Boldly by Elise Faber

Chapter Ten

Hazel

She slept soundlythrough the night, very glad she didn’t have a newborn.

The next morning, she woke with sunlight glimmering through a piece of stained glass hanging on her window that made little rainbows appear on her bedspread. Blues and greens and purples. Her favorite. Mixed with a bit of orange—her mom’s favorite—and gray—her dad’s.

Yup.

Her dad’s favorite color was gray.

Well, graphite, if she were being precise.

Which she wasn’t.

It was Wednesday morning and that was her late day and that meant she got to sleep in and not worry about being precise or getting to the rink early.

She could lounge in bed, read for an hour, stumble downstairs for coffee, and then slowly greet the day.

So that’s what she did.

Lounging. Trying not to drop her paperback on her face when she rolled over from one side to the other while continuing to read. Then, eventually, tugging on a pair of old jeans, a Breakers hoodie, and doing that stumbling so she could ingest some caffeine.

Hair into a ponytail.

Feet in sneakers.

The team was away and so she would play.

It was after ten by the time she rolled into the practice facility, sipping on a traveler mug of coffee, still smiling from the happily ever after she’d read, and anxious to get started on her work. She’d come up with a new plan for Marcel, who had been struggling the last couple of games. Truthfully, he hadn’t been right since Mark Shelby had fucked his girlfriend—and seriously, Shelby had a special place in Hell reserved just for him. Marcel had pulled it together for the most part, but he was streaky, and that made it difficult for the coaching staff to rely on him.

Which Marcel knew.

Which then made Marcel even more insecure and even more streaky, even though he worked really, really hard at being consistent.

He was at the rink before everyone else, stayed longer, worked hard. Always did extra reps, extra conditioning, extra skating. All in all, he was a totally awesome guy, was beyond sweet, and was just too much in his head. So…she would find a way to get him out of his head.

That was where her plan came in.

For now, though, she had some paperwork to complete, some emails to send, and then some pieces to put into place for her plan with Marcel.

She was grinning about that, about her book, about the really nice night she’d had with Oliver last night, so that might be why she didn’t immediately notice that her couch wasn’t empty.

Dropping her purse into the bottom drawer of her desk, opening her laptop, settling into her chair, fingers on her mouse to click—

“Holy fucking mother of fuck!” she gasped, her hand coming to her chest.

Because Oliver was on her couch.

Sprawled out, hands folded behind his head, and smiling at her like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be on her couch.

“That’s a twist on the f-word I haven’t heard before,” he said, sitting up and crossing to her.

“Wh-what are you doing in here?”

He perched on the edge of her desk. “I brought you coffee.” He nodded next to her laptop—where she was now noticing there was a cup of coffee with Oliver’s name written on the outside of the paper cup. “I just expected you in…” He glanced at his smartwatch. “Two hours ago…”

“You’ve been on my couch for two hours?”

What the actual—

“No.”

She relaxed.

“I’ve been on your couch”—another glance at his watch—“two hours and twenty-three minutes.” He bent, ran his knuckles over her cheek. “Worth every minute of it to see you walking in here with that gorgeous smile on your face.”

Her lips parted, whatever she might have said just flitting out of her mind.

“I—what?”

“Why were you smiling, gorgeous?”

Hewas the one who was gorgeous. He was the one who was smiling.

But again, her being comfortable with saying whatever was flitting through her mind last night was rearing its not-so-ugly head that morning because…she just told him what had made her smile. “My book, my plan for Marcel, and…you.”

That sent him rocking back slightly, his fingers gripping the edge of her desk. “Me?”

“Last night.”

Smug approval sliding across his face. “Date four?”

She didn’t touch that. Just lifted her brows.

Amusement joined the approval, and he bent at the waist, his fingers coming to her jaw, stroking lightly along it. “I see I may have to go for that second kiss before I get you to agree to that.”

Her heart thudded. Hard. “What?”

“What book were you reading?”

Her brows drew together. “What?” she asked again.

“What were you reading that put a smile on your face, babe?”

She told him. Again.

“Romance?” he asked when he heard the title, his lips curving.

She didn’t like that smile, didn’t like where that was likely going, the derision that would follow. She brushed his hand aside, poked him in the chest. “Yes. Romance. And don’t give me any crap about reading smut or books with happy endings. I love it and the world needs more books written by women and for women from a woman’s point of view. Plus, normalizing sex is a good thing, especially healthy and kinky and fun sex. And—”

“Babe.”

“I don’t care what you say about it,” she went on. “I—”

Her words cut off because…they were spoken against his tongue.

Because he was taking that second kiss. Though maybe she was the one giving it because the moment his lips hit hers, she took over. She opened her mouth, thrust her tongue into his, launched herself out of her chair and wrapped her arms around him, knocking them both into the desk. Things rattled, something hit the ground, and she had half a heartbeat to worry about it being her coffee before Oliver yanked her closer, his arms banded around her, and then she wasn’t thinking about books or sex scenes or female authors.

She was kissing the sexy, gorgeous man who had her plastered against his chest.

And fuck, but she was kissing him.

How was it possible for a kiss to be this good? There was no fumbling or hesitation. It was as though she’d fallen into the hottest kiss of her life and there was no build-up needed. Straight into the flames, and she was thrilled for it.

A moan flowed up her throat and into his mouth, and he swallowed it whole, drawing her closer, a groan rumbling from him to her, vibrating over her tongue.

And swear to fuck if that didn’t arrow straight toward her vagina.

She slid a hand down his chest, reached for the button of his jeans and flicked it open.

His fingers slid from her ass to between them and snagged her hand, tugging it away as he tore his mouth from hers.

A kiss to her palm. His breathing accelerated when he asked, “Did I say anything?”

She was in kiss mode, so she had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

Something he seemed to realize when he smiled at her, resting her hand against his chest and nuzzling her neck. “I think it’s cool you read romance, babe. Gives us plenty of ideas of things to do when we’re in bed.”

Hazel sucked in a breath, heat pooling between her thighs.

Because the idea of acting out anything with Oliver was…yeah. It was the hottest fucking fantasy of her life.

“So, you read something,” he said, “and when we’re ready for it and you want to do it, I’m all over it. I’ll be your tortured hero, or your dom between the sheets, or your cowboy who keeps forgetting to wear a shirt, or—”

She lifted her hand and covered her mouth. “Desk sex,” she blurted.

His brows lifted, tongue flicking out to taste her palm.

“I want desk sex,” she said. “The book was an office romance, and the hero cleared everything off the surface and fucked her on it until she couldn’t stand and—”

Now his hand covered her mouth.

“I am all over desk sex, babe,” he said. “But not before we’ve had date four, which I know I teased you about being number four, but it’s really number one, and you’re the kind of woman who deserves to be wined and dined and romanced. And you say you’re not a date one to four kind of girl, but a date six kind of girl, and that means…” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “That means”—a breath—“we have time, love. Though,” he murmured, kissing his way down to her ear, “I will be keeping a mental list, so keep telling me, okay?”

“I—” A breath before she settled on the only thing she could. Which was, “Okay.”

He gently unwound her arms from around him, nudging her back into her chair, before bending to snag, not the coffee thankfully (that was safely sitting on her desk), but a stack of papers.

He wobbled, almost went down before he steadied himself on the edge of her desk, and took a moment.

“I can—”

His eyes looked over her shoulder, frost tempering the desire that had been in those pale blue depths a moment before. “I got it.”

Firm.

Not necessarily mean.

But definitely firm.

And he did have it.

He bent and got the folders, and she didn’t do him the disservice of watching him. Instead, she drew in her chair, straightened the items on her desk, and then continued logging on to her laptop.

By the time she got into her Breakers email account, he had straightened and set the folders on the wooden surface. Only when he returned to leaning on the edge of her desk did she glance up at him, seeing the strain in his eyes, the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.

And the bit of defensiveness in his expression.

Expecting her to comment.

Well, she wasn’t about that.

She’d told him that this wasn’t her area of expertise, that he wasn’t her client. Hell, she’d been tongue fucking him on her desk all of three minutes before. That put them firmly out of the realm of therapist and client.

“Thanks,” she murmured, nodding at the folders.

The tension bled out of his frame, but he didn’t say anything.

“Will you just promise me one thing?”

Silence.

She pressed on. “Will you just promise to be honest with me if something is too much? Not because any part of you is weak, because you’re one of the strongest people I know. But because I’ll promise to do the same.”

More silence, and she found herself holding herself still.

He picked up her hand, started stroking his fingers along her palm, a gentle abrasion that made her shiver. Then said simply, “You got it, babe.”

And this time, the tension bled out of Hazel.

Relief had her nodding and going quiet, but as she stared at her laptop screen without really seeing the emails piled up in the inbox, she was thinking that he’d given—or at least, he’d pursued—and shared his interest. She was thinking that she liked his pursuit, liked how he was with her (minus the outburst he’d apologized for the other day).

She liked him.

So maybe it was time for her to take a step in his direction.

“Oliver?”

“Yeah?” A cautious answer.

“I was thinking.”

Now there was a thread of amusement in his voice when he said, “About what?”

“I have an idea.”

“About what?” More amusement.

“Trust me?”

His eyes came to hers, and he said, without hesitation. “Yeah.”

That was big. As in, it made her feel big, feel like he’d just given her the best Christmas present ever—better than puppies popping out of wrapped packages, Tiffany boxes under the tree, a lifetime supply of chocolate filling her pantry. That trust without hesitation was a fucking gift.

And she wasn’t going to squander it.

“This is…”Oliver trailed off as he stared at the space around them.

Hazel sucked in a breath, held it.

“…amazing.”

He spun back to face her, grinning wide.

Every cell in her body settled, and she released that breath before she passed out. “My plan is to take Marcel here.”

His head jerked, gaze going from her to the space around them. “Damn, babe. You’re good.”

That made her feel…well, it made her feel.

This man, who barely knew her, who was attracted to and interested in her and hadn’t even tried to hide it, he made her feel awesome.

Pride in his voice, in his body language, in his face.

Something Trevor had never given her.

And Oliver had just tossed it out into the air without strings.

Something else Trevor had never given her, she realized.

God, she really had dodged a bullet with him, hadn’t she?

“Babe?”

God, but seriously, Trevor was the biggest dick around and for too long she’d thought that was on her. That she’d made a bad choice or had caused him to treat her poorly. That she should have done something, anything to make it better.

But when she compared Trevor to Oliver, she knew.

She. Knew.

Whatever they’d had was broken from the start.

Cracks in the foundation, mortar crumbling out of the brick walls. Destined to fall apart.

Because he wasn’t like Oliver.

It was even more than him not being a “one-woman man.” Trevor wasn’t a man for her. He never could be. Not when he didn’t love or care about her the right way.

That right way being…unconditionally and generously and without keeping a tally of who did what. And seriously, she was done thinking about Trevor, thinking about what happened. If Oliver could put his head down and move forward with all that had happened to him, then she could put a broken engagement behind her.

Hell, she hadn’t even kept the ring.

Hadn’t wanted the memory.

And that made something else click in her mind. That was what Oliver was doing.

Processing.

Letting go.

It was time she let the dredges of Trevor go. Time to give Oliver the space and support to allow him to let go on his terms.

Fingers on her cheek—no knuckles on her cheek. That gentle touch that she already loved because it was Oliver touching her, because the look that came into his eyes when he stroked her skin like that—gentle, sweet, a dash of affection—made her feel amazing, different, special.

“Babe?” he asked again.

“I’m good.”

His brows lifted.

She picked up a bat, twirled it in an arc. “Am I going to be the only one doing this?”

Those brows rose further.

“Chicken?” she asked archly.

A grin, then he matched her movements—reaching for a bat and swinging it through the air. “Not a chicken, babe. Just don’t like whatever thought went through your head to make you look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone had punched you in the stomach.”

Her lungs froze, and then she forced herself to breathe. “Reality strikes sometimes without warning. But,” she added when concern rippled across his face. “Sometimes, that reality strikes in a way that makes a person, makes me, realize that things weren’t the way they were supposed to be. Especially”—she moved toward him, cupped the side of his neck—“when someone”—a squeeze so he knew that someone was him—“gives pride and encouragement so easily, it makes a woman think about why she was with a man who didn’t give that to her before, because I deserve that.”

She finished on a whisper.

His face was a study in wonder. In fury. “I hate that happened to you.”

“I hate that I accepted it as my due.” A beat. “I deserve more.”

Now it was back to wonder. “You do.”

There. That was out of the way. She stepped back and waved the bat again. “Okay, so I know that we’re not going to have countertop sex in here—”

“Another for my list?”

She nodded, fighting a grin. “—with the windows and cameras and people in the front lobby,” she went on without otherwise acknowledging him. “So, what do you say that we start swinging?”

“Big bat energy?”

She snorted.

Actually snorted.

Then said, “Exactly.”

Then she swung the bat and got to work.