Page 54 of The Hockey Contract

In two and a half months, our agreement would conclude. The endorsement would be secured, her bakery debt paid, our legal ties dissolved. We would return to our separate lives as planned.

The thought, which had once represented successful completion of our arrangement, now felt strangely hollow. I set down my fork, appetite suddenly diminished, troubled by the realization that I was no longer looking forward to the end of our temporary marriage.

Quite the opposite, in fact. And that was a complication neither of us had planned for.

Chapter 17: Sienna

I woke disoriented, sunlight streaming through curtains I didn't remember closing. Last thing I recalled was waiting on the couch for Jax to return from Vancouver, determined to stay awake but clearly failing. Yet here I was in my bed, still fully dressed but tucked under the comforter.

The realization that Jax must have carried me to bed sent a flush of warmth through me. I tried to imagine it—his strong arms lifting me, carrying me down the hallway, gently placing me on the bed. Had I stirred? Said anything embarrassing in my half-asleep state? The possibilities made me groan and pull the covers over my head.

After a quick shower, I padded to the kitchen, expecting to find Jax preparing his usual protein shake. Instead, I found a note on the counter:

Thanks for the lasagna. Best I've had since my mom's. Had early practice. – J

P.S. Sprinkles stole my bacon when I wasn't looking. Don't believe her innocent act.

I smiled, picturing my normally well-behaved dog being won over by Jax's breakfast scraps. The domestic normality of the scene—Jax eating breakfast, Sprinkles begging for treats—felt dangerously comfortable.

At the bakery, I threw myself into preparations for both the upcoming photoshoot and the charity gala, trying to distract myself from increasingly complicated feelings about my fake husband. Chloe, naturally, saw right through my frantic energy.

"So," she said, sliding onto a stool beside me as I piped delicate rosettes onto a test cake, "when are you going to admit you've got real feelings for Ice Man?"

I nearly ruined the cake's design. "What? That's ridiculous."

"Please." She rolled her eyes. "You've been humming love songs all morning. You baked him lasagna last night. You literally check your phone every five minutes for texts from him."

"It's called maintaining our cover," I protested weakly. "We're supposed to act like a real couple."

"When no one's watching? In the privacy of your own head?" She raised an eyebrow. "Sienna, I've known you since college. You've got all the classic Sienna-has-a-crush symptoms—the dreamy sighing, the distracted baking, the constant checking of your hair in reflective surfaces."

"I do not check my hair in—" I caught myself adjusting my ponytail in the reflection of a mixing bowl and stopped mid-sentence.

Chloe's triumphant grin was infuriating. "Told you."

"Fine, I'm attracted to him," I admitted reluctantly. "He's objectively attractive. And living together creates a false sense of intimacy. It doesn't mean anything."

"Uh-huh." Her skepticism was palpable. "And when this 'business arrangement' ends in a couple months?"

The question hit a nerve I'd been trying to ignore. "We go our separate ways, just as planned. The bakery gets saved, he gets his endorsement deal, everyone wins."

"Except the part where you've fallen for your fake husband."

"I have not fallen for—" I was interrupted by the bakery door opening, Leo's distinctive voice calling a greeting.

"Speak of the devil's advocate," Chloe muttered, her expression immediately shifting to the careful neutrality she maintained around Leo.

Leo entered the kitchen area, followed by Olivia and a photography crew laden with equipment. His eyes met Chloe's briefly before he turned to me with forced professional cheer.

"Ready to become Seattle's favorite bakery?"

The next hour was a whirlwind of activity as Olivia transformed the bakery into what she called a "more photogenic version of itself." This apparently involved rearranging display cases, adding strategic lighting, and placing several subtle Perfect Home Furnishings products around the space—a branded coffee mug here, a kitchen towel there.

"We want authentic but elevated," she explained, directing an assistant to adjust a vase of fresh flowers. "Real but aspirational."

I bit back a comment about the irony of manufacturing authenticity, focusing instead on preparing the baking demonstration area as instructed. We'd be showcasing a simple cookie recipe—accessible enough for the average home baker but visually appealing for photos.

When Jax arrived directly from practice, hair still damp from his shower, something in my chest tightened at the sight of him. He looked tired but brightened visibly upon seeing me, his eyes warming in that subtle way I'd learned to recognize.

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