Page 93 of Cross Checked
CADE: Too late.
I tossed the phone beside me and sat up, pressing both hands over my face.
This was going to be impossible.
He was coming here. To my apartment. In person. Like he had on Sundays before, except now there was no pretending this was only coffee, potatoes, and project notes. Not after last night. Not after the gym. Not after the closet. Not after FaceTime.
He was going to walk through my door with coffee and that calm, controlled face, and I was supposed to explain to him, like a rational adult, that whatever had happened between us could keep happening as long as we did not let it become something it couldn’t be.
No Cade mistaking Sunday dinners, stolen hoodies, coffee routines, and last night’s bad decisions for me becoming the girlfriend in the stands wearing his jersey and building my entire life around his hockey schedule. No me pretending that sleeping with a hockey player was somehow different because he looked at me like he already knew where the bodies were buried and wanted a shovel anyway.
I could do this.
I could absolutely do this.
I climbed out of bed and immediately caught sight of myself in the mirror. Messy blonde hair. Sleep-flushed face. Cade’s hoodie hanging down one shoulder like a confession. Bare legs. Slightly swollen mouth from biting my lips half the night while replaying every second of that call.
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered at my reflection. “You are a disaster.”
My reflection had nothing helpful to say.
By the time I showered, dressed, and made the apartment look like I had not spent the entire night spiraling into horny emotional ruin, my nerves had sharpened into something almost productive. I put on denim shorts and a fitted white halter tank instead of hiding in another oversized sweatshirt because, honestly, pretending I did not want him to look at me felt ridiculous after last night. My hair went into a messy bun that was actually forty bobby pins tucked strategically to give the illusion of effortlessness. I added mascara and lip gloss, then wiped the gloss off because the idea of him noticing made my stomach twist. Then I put it back on because I remembered his confession about kissing me last night and decided it was incentive.
The knock came at ten exactly. I stood in the kitchen with both hands braced on the counter and closed my eyes for one second.
No losing my mind over a man who lived half his life on ice and the other half being worshipped for surviving it.
I opened the door.
Cade stood in the hallway with two coffees in one hand and a paper bakery bag in the other, wearing dark jeans, a black Fury T-shirt, and a lightweight jacket that made him look unfairly awake for a man who had absolutely no business looking that composed after what we had done last night. Hishair was pushed back under a black Fury ballcap, and his eyes moved over my face first.
Not my body.
My face.
Like he was checking the damage without asking the question before his gaze dropped. Slowly, like he was taking stock.
Tank.
Shorts.
Bare legs.
Mouth.
Check.
Check.
Check.
Fucking check.
When his eyes came back to mine, they had gone darker. “Morning, Pip.”
My body reacted so hard to that one sentence I almost shut the door in his face out of self-defense. “Morning,” I said, stepping back. “You brought coffee.”
“Told you I would.”
