Page 43 of Pucked In Vegas

"You've really outdone yourself here." Dana glances at her watch. "Can you come approve the final promotional materials? They're mounting the main display out the front right now."

I follow her across the room, my mind still spinning with all the Jackson-shaped thoughts I'm desperately trying to lock away.

Workers scurry around us, a choreographed chaos I'd normally find comforting. Right now, though, even the familiar rhythm of event setup feels like it's happening in some parallel universe where I didn't just wake up married to a handsome stranger, and then leave him without even saying goodbye.

Dana weaves through a cluster of audio technicians, and I follow, mentally reviewing my checklist to keep my thoughts from drifting back to this morning—to tangled sheets and Jackson's sleepy smile when he asked me to stay.

"Here we are," Dana says, stopping in front of a massive display being erected near the entrance. "What do you think?"

"It's per—"

And there he is.

Front and center on the enormous poster, like a Greek god who traded his toga for hockey pads, is the jewel of the NHL Draft event's 'top prospects'.

Jackson Holt. The #1 draft pick.

Not just a hockey player. THE hockey player. The crown jewel. The future face of the league.

The man whose bed I just left.

The man whose annulment papers I just signed.

Not Jax, the stranger who made me feel alive in a nightclub. Not the man who whispered against my skin last night that I felt like home.

The entire room tilts. My carefully constructed professional façade doesn't just crack… it shatters completely.

All those suspicions I'd been nursing, all those fears I'd let drive me from his bed this morning... I hadn't just been right.

I'd beencatastrophicallyright.

I didn't just marry a hockey player. I married future hockey royalty.

"Oh god," I whisper, my tablet slipping from suddenly numb fingers.

"Cassie?" Dana touches my arm. "Is the placement okay? We need final approval before the media arrives."

I stare at Jackson's face—those sea-glass eyes looking directly at me from the poster—and feel my world collapse inward.

"Cassie?" Dana repeats. "Yoohoo… About the poster positioning..."

I adjust the hem of my blazer, grateful for the armor of professional attire.

At least on the outside, I look like I have my shit together.

That's what Mia would tell me to do.

To appear like I'm still Cassie Hawthorne, event producer extraordinaire, not the woman who spent last night with her legs wrapped around a soon-to-be NHL rookie.

"It's perfect. Let's get this show on the road."

Chapter Eleven

Jackson

Ireach across the bed, my hand finding nothing but rumpled sheets and the faint scent of her perfume on my pillow. For a split second, I think maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's ordering room service. Maybe she's—

My brain explodes as I see them across the room.

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