Page 81 of Across the Boards

In my hurry to gather shower necessities, I’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes. I have my work outfit from today—jeans and a casual blouse—but nothing to change into. Which means I need to walk from the bathroom to the guest room, where I’ve left my bag with clean clothes, in just a towel.

“Perfect,” I mutter to myself. “Absolutely perfect planning, Elliot.”

I briefly consider putting my work clothes back on, but they’re slightly damp from the steam and would need to come right back off again. No, the towel is the only option. It’s large enough to be decent, covering me from chest to mid-thigh. And surely Brody is still downstairs, focused on his game footage.

I gather my things, secure the towel tightly around me, and crack open the bathroom door. The hallway is clear. The guest bedroom is only about fifteen feet away, directly across the hall. I can make it without incident.

I take a deep breath and step into the hallway.

Just as Brody emerges from the top of the stairs.

We both freeze. His eyes widen, then immediately dart away before snapping back, as if he’s fighting an internal battle about where to look. I’m suddenly, intensely aware of how little the towel covers—my bare shoulders, the length of my legs, the droplets of water still trailing down my skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “I was just... I thought you might need...” He holds up a hair dryer. “I realized you might not have brought one.”

“Oh.” The thoughtfulness of the gesture momentarily distracts me from my state of undress. “Thank you. That’s very considerate.”

Neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged, electric with possibilities we’ve agreed not to pursue. His gaze is carefully controlled, but I can see the effort it takes, the way his jaw tightens and his breath seems to catch.

“I forgot to bring clothes into the bathroom,” I explain unnecessarily. “I was just heading to the guest room to change.”

“Right.” He nods, still holding the hair dryer like some kind of shield. “I’ll just... put this in the bathroom for you.”

He steps forward at the same moment I do, bringing us briefly, alarmingly close in the narrow hallway. I can smell his cologne, see the pulse jumping in his throat, feel the heat radiating from his body. For one suspended moment, I think he might break our new rules, might reach for me despite our agreement to take things slow.

Instead, he steps carefully around me, maintaining as much distance as the hallway allows, and disappears into the bathroom.

I hurry into the guest room, closing the door behind me with more force than necessary, heart pounding as if I’ve run a marathon. It was just an awkward encounter, I tell myself. An accidental collision of timing. Nothing worth overthinking.

But as I dress for my video call, I can’t help the smirk that forms on my lips. Before opening the door, I call out, “Hey Carter, is it my imagination, or were you blushing out there?”

There’s a pause, then his voice through the door, amusement evident, “Absolutely not. Professional athletes don’t blush. We... tactically redden for intimidation purposes.”

I laugh, feeling the tension dissipate. “Very intimidating. I was terrified.”

“As you should be,” he calls back. “Hockey’s most fearsome defenseman, caught off guard by a woman in a towel. My reputation will never recover.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assure him, smiling to myself. “Though it might cost you.”

“Name your price, Waltman.”

“I’ll think of something suitable,” I promise, feeling lighter than I have in days. “Something appropriately... intimidating.”

His groan makes me laugh again. Maybe this “taking it slow” thing is going to be harder than I thought—but for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the challenge.

16

BRODY

I’ve paced the twelve steps between my front door and Elliot’s three times trying to work up the nerve to knock. Our first official date, and I’m acting like a teenager going to prom.

“Get it together, Carter,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the collar of my button-down for the tenth time. It’s just dinner. With a woman I’ve already kissed. Who lives next door. Whose coffee order I know by heart. No big deal.

Except it is a big deal. Because this isn’t “not-coffee” or a charity gala or tacos. This is intentional. Deliberate. The start of something real, if I don’t screw it up.

I check my watch—6:58 PM. I told her I’d pick her up at 7:00. Showing up early seems eager; late seems careless. Time management has never been more stressful.

At exactly 7:00, I knock on her door, bouquet of wildflowers in hand. Not roses—too cliché—but colorful blooms that reminded me of her. The door opens, and my carefully rehearsed greeting evaporates at the sight of her.

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