Page 68 of The Hockey Contract

Instead, I arrived home to find Jax waiting in the entryway, looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

"Don't take your coat off," he instructed. "We're going out."

"What? Where? I'm covered in flour and frosting and probably smell like yeast—"

"It's a surprise." His eyes held a boyish excitement I rarely saw. "Trust me?"

The question felt weighted with meaning beyond this moment. Did I trust him? This man who'd begun as a business arrangement and was rapidly becoming something far more complicated?

"Let me at least wash my face," I compromised.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to a beautiful lakeside home I didn't recognize. Jax led me to the door, which opened to reveal a distinguished-looking man in chef's whites.

"Mrs. Harrison, welcome. I'm Chef Laurent. Your husband has arranged a private cooking lesson this evening."

I turned to Jax in shock. "What?"

His smile was slightly uncertain now. "You mentioned wanting to expand beyond baking into more savory techniques. Laurent is executive chef atLe restaurant de Sophie."

Le restaurant de Sophie. Only the most exclusive French restaurant in Seattle, with a three-month waiting list for reservations.

"How did you remember that?" I'd mentioned it exactly once, during a sleepy conversation weeks ago.

He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy. "I listen when you talk."

The simple statement shouldn't have made my heart flutter, but it did. Chef Laurent led us into a stunning kitchen that would make professional chefs weep with envy, explaining that the home belonged to a wealthy client who allowed him to use the space for private lessons.

For the next three hours, we learned to make classic French dishes—coq au vin, potato dauphinoise, chocolate soufflé. Jax surprised me by joining in rather than just watching, following Laurent's instructions with the same focused intensity he brought to hockey.

"No, no, like this," I laughed, guiding his hands as he struggled with the proper technique for folding egg whites into the soufflé mixture. "Gentle but confident. You're not checking an opponent into the boards."

"Cooking has too many rules," he grumbled, but I could see him fighting a smile.

"Says the man who plays a sport with seventeen different penalties."

"Nineteen, actually." His hands finished the fold perfectly. "You missed boarding and game misconduct in your count earlier."

"You heard that?"

"I listen when you talk," he repeated, his voice softer this time.

We worked side by side, our bodies occasionally brushing—his arm against mine as we chopped vegetables, his chest briefly pressing against my back as he reached around me for a utensil. Each fleeting contact sent little sparks across my skin.

Chef Laurent was an excellent teacher, but I found my attention repeatedly drawn to Jax—the concentration in his expression as he reduced a sauce, the way his forearms flexed when kneading dough, his uncharacteristic laugh when the soufflé collapsed spectacularly.

After Laurent departed, leaving us with the fruits of our labor and a kitchen to clean, we fell into an easy rhythm of washing, drying, and putting away. The domesticity of it felt dangerously comfortable.

"This was amazing," I said, passing him a clean pot. "Seriously, Jax. Best surprise ever."

"Good." He looked genuinely pleased. "I wanted to do something special. You've been working so hard at the bakery, with the playoff menu and the hospital charity gala prep..."

"Speaking of which, I've been researching French pastry techniques for the gala. I've always wanted to study in Paris, at the—"

"Patisserie Institute?" he finished.

I blinked in surprise. "Yes. How did you—"

"You have their brochure on your nightstand. I noticed it when I brought you breakfast last week." He dried his hands on a towel, eyes meeting mine. "We could go sometime. To Paris. You could take a course while I eat my way through all the foods you tell me I'm pronouncing wrong."

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