Page 25 of Offside Rules

I read it again before hitting send, then shove my phone into the pocket of the Hawkeyes hoodie Wolf gave me last night and pick up the last box. It hangs halfway down my thighs, and I’ve already rolled the sleeves twice, but it’s ridiculously comfortable. The material is buttery soft. Isla Altman designs the Hawkeyes gear now, and considering she used to own a luxury women’s workout clothing company, that explains why I don’t want to take it off.

It smells freshly washed, but there’s still a little of Wolf in it. The same scent I noticed when he leaned beside me to clear a shelf last night. Apparently, leaving my brother’s sweatshirt downstairs means spending the morning wrapped in the smell of a man he hates.

At least I’m warm.

My phone buzzes before I make it into the hallway.

Wolf: What do you consider dressed?

I balance the box against my hip and pull out my phone with my free hand.

Me: Shirt. Pants. We covered this.

Wolf: I remember. Checking whether socks are mandatory.

I put the phone away without answering. He can figure out his feet on his own. I have two café deliveries to make before eight, and I haven’t even loaded the cupcakes into Sprinkles yet.

Getting the cart into the elevator takes two tries, mostly because one of the wheels insists on going in the opposite direction. By the time I reach his floor, I’ve got the box wedged under my chin and my key caught in my front hoodie pocket. I stop outside his apartment, set the box on the floor, and work the key loose.

This is weird. Yesterday morning, I was telling him to stay away from me. Now I have a key to his apartment and an appointment to bring a stranger into his kitchen so I can use it. College sophomore Baylor would have plenty to say about this. A week ago, I would have put a picture of Wolf’s face on a dartboard before I let him have my phone number.

Now I’m "moving in." That’s not technically what this is, but it feels oddly more domestic than I care to consider at the moment. When Mom called last night, I told her I was baking at Ellie’s. Which I was. Today, if this kitchen passes, I have to call Beau and explain whose oven I’m using. I’m hoping I can get through it without him offering to pay my rent again or Mom deciding I should come back to Boston..

The door opens before I get the key into the lock.

"Socks," Wolf says, looking down at his feet. "Just in case bare ankles were going to get me fined too."

"Your feet are safe from my fantasies. Hockey skates do no one any favors."

"Damn, Baylor. It’s five in the morning. At least let me get some coffee before you start in with the insults."

He’s wearing a black T-shirt that fits his broad shoulders a little better than it needs to, dark jeans, and, yes, socks. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease down one side of his face. Apparently, I woke him up.

His gaze drops to the Hawkeyes logo, then travels down to where the hoodie hangs over my thighs. When he looks back at me, his smile is slower than the one he gave me over the socks.

"What?" I ask, pulling the sleeves back over my hands.

"Nothing. Looks good on you."

My stomach does something I don’t have time for at five in the morning.

"It was this or the Blue Devils sweatshirt. Don’t get excited."

"I’m trying."

"Very thorough," I tell him, bending to pick up the box. He reaches for it first and lifts it before I can.

"Where do you want this?"

"On the island. Thank you." I push the cart through the doorway while he carries the box ahead of me, then shut the door. His apartment is quiet, the kitchen lights on and everything beyond them still dark. The jar and whiteboard are exactly where I left them. Seeing my handwriting on his fridge is almost as strange as using his key.

He sets the box down and looks back at the cart. "All this fits in your kitchen?"

"It did."

His eyes come back to mine, and I wish I’d just said yes. We both know why I’m here. I don’t need to bring it up every time he asks a question.

"The ingredients go over there," I say, pointing at the counter we agreed on last night. "I’ll put the mixer beside them. The inspector needs to see what I’m using, but I’m not starting anything until I get back."