Page 67 of Coach's Temptation

Mia solemnly places a sugar packet in my palm. “For your journey.”

I snort, shoving it in my coat pocket like some kind of sacred offering before pushing up from the booth. “Pray for me, girls. Bye.”

The street is eerily quiet as I pull up outside my apartment building. Snow piles along the curb, untouched since the last storm.

It’s been over a week since I was last here. I’ve barely had time to think about it between work, the playoffs, and… well,Hunter.Not that I’ve been in any rush to step foot back inside. I quite enjoy living the high life up in the mountains.

I sigh, gripping my keys as I make my way up the front steps.

Please, for the love of God, let this place still be standing.

The last time I was here, the air was damp, the walls swollen from busted pipes, and my entire life smelled like moldy disappointment.

With dread lodged firmly in my throat, I twist the knob and step inside.

Then stop dead.

Something is off.

The air isn’t thick with humidity. It’s not freezing or damp. It’s…crisp. Dry. There is still mess everywhere,but it's a different kind of mess.

I take another step, my boots scuffing against the floor. And that's when I notice it.

The hardwood isn't just drying. It'salmost finished.

My stomach twists.

I fumble for my phone, quickly pulling up the last contractor email. The repairs were supposed to be slow.Hell, they weren't even supposed to have started yet!

My fingers tremble as I scroll through the messages. Mike Peters, the contractor I spoke with last week when he called me out of the blue, had quoted me three months minimum for the work. He was adamant about supply chain issues and crew scheduling.

But the floor beneath my feet tells a different story.

The rich mahogany planks gleam under the afternoon light streaming through my windows.Cleanwindows. And the floor isn't just patched up—it's been completely replaced.

And it'sgorgeous.

I spin in a slow, confused circle, taking in more changes. The water stains that had spread across my ceiling? Gone. Fresh drywall and paint have erased all evidence of the flood.

I exhale a shaky breath, taking another cautious step toward the kitchen where my amazement turns into confusion.

Because while the floor is perfect, the rest of the apartmentisn’t.

Cabinet doors are missing. A stack of drawers sits haphazardly in the corner, screws and hinges scattered across the counter. A toolbox, one I don’t recognize, rests near the fridge that's been unplugged and sits at an angle.

A single can of paint sits open on the counter, rollers and trays lined up like someone had been mid-task… and then just stopped.

I rub my temples.

What the hell?

The kitchen was supposed to be untouched. The work order was clear—the flooding only damaged the floors and walls.

No mention ofpaint.And definitely no mention of someone fixing the window latch that’s been broken for the pastthree fucking decades.

I step closer, eyes scanning the half-finished work.

The quote Mike sent me had nearly made me cry as it was. Even with my savings and a loan, I was looking atyearsof payments. There was no way this much had been done in a week.

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