Page 7 of Breaking the Rules
"You clean up well," he said, his voice that same low, smooth baritone.And before I could muster a reply, he reached out.His thumb brushed lightly, almost negligently, across my cheekbone."Smudge," he explained, his eyes holding mine."Probably from your gear bag."
That's a lie but, I couldn't help it as heat rushed up my neck, warm and immediate.Great.Blush harder, Charlie.Really sell the cool, professional athlete vibe.
"Thanks," I muttered, cursing my fair skin and my traitorous circulatory system internally.
He gestured to the chair opposite him."Wine?"
"Sure.Yeah.Red."I was babbling.I sat down, my voice sounding higher than I'd have liked.
A server appeared silently as a ghost, poured two glasses of a deep red wine from a decanter, and vanished again.Henry leaned back slightly in his chair, studying me over the rim of his glass.
We started safe.We talked about the team—the new line combinations, the upcoming road trip with my friends, how I was settling into the city.It was manageable territory.Then he asked what had first pulled me into hockey, and something in his expression—a genuine, undiluted curiosity that didn't feel like a test—pulled a more honest answer out of me than I’d planned to give.I told him about the backyard rink my dad flooded every winter, about sneaking into late-night open skates, about the sheer, gut-level relief of finally feeling like I belonged somewhere.
"You're focused," he observed when I trailed off, feeling oddly exposed."Disciplined.It's written in your game tape."
"Occupational hazard," I replied, focusing intently on twisting my fork on the tablecloth.
"I admire it," Henry said, the simplicity of the statement giving it far more weight than it deserved.
My chest tightened.I pretended to be deeply interested in the menu to avoid staring at his hands as he set his wine glass down.They were strong-looking, capable hands.I wondered, stupidly, how the one that had shaken mine would feel elsewhere.
Dinner arrived—a perfectly cooked steak for him, seared scallop pasta for me.The conversation flowed easier over food.We traded stories: his about building his first company from the ground up, mine about the epic prank war Shay and Felix had started last season that ended with all our sticks being wrapped in pink glitter tape.He listened, really listened, his focus absolute.And every so often, his gaze would catch mine across the table, steady and unreadable, and the coil in my stomach would tighten.
Halfway through my pasta, I realized my knee was bouncing nervously under the table.I clamped it still with my hand.Why am I acting like this?It's just dinner.He's just a guy.Get a grip.
When the plates were cleared, Henry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.The move was subtly intimate, reducing the distance between us."Dessert?"
I shrugged, trying for nonchalance."Sure.Why not."
"Their chocolate fondant is excellent," he said, his tone conversational."But I have better chocolate at my place.Quieter, too."
My heart did a complete stutter-step against my ribs.Every alarm bell in my head started clanging at once: rules, professionalism, headlines, self-preservation.But a sharper, hotter pull—curiosity, pure and simple—tugged harder.
"Okay," I said, and hated how shaky, how breathless, the single word sounded.
Henry's apartment was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like it.Sleek, modern lines were warmed by soft lighting and shelves lined with real books and interesting art, not the cold, minimalist showroom vibe I'd anticipated.The city glittered like a spilled jewel box through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two small plates, each holding a dark, glossy slice of flourless chocolate cake."Best in the city," he said, handing me one.
We ate standing at the massive kitchen island, the conversation quieter now, softer at the edges.He asked about my family; I admitted I rarely saw them during the season, that hockey became its own insular world.He spoke, briefly, about growing up with nothing and deciding, young, that he'd never feel powerless again.
Something about the way he said it—matter-of-fact, not bragging—made me want to lean closer, to understand the man behind the billionaire.
When we finished, Henry set the plates aside in the sink.For a moment, neither of us moved.The air hummed with something unspoken.Then he stepped closer.His fingertips brushed my cheek, catching a stray crumb I’d missed.
I froze, my pulse hammering wildly in my throat.
"Another smudge," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky register that went straight to my core.
His eyes held mine, a question and an answer in one.And then he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn't tentative or questioning.It was warm and sure, a slow, deliberate press of his mouth against mine that deepened almost instantly.Heat flared low in my stomach, sharp and dizzying.My hands came up to grip his shoulders on pure instinct, feeling the solid muscle under the fine fabric of his shirt.A low, involuntary sound escaped me—half sigh, half gasp—and Henry responded with a firmer, more possessive slide of his mouth, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips.
God.I want— I want—
Nope.
Panic skittered up my spine, cutting through the pleasurable haze.I broke the kiss, pulling back too fast, nearly stumbling into the kitchen counter behind me.
