Page 39 of Instigator

What.

The.

Fuck.

I don’t know what to think. What do I do? What do I say?

Aidan—Wish—gulps. “I’m sorry.”

“How long have you known?” My voice comes out scarcely above a whisper, and I lick my now-dry lips. Is this just a game to him?

“I put it together yesterday when I saw you here.” His ruddy cheeks flush a pretty pink, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I never meant to hurt you. I’m incredibly sorry that I did.”

“Why?” It’s the only thing running through my head. Why didn’t he show up?

“I got cold feet. You know how many people would love to say they’re friends with a celebrity?” He scoffs. “Not that I’m a celebrity. Being a hockey player, I’m subject to a fair bit of scrutiny. I couldn’t take the risk of you selling my secrets to the press.”

I roll my eyes. “Please.”

“It’s a valid fear. Look at what happened to Schwartz.”

The memory of a player getting into hot water last season floats through my mind. His ex-girlfriend spilled some pretty intimate secrets to the press, and it fucked with both him and the team’s performance.

“I’d never do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Aidan says, his voice pained. “I chickened out.”

My hands on my hips, I glare at him. “I have just as much to risk as you do.”

He gulps. “I know that now.”

“So what do we do now?”

He looks down, then thrusts a paper gift bag toward me. “This is for you.”

Cautiously, I open the bag, half expecting something to leap out. I’m still not convinced this isn’t some sort of elaborate prank. That someone isn’t going to jump out of the corner with a camera and yell Gotcha! I even check over my shoulder, but there’s nobody there. Just me and Aidan.

Wish.

Inside the bag is a pound of chocolates from one of the fanciest, bougiest chocolatiers in town. The box is filled to the brim with their specialty, a dark chocolate, coffee, and sea-salt caramel truffle that’s almost as good as an orgasm.

I’d mentioned once that it was my favorite. Damn, it must have been two years ago. Maybe three.

And he remembered.

I stare at him, trying to reconcile the man I know online with the one standing before me. I’ve only met Aidan twice—once at a foundation gala and then again yesterday. And it’s not like we talked. He muttered to Bex and then got the fuck out of here.

Did he know then? Was he putting the pieces together?

Drinking him in, I catalog the details as if I’m seeing him for the first time. He’s tall and muscular—duh, he’s a hockey player. His shock of red hair is cut in a trendy style and out of his face, and his short beard highlights the squareness of his jaw. Whereas last time he was here in sweats and a T-shirt, today he’s wearing dark jeans and a white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose corded forearms.

He’s staring at me, expectant, waiting for me to react.

“I don’t know what to say,” I admit.

“Go to lunch with me,” he says.

My breath catches.