Page 58 of Across the Boards

Her eyes meet mine, and there’s a certainty in them that makes my heart race. “Would it be terribly forward of me to invite you in for coffee?”

“At midnight?” I raise an eyebrow. “That seems ill-advised from a caffeine perspective.”

“I didn’t say I was actually offering coffee, Carter.” Her tone is dry but her eyes are sparkling.

“Oh.” Understanding dawns. “Oh.”

She laughs at my expression. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m thirty-six, not dead.”

“No shock,” I assure her quickly. “Just... making sure I’m not misinterpreting.”

“You’re not,” she confirms, taking a step closer. “Though to be clear, I’m not suggesting... everything. Just... coffee. Which isn’t actually coffee.”

“Of course,” I say seriously. “Not-coffee. I’m an expert in not-coffee.”

“Are you now?”

“Well, I’ve had it before,” I inform her. “Once or twice.”

She laughs again, the sound like music to my ears. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Part of my charm.”

“I suppose it is,” she agrees, reaching for her keys. “So? Not-coffee?”

I pretend to consider this, as if there’s any universe where I’d say no. “I think I could be persuaded.”

“Good.” She unlocks her door, then turns back to me with a smile that makes my knees weak. “Because I’ve been thinking about kissing you since about halfway through that first dance, and I’d like to do it without an audience of nosy hockey players and their partners.”

“I am one hundred percent on board with this plan,” I assure her fervently.

11

ELLIOT

There’s something surreal about inviting a professional hockey player into your house for ‘not-coffee’ at midnight. Even more surreal when that hockey player is wearing a perfectly tailored tux with a bow tie you tied yourself. But the most surreal part? I’m not panicking.

I should be. My internal warning system should be blaring like a five-alarm fire. The last time I felt this kind of fluttery anticipation was with Jason, early in our relationship. He’d shown up at my apartment door with takeout from that tiny Thai place I mentioned once in passing. So thoughtful, so attentive - until it wasn’t genuine anymore. Until I discovered his attention was divided between me and whoever else caught his eye that week.

Instead of heeding that warning memory, as I close the door behind us, all I feel is a pleasant hum of anticipation mixed with the lingering buzz of champagne and desert night air that somehow still holds heat even at midnight in April.

“So,” Brody says, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like an oversized kid trying not to touch anything in a museum. “Not-coffee.”

“Not-coffee,” I confirm, slipping off my torture devices disguised as stylish heels. The immediate height difference makes me smirk—I’m now a full head shorter than him, craning my neck to maintain eye contact.

“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I forgot how tall you are without my stilts.” I wiggle my freed toes against the hardwood. “Much better.” The cool floor feels heavenly against feet that have been trapped in heels all night - another reason I stay barefoot at home.

His eyes follow the movement, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “I like you shorter. It’s cute.”

“I’m thirty-six years old. I am not ‘cute’,” I inform him with as much dignity as I can muster while stretching my aching feet.

“Fine. Vertically economical. Efficiently packaged. Fun-sized.”

“Digging yourself deeper, Carter.”

“Height-challenged? Altitudinally diminutive?”

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