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Chapter Five

Stephanie

Marcus's apartment was exactly what Stephanie had expected: minimalist, organized, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking New Haven's harbor. What she hadn't expected was the wall of bookshelves filled with actual paper books—everything from advanced statistical theory to classic literature—or the baby grand piano in the corner.

"You play?" she asked, setting down the takeout bags on his kitchen island. She'd brought Thai food, a safe choice that offered variety without being too presumptuous. Though she'd never admit it, she'd spent way too long deciding what to bring to what was supposed to be a purely professional meeting.

Marcus glanced at the piano as if just remembering it was there. "Not well. It was my father's. The mathematics of music appealed to him."

Stephanie nodded, filing away this new piece of the puzzle that was Marcus. "It's beautiful."

"Functional," he corrected, but there was something soft in his expression that belied the response.

She turned away, unpacking the food to hide how that glimpse of vulnerability affected her. The man who argued statistics and probabilities on the ice had kept his father's piano. She hadn't prepared for that.

"I brought options. I wasn't sure what you'd prefer."

"Thoughtful," he said, moving to the kitchen to gather plates.

He rolled up his sleeves as he worked, revealing forearms corded with muscle. Stephanie caught herself staring at his hands—strong, capable hands that could block a slap shot one minute and handle delicate stemware the next. Heat bloomed unexpectedly in her belly.

"Though unnecessary. I'm not particular about food," he added.

"Everyone's particular about something, Marcus."

He paused, looking up at her use of his first name. They typically maintained last-name formality, even during yesterday's tentative truce. The sound of it hung in the air between them, oddly intimate in the quiet of his apartment.

"True," he conceded, his voice lower than before. "I prefer order. Predictability."

"And yet you play one of the most chaotic, unpredictable sports professionally."

"Hockey isn't chaotic to me." He began transferring food to plates, the movement pulling his shirt taut across broad shoulders that she definitely wasn't noticing. "It's patterns in motion. Variables that can be analyzed and predicted."

"Is that how you see people too? Variables to be analyzed?"

The question slipped out before she could filter it—more personal than their usual professional sparring. Her voice had softened without permission. Marcus considered it seriously, handing her a plate before answering, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. The brief contact shouldn't have felt electric, but it did.

"I used to," he admitted. "It was... simpler. Safer."

The candor caught her off guard. "And now?"

"Now I recognize that the most interesting variables are the ones that defy prediction." His eyes met hers, dark and intent. "The most valuable data points are often outliers."

Something molten unfurled in her chest at the way he looked at her—like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve, not for the sake of solving, but for the pleasure of understanding. The thought was both unsettling and thrilling.

They moved to his dining table, where he'd already set up dual monitors and what appeared to be a comprehensive analysis of the Chill's community programs. Stephanie was impressed despite herself—he'd clearly been working on this since the morning meeting.

"You've been busy," she observed, taking the seat beside him. The chair was close enough that their knees almost touched, close enough that she caught the clean scent of his soap—something woodsy that made her want to lean in closer.

"Thorough," he corrected, pulling up the first data set. "The ownership transition creates a narrow window for intervention. We need to present our case before they implement changes."

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