Page 13 of Claimed By the Goalie Alpha
My wolf was purring with satisfaction.
He wants you. Even without understanding what you are.
I drove home with Julian's words echoing in my head. There might be a next time. He was giving me permission to try again.
And gods help me, I wanted to.
SIX
JULIAN
Rita was off for a few days and when I walked into the office, Bethany handed me an envelope with a knowing smile.
"This came for you. It was hand-delivered yesterday afternoon."
I stared at the cream-colored envelope with my name written in precise, angular handwriting. "Hand-delivered by who?"
"A tall, dark-haired guy with a serious expression. He looked like he was either about to propose or commit a murder." She grinned. "He was very intense."
My heart was racing as I took it. "Thanks."
I waited until I was in the van with Cooper before opening it. My hands shook as I unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.
Julian,Next time, there won't be a hallway. Or a teammate. Or any interruptions.Dinner? Friday, 7pm. Marcello's on Fifth - they're holding a table for us. You're my guest.Come if you're still patient.Renard
I read it three times and a fourth. He'd asked me to dinner in writing, with a specific time and place. After all the walking away and the almost-moments and the confusion.
And that line.Next time, there won't be a hallway.
I pulled out my phone and texted Marshall.He asked me to dinner.
The response came immediately.THE GOALIE???
Yes.
When?
Friday.
That's days away. You're going to be insufferable.
He wasn't wrong.
The days dragged on. I walked dogs and tried to focus on work, but I failed spectacularly. Rita caught me staring into space more than once. Renard’s next game came and went with the Storm winning 3-1 and Renard making save after save. I watched from home, alone, and wondered if he was thinking about Friday night too.
On Friday evening, I checked myself out in the mirror. "It's just dinner," I told my reflection. "With a professional hockey player who almost kissed you and then sent a note that was basically a promise."
No pressure.
I arrived at Marcello's ten minutes early and spent those minutes sitting in my car trying to calm my racing heart. Light spilled from the restaurant's windows glowed onto the pavement. Through the windows, I watched couples at intimate tables, and the waitstaff moving between them. This was really happening.
When I finally gathered the courage to go inside, I took in the exposed brick walls, soft jazz playing and the mingled scents of garlic fresh bread. The hostess looked up with a smile.
"Reservation?"
"I'm meeting someone. Conley?"
She looked me up and down and I stuck out my chin. "Of course. Right this way."
