Page 28 of The Hockey Contract

"It's excessive," I admitted. "The whole house is. But it was a good investment."

Sprinkles chose that moment to leap onto the king-sized bed, turning in circles before flopping down with a contented sigh.

"Sprinkles!" Sienna looked mortified. "Off the bed!"

I shook my head. "It's fine. It's her home now too, I guess."

She gave me a curious look. "You're being suspiciously accommodating."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. "Would you like to see the kitchen? I added some new equipment."

Her face lit up. "Yes!"

The change in her demeanor was immediate. In the kitchen, Sienna transformed from hesitant houseguest to confident professional, opening newly built cabinets and examining new equipment with obvious excitement.

"A six-burner stove? And a double oven?" She ran her hand reverently over the stainless steel. “You didn’t have to renovate your kitchen for me!”

"Who said it's because of you? It's for me too!" I teased.

"Oh really? I bet you can't even cook!"

"I can cook sometimes," I defended. "Some basic things."

"Protein shakes and grilled chicken don't count." She opened the refrigerator, which contained little besides protein drinks, eggs, and vegetables. "Just as I suspected. Criminal waste of a beautiful kitchen."

Before I could respond, my stomach growled audibly.

Sienna raised an eyebrow. "When did you last eat?"

I tried to remember. "Coffee this morning?"

She shook her head in exasperation. "Sit. I'll make something."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm not having my fake husband faint from hunger on our fake wedding day. It would look bad for my baker reputation." She was already pulling out eggs and vegetables. "Besides, I need to familiarize myself with the kitchen if I'm living here."

I sat at the kitchen island, oddly content to watch her work. She moved with confidence, chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, the kitchen filled with the savory scent of a vegetable omelet.

"Hope you like spinach and feta," she said, sliding a perfect omelet onto a plate.

The first bite was revelatory. "This is really good."

She smiled, seeming genuinely pleased. "It's just an omelet."

"Still." I took another bite. "Thank you."

An awkward silence fell between us. This simple domestic scene—her cooking for me in my kitchen—felt strangely intimate, more so than the kiss we'd shared at City Hall.

I cleared my throat. "We should discuss schedules. The team has a family skate tomorrow afternoon. As my wife, you'd be expected to attend."

Sienna paused in washing the pan. "A family skate? As in, on ice?"

"That's generally where skating happens, yes."

She turned to face me, anxiety clear in her expression. "I should probably mention that I can't skate. At all. I've never even been on ice."

I stared at her in disbelief. "You live in Seattle and you've never been ice skating?"

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