Page 56 of The Hockey Contract

"Absolutely. I'll leave the details with Sienna."

I stood frozen, pastry tongs in hand, utterly surprised by this unexpected gesture of kindness. Jax wasn't known for generosity with fans—cordial professionalism was his usual approach. Yet here he was, making a meaningful offer to an elderly man he'd just met, for no reason other than simple kindness.

When he rejoined me at the baking counter, I couldn't help complimenting, "That was really nice of you. The tickets for Mr. Henderson."

Jax shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "He reminds me of my grandfather. Same enthusiasm for the game's history." He glanced back at the elderly man, now happily enjoying his pecan roll. "Besides, real fans deserve recognition."

Before I could respond, Olivia announced it was time for the final shots—removing the cookies from the oven and the "spontaneous celebration" when they turned out perfectly.

The photoshoot was just wrapping up when a group of customers arrived, clearly drawn by social media posts about the famous hockey player learning to bake. Within minutes, more people arrived, creating an unexpected rush that quickly overwhelmed us.

"I can help," Jax offered, rolling up his sleeves without hesitation.

"Me too," Leo added, though he looked less certain.

What followed was barely controlled chaos as Jax took customer orders, Leo and Chloe awkwardly operated the register, and I frantically filled the increasing demand. Despite their complete lack of bakery experience, Jax and Leo adapted quickly, with Jax's confident efficiency perfectly complementing Leo's charismatic customer banter.

Most surprising was watching Leo and Chloe work side by side at the register. Their usual antagonism remained, but beneath the sharp comments and eye rolls, I noticed something else—a rhythm, an awareness of each other's movements, occasional glances when the other wasn't looking. There was something unresolved between them that clearly went deeper than old college resentment.

By the time the unexpected rush subsided and Chloe left for a dentist appointment, it was late afternoon. Leo and the photography crew had departed, leaving Jax and me alone in the suddenly quiet bakery.

I leaned against the counter, exhaustion and exhilaration mingling as I surveyed the nearly empty display cases. "That was... unexpected."

"Good business, though." Jax stood nearby, his shirtsleeves still rolled up, a light dusting of flour on his forearm. "Sold out of almost everything."

"Thanks for helping." I pushed a loose strand of hair from my face. "You're surprisingly good with customers."

"All those years at my parents' hardware store," he reminded me. "Though bakery customers are generally happier than people with plumbing emergencies."

I laughed, feeling the tension of the busy day begin to ease. "True. Nothing creates goodwill like sugar."

Jax moved closer, his eyes tracing my face with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "You have flour," he said softly, reaching out to brush his thumb across my cheek.

The simple touch sent a current through me. His hand lingered, cupping my face gently, his thumb tracing a path to the corner of my mouth. Time seemed to suspend as we stood there, the air between us charged with unspoken possibility.

Then, with a deliberateness that made my breath catch, he leaned down and kissed me.

Unlike our courthouse wedding kiss—performed for an audience and briefly deepened in surprise—this was intentional. His lips moved against mine with gentle exploration, as if asking a question. I answered by melting into him, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, then sliding around to his back.

The kiss deepened, becoming something hungry and honest. His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer until I could feel the solid warmth of him against me. He tasted of coffee and the chocolate cookie we'd shared earlier, and beneath that, something essentially Jax—clean, masculine, unexpectedly sweet.

My fingers, which had been nervously fiddling with the hem of my apron, now tangled in the soft strands at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. My breath hitched from the sheer intensity of it. This wasn't the polite peck of a fake marriage anymore. This was raw, hungry, and utterly consuming.

I could feel his hands splay against my back, firm and warm through the thin cotton of my dress, drawing me in until there was no space left between us, chest to chest, thigh to thigh.

Then, with a sudden surge of energy that sent my head spinning, he lifted me. One moment I was grounded on the worn wooden floor, the next my feet were dangling in the air, and I was perched on the cool, slick surface of the stainless-steel countertop. The unexpected shift sent a jolt through me, a mix of surprise and thrill that only amplified the already heightened sensations. My breath caught in my throat, a gasp that turned into a moan as his mouth crashed back down onto mine, even more passionately this time.

The counter was cold beneath my thighs, a stark, almost shocking contrast to the burning heat spreading through my lower belly. He shifted, pressing closer, his body a hard, insistent line against mine, and I could feel the unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressing into my thigh, through the layers of fabric, a bold, undeniable statement of his desire.

My hands were shaking now, no longer steady enough to hold onto his neck. Instead, they fumbled with the ties of my apron, my fingers clumsy and impatient as I worked to loosen the knot at my waist. It felt incredibly urgent, this need to shed the layers between us, to feel skin against skin, heat against heat. With a tug, the apron strings came undone, and the starched fabric fell to the floor with a soft rustle, unnoticed, unimportant in the sudden intensity that had engulfed us.

His hands were busy too. I felt the frantic fumble of his fingers against the buttons of his crisp white shirt, popping them open one by one with haste. Cool air kissed my exposed skin as the fabric parted, revealing the tanned expanse of his chest, sprinkled with a light dusting of dark hair that tapered down towards his belt.

I reached out, my fingers tracing the hard lines of his pectoral muscles, the ripple of his ribs beneath my fingertips. He was solid, lean muscle and heat, and the contact sent another shiver of pure desire coursing through me.

His mouth left mine, finally, but only to trail downwards, his lips hot and wet against my jawline, then the sensitive skin of my neck. He nipped at my earlobe, tugging gently, and a moan escaped my lips, soft and uncontrolled.

“Sienna,” he murmured, his breath warm and ragged against my skin, “God, Sienna…”

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