chapter 4

Emma stood in front of her closet, surrounded by discarded outfits. The floor looked like a department store during an earthquake.

"It's just dinner," she told her reflection. "A business dinner."

A business dinner at Alek's place. Where he would cook. And they would be alone.

Her phone rang—Mia calling.

"Please tell me you're not wearing that black pencil skirt you think is professional but actually makes you look like a sexy librarian," Mia said without preamble.

Emma looked down at the black pencil skirt she'd just put on. "How did you—"

"Because I know you. And this isn't a quarterly review, Em. It's dinner at Hot Russian's apartment."

"His name is Alek, and it's a business dinner." Emma kicked off the skirt. "And how do you know he's Russian?"

"I googled him the second you mentioned his name. Harvard Business School, former defenseman for Moscow Dynamo, came to the NHL at twenty-two, career-ending knee injury at twenty-six, MBA while rehabbing, absolute smoke show."

"You're terrifying."

"I'm thorough. Now put on those jeans that make your butt look amazing, and that blue sweater that matches your eyes."

Emma glanced at the exact outfit Mia had described, which she'd already tried and discarded. "It's too casual."

"It's dinner at his home, not a board meeting. Trust me."

Twenty minutes later, Emma stood outside a converted warehouse in Charlestown, buzzing apartment 7B. Despite Mia's confidence, she'd added a blazer over the sweater as a security blanket.

Alek opened the door in dark jeans and a gray henley with the sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms that should have their own I*******m account. He was barefoot, which was somehow more intimate than if he'd answered in boxers.

"You made it," he said, stepping aside to let her in. "I was worried you might change your mind."

"And miss a chance to discuss debt-to-equity ratios? Never." Emma handed him the bottle of wine she'd brought. "I hope red is okay."

"Perfect." He led her into a spacious loft with exposed brick walls and massive windows. The furniture was minimal but expensive-looking—lots of leather and wood and not a hockey trophy in sight.

The kitchen area was open to the living room, where a table was already set with candles and cloth napkins. The whole apartment smelled amazing.

"Something smells incredible," Emma said, slipping off her blazer.

"Beef stroganoff. Family recipe." Alek moved to the kitchen, where several pots bubbled on a professional-grade stove. "Wine?"

"Please."

As he poured, Emma wandered to the windows, which overlooked the harbor. "This view is spectacular."

"One of the perks of a career-ending injury—the insurance payout bought this place." He handed her a glass. "Much better investment than the sports car most guys buy."

"Mia—my friend—mentioned you played for Moscow."

Alek raised an eyebrow. "You researched me?"

"She did. I was too busy trying to figure out what to wear to a business dinner that isn't in a restaurant."

He laughed, a deep sound that did funny things to Emma's insides. "Fair enough. Yes, I played professionally in Russia, then three seasons in the NHL before..." He tapped his left knee. "Collision with the boards. Multiple ligament tears."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Best thing that ever happened to me." He stirred something that smelled like heaven. "I wasn't a great player, just a big one. But I understand the game, the business. I'm better in a suit than I ever was in pads."

Emma sipped her wine. "You never wanted to coach?"

"Too much travel, too little control." He glanced at her. "You're in management. You understand."

"I do." Emma leaned against the counter. "My grandfather tried to get me to take over years ago, but I wanted to build something myself first. Prove I could."

"Hence the anonymous proposals."

"Exactly." She watched him cook with surprising dexterity. "Need any help?"

"Just company." He nodded toward a stool. "Sit. Tell me about your background. The parts not in your employee file."

Over the next hour, as they moved from cooking to eating, Emma found herself telling Alek things she rarely shared—about growing up with wealth but wanting to earn her own way, about meeting Jack in college when he was just a promising player with no endorsements, about her double major in business and statistics.

"So you're a hockey nerd," Alek teased as he refilled their glasses.

"Data nerd," Emma corrected. "Hockey was Jack's thing. I just applied my skills to what was available."

"And now?"

"Now I'm starting to appreciate the game separate from him." She twirled pasta on her fork. "This is amazing, by the way."

"My grandmother would be pleased. She claimed no woman could resist her stroganoff recipe."

"Smart woman."

"She was." Alek's expression softened. "She raised me after my parents died. Tough as nails but kind when it mattered."

"She sounds like my grandfather."

"Is that why you never took his name publicly? To prove yourself?"

Emma nodded. "And because Jack wanted a normal wife, not an heiress. He thought rich people were..."

"Soft?"

"Exactly. He needs to be the provider, the star."

"How's that working out for him?" Alek asked dryly.

Emma laughed. "Not great, according to ESPN. Did you see last night's game?"

"Unfortunately. Three turnovers and a stupid penalty." Alek shook his head. "Coach benched him for the third period."

"Really? That's not in the stats."

"Official reason was 'equipment issue.' Unofficial reason was he showed up hungover." Alek's expression turned serious. "His agent called today. Jack's worried about his playing time."

"Should he be?"

"Yes." Alek didn't sugarcoat it. "His performance is affecting the team. Coach is losing patience."

"And you're telling me this because..."

"Because you're an owner now, even if it's not public. You should know what's happening." He met her eyes. "And because I won't lie to you, even about difficult things."

Something shifted in the air between them. This wasn't just business anymore.

After dinner, they moved to the couch with their wine. The conversation drifted from hockey to books to travel, punctuated by laughter and lingering glances. Emma couldn't remember the last time she'd connected with someone so easily.

"It's getting late," she said finally, noticing it was past midnight. "I should go."

"I'll call you a car," Alek said, though he made no move to get his phone.

"Thanks for dinner. And the wine. And the hockey gossip." Emma smiled. "Best business meeting I've ever had."

"We didn't actually discuss business," Alek pointed out.

"Didn't we?" Emma stood, gathering her blazer. "I learned more about how the team really works tonight than in a dozen spreadsheets."

At the door, Alek helped her with her coat, his hands lingering on her shoulders. "We should do this again."

"Another business dinner?" Emma turned to face him, suddenly very aware of how close they were standing.

"If that's what we're calling it." His voice was low, his accent more pronounced.

Emma looked up at him—way up, even in her heeled boots. "What would you call it?"

"Getting to know my new boss." His eyes dropped to her lips. "Or getting to know the woman I can't stop thinking about. Either way."

The air between them crackled with tension. Emma swayed forward slightly, her body making a decision her brain was still debating.

Alek's phone rang, shattering the moment. The ringtone was distinctive—the emergency line from the team's operations center.

He closed his eyes briefly, clearly frustrated. "I need to take this."

"Of course." Emma stepped back, both relieved and disappointed. "I'll see myself out."

"Emma." He caught her hand as she reached for the door. "This conversation isn't over."

She squeezed his fingers lightly before letting go. "I know. Goodnight, Alek."

As she rode down in the elevator, Emma's phone buzzed with a text from Alek: Your car is waiting outside. And for the record, that wasn't how I planned to end the evening.

Emma smiled and typed back: There's always next time. Business meetings often require follow-up.

His response came immediately: I'll clear my calendar.