Page 116 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Good thing I’m emotionally unavailable and professionally questionable.”

“Perfect resume for someone like me.”

We’re joking, but underneath the humor is something more serious. The recognition that we’re both people who’ve spent our lives trying to be what others wanted, and maybe that’s why we found each other—two people desperate to be seen for who they actually are instead of who they’re supposed to be.

“Reed,” I say carefully, “if we do this—try this—it has to be different. No secrets, no professional complications, no choosing other people’s expectations over what we actually want.”

“Agreed.” He smiles. “And no running. Either of us. When things get difficult, we figure it out.”

He reaches across the space between us, fingers brushing mine. The contact is careful, tentative, like he’s testing whether I’ll pull away.

I don’t.

“So what now?” he asks.

“Now we finish this terrible coffee and see if we remember how to be in the same room without combusting.”

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“I’m learning to be okay with imperfect plans.”

“Good,” he says, interlacing our fingers properly. “Because I’mpretty sure we’re about to improvise the hell out of this.”

His hand is warm, familiar, scarred from years of hockey and fighting and the general violence of his profession. But it holds mine gently, like something precious that needs protecting instead of conquering.

For the first time in eight months, I don’t want to run.

I want to stay and see what happens when two people choose each other with full knowledge of the consequences.

Even if those consequences include the possibility of being happy.

43

Hope tastes like grocery store wine and sounds like someone saying yes when you expected them to run.

“Dinner,” I suggest as we sit in her hotel room, hands still linked, both of us pretending this isn’t the most terrifying conversation we’ve ever had. “Tomorrow night. My place.”

“Your place?”

“I can cook. Actual food, not just protein shakes and microwave oatmeal.” I pause, realizing how this sounds. “Not that this is some elaborate seduction plan. I just thought—neutral territory might be good. Somewhere we can talk without housekeeping interrupting.”

“Your apartment is neutral territory?”

“More neutral than a hotel room where we’re both thinking about how this all started in the hotel room in Vegas.”

She laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest that’s been tight for months. “I wasn’t thinking about that, but okay. What were you planning to cook?”

“Something that won’t poison us. Beyond that, I’m improvising.”

“I like improvising.”

“Good. Because I think we’re about to do a lot of it.”

The next evening, I stand in my kitchen surrounded by ingredients I’m not entirely sure how to combine, wondering if there’s a correlation between cooking ability and relationship success. Chelsea’s supposed to arrive in thirty minutes, and I’m realizing that “I can cook” was optimistic at best.

My phone buzzes. A text from Weston that can wait.

I set the phone aside and focus on not burning dinner. Chicken, pasta, vegetables—basic combination that hopefully won’t embarrass me completely. The wine is better than what I usually buy, candles are lit but not overwhelming, music playing quietly in the background.

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