’s always brought the opposite. Unease. Worry. Loneliness.

“Yeah. Eventually,” I say, then circle back to my original question. “So, modern’s your thing?”

“I don’t know. I like the clean lines… but that’s about it.”

A comfortable silence settles between us as we walk, broken only by the hiss of the surf. So it catches me off guard when Dominic speaks again.

“How’re you liking the house? The other girls?”

“Trying to ask what I know?”

He kicks a seashell, eyes still on the sand. “Yeah… that too, I guess.”