I set my phone down and stare out the windshield. I don’t know if that accomplished anything, but at least I’m doingsomething.
CHAPTER 7
Mila
For the firsttime in what feels like forever, I slept through the night.
Like, actually slept. No waking up at two a.m. in a cold sweat, no heart-thudding fear from phantom phone vibrations. Just a blissful, uninterrupted rest. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I feel safe here in Penn’s home.
Who knew all it took to feel that way was twelve-foot steel gates, motion-activated cameras, enough square footage to lose a marching band, and let’s not forget… a large, angry hockey player?
After Penn left for practice this morning, I spent a good chunk of time wandering the house. Not in a snoopy way—I didn’t peek in drawers or rifle through his closet—but Ididexplore. The man clearly likes modern architecture. Everything is sleek and minimalist—glass, steel, matte-black finishes. There are clean lines, abstract art, and furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum. Not uncomfortable, just… not my vibe. My aesthetic is more cottage-chic-meets-used-bookstore. His is… dark academia meetsGQ.
I found a home theater, a full bar and a temperature-controlled wine cellar. The workout room, though? That is a gem. Fully stocked with weights, a Peloton, a treadmill and one of those fancy mirror things that talk to you while you do squats. I got in a good hour of yoga and strength training, then rewarded myself with a protein smoothie and a salad I made from his ridiculously well-stocked fridge.
Seriously, his pantry and fridge are impressive. I’d expected bachelor fridge—beer, condiments, maybe some takeout leftovers. But no. Fresh greens, oat milk, tofu, berries, avocados. Enough pantry staples to run a cooking class. He even has vegan mayo.Who has vegan mayo just lying around?
It was so unexpected. Completely at odds with what I would think of a bachelor, professional athlete. It would make any person wonder that maybe there’s more to Penn than scowls and grunted one-word answers, but I don’t have to wonder about that. I remember Penn from all those years ago and somewhere inside, his true nature lurks.
Back then, he was serious when it came to the game of hockey, but off the ice, he was all teasing smiles and affable humor. He was a leader on the Wraiths and always the first to help a guy out. He was thoughtful and dedicated to his sport. Yeah… really not surprised by how well set up his kitchen is because he’s a man who doesn’t do anything in half measures. That’s evident in his star status in this league. He is the best player, after all.
After working on a few design projects on my laptop and responding to client emails, I decide to shower. The en suite guest bathroom is fully equipped with fancy soaps, shampoo and conditioner—my stuff is all bargain-bin products, so I give myself permission to enjoy the little luxuries. After a steamy shower where I scrub, shave and polish, I slather a lovely scented lotion all over my body. While that soaks into my skin, I get started drying my hair, which is always the longest part of my ritual.
I was blessed with ridiculously thick, soft locks that I wear down to my mid back in long layers. My mom—back when she still loved me—called it unicorn hair because it always behaved exactly as I asked it to. If I wanted loose waves, I got them.Perfectly straight and sleek—no problem. Curly ringlets from a hot iron—they always held.
But first, I have to dry it. I grab a leave-in conditioner from my toiletry bag—also bargain priced, but it does the job—and work it through the ends. I nab my travel hair dryer from my bag and unwrap the cord before plugging it in. It’s been with me for years, a cheap but reliable little thing that’s seen plenty of hotel rooms and even some hostels when I traveled through Europe after graduating college.
I flip the switch and wait expectantly to see what it does. Because it’s old, it’s also temperamental. It sputters like an asthmatic chipmunk.
I frown. That’s… new.
I smack it against my palm a few times, because that’s what you do with electronics when they don’t cooperate. It coughs a little, but then the airflow starts and it heats up in no time.
Satisfied, I bend at the waist, flipping my hair forward and aim the dryer at the roots. I start humming, then full-on singing as I work—“Anti-Hero” by Taylor Swift, because obviously—and I’m mid-chorus when it happens.
A horriblewhir.
A painfuljerk.
And then—
“OH GOD, NO!”
A large chunk of my hair gets sucked straight into the back of the dryer and wraps my hair so quickly and tightly, the unit is pulled straight to my scalp where it knocks against my skull. The dryer makes a high-pitchedeeeeeeeesound, starts to smoke, and dies with a sad puff. The cord goes slack as the plug falls from the outlet.
What in the hell?
My eyes dart around, looking for some ghostly culprit that did this and that’s when I see the protective screen lying on oneof the fluffy bath rugs. It must’ve come loose when I banged it, and now my hair is tangled in the exposed fan.
I freeze, bent over, the dryer still attached to the back of my head like a mechanical parasite.
“No, no, no, no, no…,” I whisper, trying to pull it free gently. My hair doesn’t budge.
I try twisting. Nope.
I try yanking.Big mistake.
“Motherf—” I grit through my teeth, trying not to panic.
