Page 22 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

If she had been a flower, slowly turning toward the light, desperate for warmth, for a reason to bloom and she had just lost another petal.

And she was dying.

She looked at him and plastered a weak smile on her face.

“It’s great, Matthieu… thank you.”

Forty minutes later, they were getting out of the tiny car, and Jeannie was fighting back the urge to break down and cry. It was almost like he couldn’t standthe silence; Matthieu talked the entire way to the house about nothing and everything. He kept reassuring her that everything was handled, mentionedagainhow they didn’t ask him for the marriage license yet, and kept asking her if she liked the car.

She didn’t know what to say right now.

Shelovedthe car.

Shelovedthe house.

She was falling for him – and hated that he wasn’t interested in her. Why couldn’t he show interest or give her a chance. While she might not be exactly what he was looking for on the outside, inside, she was a wonderful person screaming for attention.

She stared at the house before her, the very picture of a dream she had once dared to hope for, and felt utterly, achingly lost. This was supposed to be her fairytale, her castle in the clouds—but the prince was playing an entirely different game.

She was Sleeping Beauty, waiting for a kiss to awaken something magical. He was off somewhere in another world, playing Halo. Same stage. Same players. Different stories. And if they weren’t careful, they were both going to lose everything in the end.

The thought crushed her. Swallowing back her despair, she heard Matthieu shut the trunk, his footsteps crunching over gravel as he approached.

This sucks,she thought morosely as she looked at the house, hearing Matthieu shut the trunk of the car after getting her backpack. And heard him walking up behind her.

“Here you go,” he said, his voice bright, as if he had no idea how shattered she felt inside. He handed her a set of keys with a proud smile. “Your car keys and your copy of the house keys. The insurance and registration are in the glovebox if you ever need anything. And the Wi-Fi password is Wolverines Hockey Team—all one word. I figured I’d keep it simple since we’ll be setting up everything on the system. I even picked up a few smart gadgetsto make it cozier. How do you feel about having the lamps in the living room on the Wi-Fi system? That way, when you come in at night, you can just say, ‘Alexa, turn on the lights,’ and boom—instant brightness. What do you think?”

She curled her fingers around the keys, their cool weight pressing into her palm, grounding her against the storm of emotions threatening to consume her.

“It’s whatever you want to do,” she said softly, forcing the words out past the knot in her throat.

“Well, yeah, I guess... but what doyouwant me to do?”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“I’m sure it has. Let me get you inside,” he murmured, his tone almost tender. She refused to look at him, afraid that if she did, something inside her would crack wide open—or worse, she’d beg him to see her differently. And she had promised herself she would never beg for love from anyone ever again.

As Matthieu pushed open the front door, her breath hitched. Beyond the vast expanse of glass, darkness stretched over where the water would be visible in daylight, a reflection of the emptiness she felt inside. The house was warm, welcoming, perfect... and yet, in that moment, it felt like the loneliest place in the world.

And then she was weightless.

A startled gasp escaped her lips as Matthieu effortlessly lifted her into his arms, his chest solid, his embrace steady.

“I may not have married you,” he whispered with a soft chuckle, his breath warm against her ear, “but I think we could both use a dollop of good luck in our lives and our future together—eh?”

Her heart clenched. For one fleeting moment, she could almost pretend. Almost believe that this meant something more than just another of his playful, meaningless gestures.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Carrying my bride over the threshold.”

“I’m not your bride, remember?” she murmured bitterly. “I’m nothing.”

He stopped, his arms tightening around her before he carefully set her down. She looked up and met his gaze—those striking blue eyes clouded with confusion, hurt flickering beneath the surface.

“I thought it would be sweet,” he admitted, frowning slightly. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. It’s like I’m doing everything wrong when I’m trying to do the right things for us. What is going on?”

She swallowed hard, looking away because if she didn’t, she might break entirely. His words hovered between them, heavy and unspoken.

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