Page 14 of The Hockey Pact

"Fine."

After we hung up, I stared at the phone in my hand, a strange sense of calm settling over me. I'd just taken the first step toward legally binding myself to a man I barely knew, all to save my failing restaurant.

Zoe broke the silence. "So, you're really doing this."

"I think I am," I said, looking up at her. "Is that crazy?"

She considered for a moment. "Maybe. But no crazier than betting your life savings on a restaurant in the first place." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Whatever you decide, I'm with you."

At precisely two o'clock, I stood in the marble lobby of Caleb's waterfront penthouse apartment, feeling entirely out of place in my food-stained jeans andHat Trickt-shirt. After the refrigerator disaster, I'd barely had time to shower, let alone worry about making a good impression.

The security guard at the desk eyed me skeptically. "Can I help you, miss?"

"I'm here to see Caleb Matthews," I said, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "Riley Caldwell."

He checked a screen. "I don't see you on the approved visitor list."

"She's with me, Frank," Caleb's voice came from the side.

I turned to find him crossing the lobby, dressed casually in jeans and a simple gray henley that somehow looked designer despite its simplicity. He smiled at me, and despite my nervousness, I found myself smiling back.

"Thanks for coming," he said, leading me toward a private elevator. "Sorry about the security. I should have called down to add you to the list."

"It's fine," I assured him. "Probably good to know my potential future home has decent security."

The elevator opened directly into his penthouse, and I couldn't help the small gasp that escaped me. The space was exactly what I'd expect from a highly-paid athlete—sleek, modern, and professionally decorated. The floor-to-ceilingwindows offered a breathtaking view of the Charles River that momentarily distracted me from my nervous tension.

"This is..." I searched for an appropriate word. "Something."

Caleb chuckled. "That's one way to put it. The team's housing coordinator set it up when I signed my contract extension. I basically just said 'I like something stylish' and came home to this."

Before I could respond, a striking woman in her forties emerged from what looked like a home office, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. Her dark hair was cut in a sharp bob, and she assessed me with shrewd eyes.

"You must be Riley," she said, extending a manicured hand. "Diane Reynolds, Caleb's agent."

I hadn't expected an audience and felt even more self-conscious as I shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Diane insisted on being here for this discussion," Caleb explained, looking slightly apologetic. "Given the legal implications."

"Smart," I acknowledged. "I should probably have brought a lawyer myself."

"You still can," Diane said promptly. "In fact, I'd recommend it before you sign anything. But I thought we could discuss the general terms first, to see if this arrangement would work for both of you."

Despite her polished exterior, there was something reassuringly straightforward about Diane that I appreciated. She wasn't treating this potential arrangement as scandalous or shocking—just another business deal to be negotiated.

"Have a seat," Caleb suggested, gesturing toward the dining table where various papers were already arranged.

As I moved to sit down, Diane studied me with open interest. "You're not what I expected," she said, her tone neutral.

"Sorry about the clothes," I said, suddenly self-conscious again. "We had a crisis at the restaurant, and I—"

"No, no," she interrupted, waving away my explanation. "I meant it as a compliment. You're genuine. Real." She glanced at Caleb. "She'll balance your public image perfectly. A hardworking small business owner with family hockey connections? Whitman will eat it up."

I resisted the urge to remind them both that I was in the room. "So I'm the right 'type' for this charade?"

Diane's lips quirked in what might have been appreciation for my directness. "Exactly. And that straightforwardness is an asset too. People can smell fakery a mile away, especially the media."

We moved to Caleb's dining table, where Diane had prepared what looked like extensive paperwork. As she began explaining the proposed arrangement, I found myself oddly detached, as if watching someone else's life unfold.

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