Page 58 of The Hockey Contract

My blush deepened, spreading down my neck and across my chest. I couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t quite process the teasing amusement in his voice, the implication hanging in the air. My gaze dropped downwards, instinctively, helplessly drawn to where he still knelt between my legs. And then, I saw it.

His smiling face, right there between my thighs.

I couldn’t help it. A giggle bubbled up from my chest, a shaky, breathless sound, laced with lingering pleasure and a healthy dose of embarrassment. I buried my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with a mixture of laughter and something that felt dangerously close to real. This fake marriage, this charade, was getting more and more complicated by the second. And, if I was honest with myself, a little more thrillingly real.

Soon, we closed the bakery in silence, both seemingly lost in thought. As we walked the familiar route to the house, I found myself hyperaware of his presence beside me, the slight distance he maintained between us, the way his hands remained firmly in his pockets.

"The photoshoot went well," I said finally, desperate to break the charged silence. "You're becoming quite the baker."

"Hardly." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "But I'm learning to appreciate the process. The patience it requires."

"That's the secret to good baking—patience and attention to detail. Rushing never works."

"Is that why you're so good at it? The patience part?"

I considered this. "Partly. But also because I genuinely love it. Creating something that brings people joy... there's nothing better."

"I saw that today," he said, his voice softening. "The way you interact with customers, how you remember Mr. Henderson's order, the pride when someone enjoys your work. It's..." He paused, searching for words. "It's beautiful to witness."

The unexpected compliment warmed me more than it should have. "Thank you."

We lapsed into silence again, but a more comfortable one this time. As we neared home, our conversation turned to practicalities—his parents' upcoming visit, preparations needed, a dinner menu I offered to cook.

"You'd do that?" Jax asked, sounding genuinely surprised by my offer to prepare a family dinner. "Cook for my parents?"

"Of course. I want to help make the visit successful." I shrugged, trying to seem casual. "Besides, I'm a decent cook, not just a baker."

"I know. That lasagna was incredible."

"High praise from someone who ranks his mother's lasagna as his favorite food."

He looked pleased that I remembered this detail from our get-to-know-you session. "My mother will be impressed by your cooking skills. She believes feeding people is the purest form of care."

"A woman after my own heart," I said, smiling.

Our hands brushed accidentally as we walked, once, twice, a third time, each contact sending small sparks up my arm. On the fourth brush, Jax's fingers captured mine, interlacing them in one smooth motion.

I glanced up, surprised. "Someone watching?"

He nodded toward a woman across the street, who appeared to be taking a photo with her phone. "Fan, I think."

"Ah. Maintaining our cover."

"Exactly."

But even after we'd turned the corner, leaving the supposed fan behind, Jax didn't release my hand. And I didn't pull away. We walked the remaining blocks home hand in hand, the simple connection feeling more intimate than our kiss in some ways—a conscious choice to maintain contact even without an audience.

As we approached the house, I wondered if he would address what had happened at the bakery—the kiss that had nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with genuine attraction. But he simply squeezed my hand once before releasing it to unlock the door, the moment for discussion apparently passed.

Inside, Sprinkles greeted us with enthusiastic circles, equally happy to see both of us. As I bent to pet her, I caught Jax watching me with an unreadable expression, something warm but guarded in his eyes.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," he replied, then after a pause, added softly, "I'm just glad you're here."

The simple admission hung in the air between us, laden with meanings neither of us seemed ready to examine. In response, I offered the only truth I felt safe expressing:

"Me too."

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