I feel bad for Maya. That’s humiliating, finding out your fiancé is cheating in such a public way. But I’m also glad for herthat she found out before the wedding. She dodged a bullet, just like I did. And for Daniel? I don’t feel one bit sorry for him. He made his choices.
We say goodbye and hang up a few minutes later. As I clean up my art supplies, capping paints and washing brushes, done for the day, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s Asher.
ASHER: Can you meet me at the Denver Museum of Fine Arts at 7?
I grin. We’ve been meaning to go there for a while, but have been busy with getting settled in and work and his hockey schedule.
ME: You’re on. I’ll be there.
I head to the bedroom and change into something a little nicer than my work clothes, a comfortable dress with a floral pattern that hugs my curves—one of Asher’s favorites. Then I hop into the new Range Rover that Asher insisted on getting me after we moved to Denver and drive over at the agreed time, curiosity building about what he’s planning.
When I arrive and walk up the wide front steps, the museum looks oddly empty, with just a single security guard waiting out front. I hesitate, thinking maybe I’ve gotten the time wrong or they’re closed.
“Kat Sanders?” the guard asks as I approach.
I blink, surprised. “Yes, that’s me.”
He smiles and leads me inside. The marble floors echo beneath my heels as we walk through quiet corridors, surrounded by incredible art. But there’s no one else here. Just us.
Asher is waiting in the main gallery, dressed in nice pants and a shirt that hugs his broad shoulders. The guard nods at him and leaves us alone, and I step into the room. Stunned that we have the empty museum all to ourselves.
“Did you rent out the whole place?” I ask, looking around.
He grins. “I pulled a few strings. Called in some favors. I wanted us to be able to enjoy it for the first time without having to fight the crowds.”
“This is insane,” I breathe.
“Come on,” he says, offering his arm. “Let me show you around.”
We wander through the galleries together, our fingers threaded together. He lets me dictate the pace, walking slowly alongside me and shooting little sidelong glances at me from time to time.
“How was practice today?” I ask as we pause in front of a stunning landscape. “You seemed pretty happy when you texted earlier.”
His face lights up. “It was great. Coach Dunaway pulled me aside after drills. He said I’m showing the kind of leadership he wants to see from veteran players, even though I’m still new to the team.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, squeezing his fingers. “I love seeing how happy you are there.”
“It’s been better than I even hoped,” he admits. “Noah’s been incredible as captain. He made sure everyone accepted me from day one. And Reese, Theo, Sawyer, and everyone else have been including me in everything. It feels like I actually belong somewhere for the first time in my career.”
“I can tell. Your whole face changes every time you talk about them.” I smile, thinking about all the team dinners and group hangouts he’s been invited to lately. “I like knowing that it’s not just a job to you, it’s like a family. Oh, and did I tell you? Margo invited me to that charity planning meeting next week! And Callie’s been texting me restaurant recommendations.”
“That’s great,” Asher says, his hand warm on my lower back. “I’m glad the WAGs have been so welcoming. Heather mentioned how much fun you all had at the last game.”
“I love watching you play,” I tell him honestly. “Even if I’m still learning all the ins and outs of the game.”
“Hey, you’ve picked up a ton, especially for someone who didn’t know much at all about hockey when I met her.” He chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss to my temple. “Hearing you get pissed off about a bad offside call is the hottest thing I think I’ve ever heard.”
I grin, leaning into his kiss. “That one took a while, but I think I finally get it.”
We move through a few more rooms, our conversation shifting back and forth between little things in our daily life and the art pieces we’re looking at. But I can sense an undercurrent of tension in him, a restlessness that’s unusual for someone who’s normally so controlled on and off the ice.
“You’re being weird,” I tell him finally, stopping in front of a particularly beautiful piece. “What’s really going on?”
He takes a deep breath, and suddenly I can see how nervous he actually is beneath the confident exterior.
“I brought you here because this is where you belong, bright eyes,” he says, his voice slightly rough. “Surrounded by beautiful things, being appreciated for the incredible artist you are.”
My heart starts hammering as he steps closer, the museum lights casting shadows across his face.
