“—to your apartment”
Another nod, more wary this time.
“where you will ply me with carbs and charm to gain my professional favor?”
He blinked. “When you say it like that it soundssomuch worse.”
I laughed, unable to help it. "It’s kind of adorable.”
He exhaled. “Thank God. Because I amveryclose to dropping this entire bag of meatballs mixed with my shame.”
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal the eighth floor. My floor.
I stepped into the hallway, turned back, and caught the still-flustered look on Jaymie’s face.
“Rain check on the lasagna, Prescott,” I said, stepping backward. Waves of basil, tomato and parmesan waft in my direction. "It does smell really good, total rain check,"
He looked confused, then a little hopeful.
“Really?”
A small smirk caught on the corner of my lip, “Maybe. Next time you tempt me with Italian comfort food, lead with that instead of the ‘I’m full of meatballs and ulteriormotives’ thing.”
He laughed, and I swear I could feel it in my chest.
The doors began to close.
“Goodnight, Quince,” he called, his voice low and still smiling.
“Night, Prescott,” I said, walking to my apartment with a grin I couldn’t shake.
Jaymie
I stood in theelevator, still holding enough food to survive a natural disaster, and watched the doors close in front of Mallory Quince like I was in a damn rom-com.
She said next time.
Which meant—what? That she might come over? That she didn’t totally think I was a disaster in sneakers?
I leaned against the elevator wall, trying to look casual while my brain reeled. Her smile stilllingered in my memory, the way her eyes sparkled like she knew she had me on the hook and didn’t mind tugging. God, she was quick. Confident. And funny in that way where it felt like every word she chose had teeth.
I let out a low whistle as the elevator climbed toward the tenth floor, pressing the back of my head against the cool metal wall.
“Smooth, Prescott,” I muttered. “Real smooth.”
I’d flirted before. Hell, I’d even had a few successful dates—mostly with women who liked the idea of dating a hockey player more than the actual reality of it. They liked the skates, the stats, the playoff tickets. They liked Logan, and Connor. They liked the team.
But no one ever really stuck around long enough to figure out the part of me that existed outside the rink. The part that double-checked crossword clues. Who wore glasses because my contacts dried out by the third period. Who went home after games and watched weird documentaries about wildlife migration patterns. Who got teased for being the “gentle one” on the line.
Women liked the image.
Not the guy underneath.
And Mallory? Mallory was different. She didn’t look at me like I was some local celebrity or a walking stat line. She looked at me like she was deciding whether or not I was worth her time. Like she saw right through the charm and the grin and the swagger to the guy underneath, unsure, alittle awkward, probably sweating, and still flirted with me anyway.
Unless she wasn’t flirting.
