I kick the offending towel into the corner and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the lingering scent of his cologne and the image of what I just walked away from.
Okay. Deep breaths. You're a grown woman who made a decision last night. A very good decision, if we're being honest. An exceptionally good decision that involved multiple orgasms and that thing he did with his tongue that made you forget your own name.
But what does it mean going forward? That's the bit I keep getting stuck on.
I scrub my hair with his shampoo—which smells annoyingly good—and try to organize my thoughts into something resembling logic.
He said he loves me. He said he bought a house because of our tree. He's organizing a charity event for my shelter.
I'm sorry, but those aren't casual hookup behaviors.
Those are... relationship behaviors.Seriousrelationship behaviors.
But what if I'm reading too much into it? What if this is just guilt and nostalgia and really good chemistry? Then again, what if he gets bored again? What if the NHL comes calling with some amazing opportunity and he—
Stop. Just... stop.
I turn off the water and wrap myself in the least questionable towel I can find. In the foggy mirror, my reflection looks thoroughly wrecked. My hair is a disaster, my lips are swollen from kissing, and there's a distinctly satisfied glow about me that's probably visible from space.
Great. I actuallydolook like I just had the best sex of my life.
Through the bathroom door, I can hear sounds from the kitchen. The clatter of pans, the sizzle of something cooking, the rich aroma of coffee that makes my stomach growl traitorously.
Of course he's cooking. Because apparently Ryder Scott is determined to check every box on the 'Perfect Morning After' checklist.
I get dressed in yesterday's clothes, the emerald dress that seemed so appropriate for dinner with his parents and now feels completely ridiculous for a morning-after walk of shame, and steel myself to face whatever he's doing in the kitchen.
Low and behold, the kitchen is a sight to see.
Not because it's particularly fancy. It's clearly mid-renovation, with mismatched cabinet doors and a backsplash that's only half-finished. But because Ryder Scott is standing at the stove, shirtless, flipping what appears to be the most elaborate breakfast spread I've ever seen in a home kitchen.
He's got his back to me, and I take a moment to appreciate the view. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the play of muscles beneath tanned skin as he moves around the kitchen with surprising grace.
"Coffee's fresh," he says without turning around, like he has some kind of sixth sense about my presence. "Mugs are in the cabinet above the coffee maker."
"Oh. Thanks," I say, moving towards where he points.
I pour myself a cup of coffee that's strong enough to wake the dead and settle at the small kitchen table. From where I'msitting, I have a perfect view out the back window to the oak tree, majestic even with snow piled around its base.
I still can't quite believe he bought this house. This whole property. Because of that tree. Because ofus.
How many times did we walk that trail? Hundreds?
We'd cut through the field after school, our backpacks bumping against each other as we raced to our spot. The bark was rough against my back as we'd sit and talk about everything and nothing.
I remember one particular autumn afternoon, the leaves a kaleidoscope of amber and crimson around us. How nervous he looked, how his eyes kept dropping to my lips before shifting away. When he finally kissed me, the world tilted on its axis. His hands cupped my face like I was something precious, something he couldn't believe he was allowed to touch.
I went home that night and lay awake until dawn, my fingers tracing my lips, certain that my life had fundamentally changed. And it had.
That tree witnessed the beginning of us. And now, somehow, it's witnessing... what? Our resurrection?
Ryder continues to work at the stove, humming to himself and I watch him plate what appears to be enough food to feed a small army. Fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crispy bacon, hash browns, and pancakes stacked high enough to require a degree in structural engineering.
Oh yeah. This is athlete food. The kind of breakfast that requires a professional sports career to justify eating this much food and lookingthatgood doing it.
"So… are you feeding me or preparing for the apocalypse?"
He laughs, setting a plate in front of me that could probably feed three normal humans. "I'm used to cooking for post-workout appetites. Sorry if it's too much."
