Page 38 of The Hockey Contract

"All of this." I gestured around. "You didn't have to go to so much trouble. Most people would have just thrown some pillows around and called it done."

"I'm not most people." She placed the last mixing bowl in a cabinet. "Besides, if I'm living here for three months, I want it to feel like home, even temporarily."

"It looks better," I admitted. "Less like a hotel suite."

She smiled, clearly pleased by the compliment. "It's a start. Three months is plenty of time to make this place feel lived-in."

The reminder of our timeline—three months, then back to our separate lives—was oddly deflating. I pushed the feeling aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"We should get some sleep. Photoshoot starts at nine."

Sienna nodded, stifling a yawn. "Goodnight, Jax."

As she headed toward her bedroom, I found myself calling after her. "Sienna?"

She paused, looking back. "Yes?"

"The house really does look better. Thank you."

Her smile was soft, genuine. "You're welcome."

Chapter 13: Sienna

I woke before dawn, anxiety about the photoshoot propelling me out of bed despite my exhaustion. The house was silent and dark as I tiptoed to the kitchen, barefoot in sleep shorts and an old t-shirt. I'd set out ingredients the night before—flour, sugar, butter, vanilla—planning to bake something that would make the house smell lived-in for the photographers.

The kitchen lights flickered on, illuminating the professional-grade appliances that still intimidated me slightly despite yesterday's shopping spree. I knew exactly what to bake: cinnamon rolls, my grandmother's recipe. Nothing said "home" like the scent of cinnamon and sugar.

Working quietly, I measured ingredients with practiced precision, losing myself in the familiar process. Making dough from scratch was therapeutic—the measured steps, the physical kneading, the transformation of simple ingredients into something greater than the sum of its parts. By the time I'd rolled out the dough and spread it with the cinnamon-sugar mixture, the sky outside was beginning to lighten.

I was so focused on rolling the dough into a tight spiral that I didn't hear footsteps approaching. A deep voice behind me nearly made me jump out of my skin.

"What are you making?"

I spun around, clutching my rolling pin like a weapon, to find Jax leaning against the doorframe. He wore only low-hanging sweatpants, his chest bare in the soft morning light. I'd known he was fit—he was a professional athlete, after all—but seeing him shirtless was different from imagining it. The defined muscles of his chest and arms spoke of years of dedicated training, a few scars telling stories of past injuries.

I realized I was staring and quickly turned back to my dough, hoping he hadn't noticed the heat rising in my cheeks. "Cinnamon rolls. I thought the house should smell lived-in for the photoshoot."

"Smart." He moved into the kitchen, coming to stand beside me at the counter. "Need help?"

The offer surprised me. "You bake?"

"No, but I can follow instructions. Usually." There was a hint of humor in his voice that I was still getting used to—these brief moments when the intimidating "Ice Man" facade cracked, revealing something warmer underneath.

"You can slice these while I make the glaze," I said, handing him a sharp knife. "About an inch thick."

We worked side by side, our arms occasionally brushing in the shared space. I was acutely aware of his bare skin near mine, the heat of him perceptible even without direct contact. The domesticity of the scene wasn't lost on me—barefoot in the kitchen at dawn, preparing breakfast together like a real couple.

"Like this?" he asked, holding up a perfectly sliced roll.

"Perfect," I nodded, impressed by his precision. "Arrange them in that pan, leaving a little space between each."

As he worked, I stole glances at him. His brow furrowed in concentration, the morning stubble along his jaw catching the light, the controlled strength in his hands as he arranged the rolls carefully. There was something unexpectedly endearing about watching this intimidating man focus so intently on such a mundane task.

"You're staring," he said without looking up.

I flushed. "I'm making sure you're doing it right."

"Mmhmm." The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smirk. "Admit it—you're surprised I can follow directions."

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