Page 17 of The Hockey Contract

Should I be preparing for flour in unexpected places, sweetie pie?

I hesitated before sending it, surprised by my own impulse to engage in this pretend-couple banter. But it felt right somehow, a practice run for the role we'd soon be playing.

Her reply made me laugh:

Only if you're naughty, sweetheart. But don't worry, I'll make sure you're thoroughly dusted off before your big important meetings. We can't have the CEO of Perfect Home Furnishings thinking you're not perfectly put together, can we?

We continued back and forth for a while, the conversation veering between practical questions about living arrangements and this strange flirtatious parody of marital affection.

Later that night, I found myself in my rarely-used kitchen, opening cabinets to check my baking equipment. I did indeed have a high-end stand mixer, still in its original packaging, a housewarming gift from my parents that I'd never used. There were other appliances too, equally pristine—a food processor, a blender, even a bread maker.

As I cataloged these unused tools, I realized I was actually looking forward to Sienna's arrival, to watching her bring life to this sterile space. The thought should have alarmed me. But somehow, the prospect of Sienna disrupting my carefully ordered existence didn't feel like a threat. It felt like possibility.

Chapter 7: Sienna

I arrived at the bakery before dawn, as always, but today was different. Today I was getting a marriage license with a man I'd met less than two weeks ago—a man who was essentially a stranger despite our unusual arrangement.

The morning sun hadn't yet risen as I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and began my familiar routine. But my mind was far from the dough I was kneading, the ovens I was preheating. Instead, I kept returning to the contracts I'd reviewed with my lawyer the previous day, the surreal reality of what I was about to do.

When Chloe arrived at seven, carrying her usual two coffee cups, I knew I couldn't put off telling her any longer.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she commented, handing me my cup. "What's going on?"

I took a deep breath. "I need to tell you something, and you have to promise not to freak out."

Chloe's eyes widened. "Okay, now I'm genuinely concerned. Are you dying? Are you pregnant? Are you moving to Fiji to become a coconut farmer?"

Despite my nerves, I laughed. "None of the above. But it is life-changing." I hesitated, then blurted it out, "I'm marrying Jax."

Chloe's coffee cup froze halfway to her mouth. "I'm sorry, you'rewhat?"

"Marrying Jax, the hockey player. The one I spilled coffee on."

"I know who he is," Chloe spluttered. "What I don't understand is how you went from publicly arguing with him to marrying him in less than two weeks. Have you lost your mind?"

I guided her to the small table in the corner of the kitchen and explained the entire arrangement—the foreclosure, Jax's endorsement needs, the mutually beneficial solution.

Chloe listened in stunned silence, her expression shifting from disbelief to concern to something approaching understanding.

"So let me get this straight," she finally said. "You're entering into a legal marriage with Jax Harrison. You'll live in his house, pretend to be madly in love in public, and in three months, you'll divorce. And in exchange, he pays off the bakery debt."

"That's about it," I confirmed. "I know it sounds insane—"

"Beyond insane," Chloe interrupted. "It's like... cosmic-level insanity. But..." She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I also understand why you're considering it. The bakery means everything to you."

"It does," I said softly. "And I've tried everything else, Chloe. Every loan application, every grant, every potential investor. This is my last option before losing Grandma Rose's legacy forever."

Chloe reached across the table to squeeze my hand. "I get it. I really do. But are you sure you can handle living with him? Being around him every day? Pretending to be in love with him?" A sly smile crept across her face. "Though I imagine that last part won't be too difficult, given that he looks like he was chiseled from marble by horny Greek goddesses."

I felt my cheeks warm. "It's not like that. This is strictly business."

"Uh-huh," Chloe said skeptically. "And there's absolutely no part of you that finds Mr. Hockey Hotshot attractive?"

"That's not relevant," I insisted, though flashes of our text conversation from the previous night—the unexpectedly playful banter, the pretend terms of endearment—flickered through my mind. "We have a clear agreement with defined boundaries. Three months, then we go our separate ways."

Chloe was about to respond when the bell above the front door jingled.

"We open in fifteen minutes!" I called out.

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