His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 16: Olive's Pov

OLIVE’s POV

My eyes had been glued to my phone for what felt like hours, checking every few minutes, even though only seconds had passed, waiting for some kind of message, call, or sign that this was really happening and I hadn't just imagined the whole conversation.

It was 6:30 when my phone finally rang, an unknown number flashing across the screen, and I answered so fast I didn't even think about who it might be or what they might want.

"Miss Monroe?" A professional voice came through, polite and formal. "I'm outside your hotel. Mr. Mercer sent me to pick you up."

My stomach did a weird flip thing that I refused to analyze too closely, and I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs before I could talk myself out of this entire insane situation.

The car waiting outside wasn't just nice—it was the kind of car that made people stop and stare, sleek and black and probably worth more than I'd make in five years, and the driver opened the door for me without a word.

The drive wasn't long, ten or fifteen minutes through Chicago streets that got progressively nicer and quieter until we pulled up to a building that made me question whether I'd accidentally gotten into the wrong car.

It wasn't just a house; it was a mansion, the kind of place you see in magazines or movies and assume doesn't actually exist in real life, with glass and modern architecture, and probably more square footage than my entire apartment garage building back home.

The driver pulled into a circular driveway and opened my door, gesturing toward the entrance where a woman in what looked like an actual staff uniform was waiting, and I felt completely out of my depth in a way I hadn't since... well, since ever.

"Miss Monroe," the woman smiled warmly, like having random girls show up at this house was a completely normal occurrence. "Welcome. Mr. Mercer said you're free to make yourself comfortable anywhere you'd like."

I nodded because words felt impossible right now, and she led me through an entrance that was bigger than my entire suite, all marble floors and high ceilings and art that probably cost more than my car.

"Is there anywhere particular you'd like to wait?" she asked, and I must have looked as lost as I felt because she added, "Perhaps the living room? Or the kitchen?"

"Kitchen," I said immediately, because kitchens had always been my comfort place, the one room in any house where I felt like I could breathe.

She led me through hallways that seemed to go on forever until we reached a kitchen that was bigger than some restaurants, all stainless steel and marble countertops and equipment that looked like it belonged on a cooking show.

"Please, help yourself to anything," she said before disappearing back the way we'd come, leaving me alone in this massive space that somehow felt both overwhelming and comforting at the same time.

I started opening cabinets just to have something to do with my hands, looking for a glass or a mug or anything normal, but every cabinet I opened just had more expensive-looking dishes and crystal and things I was probably too afraid to touch.

There was juice on the counter, fresh-looking in a glass container that probably cost more than my three pairs of shoes I owned, so I grabbed it and kept searching for something to pour it into.

Cabinet after cabinet revealed nothing but fancy takeaway cups and shot glasses and equipment I didn't recognize, and I was starting to feel exhausted from just looking, my anxiety climbing with each failed attempt to find something as simple as a drinking glass.

The door opened behind me, and I spun around, and there he was, Zane fucking Mercer, standing in the doorway of his own kitchen at seven o'clock, looking like he'd just stepped out of a shower, hair still damp and wearing clothes that somehow made him look even better than the hockey uniform had.

"What are you doing?" he asked, and I could hear the amusement in his voice even though his face stayed mostly neutral.

"Looking for a glass," I admitted, feeling stupid for struggling with something so basic. "Your maid said I could help myself, but I can't find anything normal in here."

"You like kitchens," he said, and it wasn't a question, more like a statement of fact that made me wonder what else he knew about me that I'd never told him.

I kept quiet because I didn't trust my voice right now and didn't trust myself not to say something embarrassing or desperate or both.

He walked toward me, moving with that same confidence he'd had on the ice, and reached up to a cabinet that was definitely too high for me to have reached, his muscles flexing through the thin fabric of his shirt as he opened it and pulled out two simple glasses like it was the easiest thing in the world.

I caught a glimpse of something dark on his neck, a tattoo that disappeared under his collar, and I had to force myself to look away before he caught me staring like some kind of creep.

He set the glasses on the counter between us and I grabbed the juice container, determined to at least pour a drink without making a complete fool of myself, but my hands were shaking from nerves or adrenaline or the fact that he was standing so close I could feel the heat coming off his body.

The glass shifted as I poured, tilted at the wrong angle, and before I could catch it, the whole thing tipped over, juice spilling across the marble counter and dripping onto the floor in what felt like the most humiliating moment of my entire life.