Page 30 of Pucked In Vegas

He fits the bill of a stereotypical hockey player perfectly.

But… he can't be… can he?

"—and the media badges need to be color-coded by outlet," Dana's voice filters back in. "Are you getting all this?"

"Mmhmm," I manage, forcing myself to break eye contact with Jackson.

"Cassie? Are you okay? You look flushed."

I blink rapidly, shaking away memories of his lips against my ear, whispering that I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"Fine," I lie, straightening my shoulders. "Just low blood sugar. Haven't eaten since breakfast."

Dana frowns. "There's a grazing table set up near the green room. We should—"

"Perfect. Let's head that way." I gesture in the opposite direction from where Jackson stands, my pulse racing.

The universe is clearly having a laugh at my expense.

I manage to dodge Jackson for the next two hours, burying myself in last-minute details and avoiding the section of the ballroom where I last saw him.

By six o'clock, the setup crew begins filtering out as I dismiss them for the night. The space transforms from chaotic construction zone to polished event venue.

So far, I've already helped with the team banners hanging at precisely the right angle, perfected the lighting and got the stage gleaming under the bright spotlights.

"That's a wrap for today," Dana announces, checking items off her clipboard. "Excellent work, Cassie. I can see why your father speaks so highly of your organizational skills."

I force a smile. "Thanks. I'll just finish up a few things and head out."

Once Dana disappears through the double doors, I exhale heavily and slump against the registration table. My feet throb in these heels, but… I did it.

I've survived day one without a complete meltdown.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Probably Mia checking if I've filed for divorce yet. Or my father with another impossible request.

I pull it out, squinting at the screen.

Jax: Room 241. Come see me when you're done. We need to talk. (HEART EMOJI)

My breath catches. A heart emoji? Seriously?

Heat floods my body, starting at my chest and radiating outward until my fingertips tingle. I read the message three more times, my thumb hovering over the screen.

The ballroom lights dim as the crew shuts down for the night. Around me, the massive space falls quiet except for the distant hum of the hotel beyond the doors.

I should ignore this. Delete it. Block the number.

Instead, I'm remembering his mouth on my collarbone. The way his hands felt in that chapel bathroom. How he laughed against my lips when I nearly fell trying to climb him like a tree.

"He probably just needs my signature for annulment paperwork," I whisper to the empty room. "That's it. That's what he wants."

My body knows better. The ache between my thighs certainly knows better.

I pocket the phone without replying.

But I don't delete the message either.

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