Page 39 of The Hockey Contract

"Shocked, actually," I teased, whisking together powdered sugar and vanilla for the glaze. "I assumed hockey players just grunted and hit things."

"That's only on the ice." He placed the last roll in the pan. "Off ice, we're very domesticated."

"Clearly." I gestured to his bare chest with my whisk, then immediately regretted drawing attention back to his state of undress. "Though most people wear shirts when they cook."

His eyes met mine, a hint of mischief in them. "Does it bother you?"

The directness of the question caught me off guard. Did it bother me? Not in the way he meant. It bothered me that I'd noticed. It bothered me that I'd been unable to stop myself from appreciating the view. It bothered me that for a brief, inappropriate moment, I'd wondered what those muscles would feel like under my hands.

"Just trying to maintain professionalism in our arrangement," I replied, focusing intently on my glaze.

"Of course." His tone was neutral, but when I glanced up, there was something in his eyes I couldn't quite define—amusement, perhaps, or something more complex. "Professionalism."

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of the photography crew. Jax thankfully went to put on a shirt before answering.

The next hour was a whirlwind of activity as Olivia directed a team of photographers and stylists through the house. They adjusted the decorations we'd placed the night before, added fresh flowers on tables, and positioned lighting equipment in strategic locations.

"The concept is 'domestic bliss,'" Olivia explained, reviewing a shot list with the lead photographer. "We want to capture authentic moments between the newlyweds in their home environment."

"Authentic," I muttered to Jax as we stood to the side, watching our house be transformed. "Because nothing says authentic like staged photos of fake spouses."

He surprised me with a quiet laugh. "Just follow the director's instructions and try not to look like you're being held hostage."

"Is that how I look?"

"A little." He touched my shoulder briefly. "Relax. It's just pretend."

Just pretend. The reminder was necessary, but somehow deflating.

The photoshoot itself was excruciating. We posed cooking together in the kitchen with the cinnamon rolls serving as perfect props, reading on the couch with books open to random pages, and even playing with Sprinkles in the backyard, which was the only genuinely enjoyable part, as the dog's enthusiasm couldn't be staged.

"Now I need some more intimate shots," the photographer announced, leading us upstairs. "Let's try some casual moments in the bedroom."

I exchanged an alarmed look with Jax. We hadn't discussed bedroom photos.

The master bedroom had been styled with additional pillows and throws, the bed artfully rumpled to suggest recent occupation. I stood awkwardly at the threshold, suddenly uncomfortable with this invasion of Jax's private space.

"Sienna, sit on the edge of the bed," the photographer instructed. "Jax, stand between her and the window. We'll capture the morning light around you."

I perched stiffly on the bed, hyperaware of Jax's presence as he stood nearby. The photographer frowned at our rigid postures.

"You're supposed to be newlyweds, not strangers at a bus stop. Jax, put your hand on her shoulder. Sienna, look up at him adoringly."

Adoringly. Right. I tilted my face up, trying to manufacture an expression of adoration for a man I barely knew.

"Not quite," the photographer sighed. "Let's try something else. Both of you on the bed, leaning against the headboard, like you're having a lazy Sunday morning."

This was even worse—side by side on Jax's bed, shoulders touching, trying to appear comfortable with an audience watching. The photographer continued issuing directions, each pose more intimate than the last.

After nearly an hour of bedroom photos that made both of us increasingly tense, the photographer announced he needed some shots on the deck overlooking the lake. As the crew relocated, I escaped to the bathroom, needing a moment alone.

When I emerged, the bedroom was empty except for Jax, who stood by the window staring out at the water. His shoulders were tight with tension, jaw clenched.

"You okay?" I asked.

He didn't turn. "I hate this."

"The photoshoot?"

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