It’s just not the whole truth.
And the fact that Hugh seems to understand that?
It makes the invitation, not to mention the man standing in front of me, far more dangerous. I’ve been more careful since the night we shared a bath. I’ve made a concerted effort to get up earlier and slip from the penthouse before he wakes. Or I stay late at the arena, burying myself in work until I know he’ll already be asleep. I don’t linger in common spaces or allow the moments we do share to turn intimate.
Instead, I’ve watched him from across rooms and redirected conversations before they could turn personal. Anything to claw back a little bit of self-preservation and control.
Boundaries.
But the truth is simpler and far less flattering.
I understand exactly how easily Hugh could dismantle the walls I’ve spent years perfecting brick by careful brick.
I’m nowhere near ready to trust him. Not with my heart or the past. And certainly not with opening doors to a future that could cost me peace of mind.
I lean back in my chair and study the man standing in front of me. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll walk out of your office,” he says. “And try again another night.”
There’s no challenge or pressure in his tone.
Only patience.
If this is a new game he’s devised, I don’t know what the rules are. And I don’t like that I can’t see his endgame or anticipate his next move before it happens.
I shift in my seat, buying myself a few precious seconds before straightening the stack of papers on my desk, making sure the edges are perfectly aligned, as if order on the surface might translate into order in my heart.
It doesn’t.
I’ve spent the entire season so far holding everything together. Players. PR fires. Expectations that never loosen their grip. I’ve nudged people forward when they were afraid to take the next step, watched them fall in love despite themselves, and protected them from their worst impulses when they needed it most.
I’m incredibly good at managing other people. What I don’t know how to do, what I’ve never learned, is how to protect myself from the one man who sees straight through me. And appears patient enough to wait me out.
It was easy to be the architect when my own heart wasn’t on the line.
One night spent in his company shouldn’t matter.
“It would just be dinner?” I ask before I can rein the question back in.
He nods. “Does tonight work?”
I should latch on to the out he’s offering—the clean exit and safe answer.
Instead, I hear myself say, “I suppose.”
“Great. I’ll make arrangements.”
As he turns toward the door, I stop him. “Hugh?”
He glances back to meet my gaze.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say evenly. “It’s just dinner.”
His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile. “I wouldn’t insult you by pretending otherwise.”
The door closes behind him, and I remain where I am for far longer than necessary, staring at the empty space he left behind. Beyond the glass, the rink lights gleam against untouched ice.
For once, there’s nothing that needs my immediate attention. I don’t catalogue the risks or rehearse worst-case scenarios. I don’t plan my exit. I’ve spent years making careful choices. Ones that were strategic in nature. Choices that kept everything running smoothly and my heart safely out of reach.
But right now?
I’m no longer sure I’m in control.
And that might be what terrifies me most.
