“Fine,” I concede, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. “But only because I’m starving.”
“Of course.” His grin breaks through, genuine and a little bit dangerous. “Purely survival instincts at work here.”
We head back to his truck, and I’m grateful for the darkness hiding whatever my face is doing. Because Valentine’s Day or not, this is just dinner. With Gale. At his place. A home I’ve never visited even with Brooke. And now we’ll be alone.
“Come on, we’ll have fun,” he says softly, that crooked smile of his doing unfair things to my resolve. “My place is actually pretty great. Plus,” he adds with a hint of pride that somehow makes it worse, “I know my way around a kitchen. And I’ll drive you back to your car after.”
Right. He cooks. Because Gale isn’t just some hockey player who can put a puck in the net—he’d grown up with a working single mom, taking charge of family meals more often than not. I’d seen the recipe cards at his mom’s place, the notes he’d scrawled in the margins—flip at the first bubble,Mom likes it spicier,andneeds more thyme—in that messy handwriting of his. The fact that he’d taken such care with those recipes, marking each little adjustment, had always caught me off guard in a way I wasn’t ready to examine too closely right this second.
“Yeah. Sure. Why not? Cool, alright.” My composure slips without our usual buffer of noise and people. “Let’s see how you can delight me.”
Those seven stupid words slip out before I can slap on a filter, playful but with an edge I’ve never let myself show before.
But Gale doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m at your service.”
I cross my legs, acutely aware of the growing warmth between my thighs. This is dangerous territory—not just because of the project, or because he’s Gale Knight, but because I’m discoveringsomething about myself I didn’t expect. I like the way he looks at me when I take control.
I like it a lot.
Ten minutes later, we arrive at his house, tucked in the back of a gated community. The mansion looms in the darkness, its silhouette barely visible against the night sky. Soft landscape lighting illuminates a path to the front door, revealing glimpses of well-manicured grounds. The house is large and clearly expensive, but not flashy. Clean lines and a mix of stone and glass point to modern design. As we walk up to the front door, I note the quiet—only the crunch of gravel under our feet breaks the stillness.
It’s strange—my career is rooted in controlling variables, fine-tuning responses, optimizing outcomes. But this is different. Today, every time I tell him to do something, every time his breath catches, every subtle shift in his body language... I might be better at controlling certain variables than I thought. And God help me, I want to test just how far that control extends.
“Do you need a GPS to find the bathroom in this place?” I say to diffuse the tension, my neck craning up to meet his gaze. He towers over me like a redwood, making my five-foot frame feel particularly compact.
He glances down, the corner of his lips quirking. “Nah, just pack a compass and some trail mix and you’ll be fine.”
We walk through a dim foyer and down a hall that opens into the kitchen. He gestures to the large island in the middle. “Make yourself at home,” he says, nodding to a barstool. “I’ll grab us some wine while I get started on dinner.”
The leather sticks to the backs of my thighs as I sit, my fingers drumming on the stool. I take a deep breath, trying to relax, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.
The last thing I want is for him to come back and find melooking like a fresh-picked cherry tomato. I glance around, trying to distract myself. There are copper pots hanging overhead—actually used, not just for show. And look at that glass fruit bowl—guy’s got more vitamin C than a juice bar. And plants. Everywhere. Little herbs in clay pots lined up by the window, some leafy houseplant in every corner. It’s like a greenhouse.
This is Gale’s actual life. He uses family recipes. He keeps plants alive. He eats fruit, for crying out loud. I let out a snort. Right. Because he’s just a person. A stupidly attractive, surprisingly domestic person. But still. This is fine. Just two old friends—kinda—having dinner.
No big deal.
No ulterior motives detected.
“Consider this my peace offering for the pancake fiasco.” He returns with elegant stemware and a bottle of rosé, its glass surface clouded with condensation. A playful glint lights his eyes as he continues, “And there’s chili in the freezer. Not to brag, but it’s legendary.”
He uncorks the bottle and begins pouring. “Want to know the secret ingredient in making this wine pop? Jalapeño.” His gaze catches mine with that electric spark that makes my heart stutter. “Adds some heat—if you’re brave enough.”
I hold his stare, savoring the tension. “I’ve never been afraid of a little spice.”
“Good to know.” The wine sloshes over the rim of my glass, splashing across the counter and his hand. “Damn—” He sets down the bottle with a thunk and grabs for a towel. A blush creeps up his neck as he wipes at the spill, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. “I swear I’m usually more coordinated...”
“No worries.” I fight back a smile, oddly pleased to see him flustered. “Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it. Just sit back.” He grabs a jalapeño and deftly slices it into delicate rings. “Tonight, you’re my guest.” He drops a slice into each glass and slides one toward me.
I watch the bubbles dance around the pepper before raising my glass. “Well, I do enjoy being pampered.”
His glass clinks against mine, his lips curving into that knowing half smile. “Just wait until you try my honey pepper cornbread.” He moves through the kitchen with easy confidence, hefting the Le Creuset onto the stove and setting the chili to warm. “Think I’ll do an avocado cucumber salad too.”
As he turns to the prep, I find myself transfixed for the next twenty minutes. The way he slices and dices the veggies and whips up a lime-cilantro dressing from scratch before his forearms flex while mixing the thick yellow cornbread batter, sleeves rolled carefully to his elbows. The slight furrow in his brow as he measures honey and dices the rest of the jalapeño. When he bends to slide the skillet into the oven, I can’t help but admire the broad sweep of his shoulders. He turns back to stir the bubbling chili with a wooden spoon, and I quickly look away—though the image lingers.
“About E.M.M.A.,” I say, steering us back to safer ground.
