Page 11

Peyton

The heat in my face still hasn’t cooled from his offer to let me ride him whenever I want.

Not even close.

I push off the wall, trying to pretend I’m not wildly affected, and motion toward the hallway. “Come on,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let me show you around the rest of the house.”

Hunter falls into step behind me, a quiet chuckle under his breath that I pretend I don’t hear.

My townhouse isn’t big, but it’s mine. And for the next two months, it’s ours, apparently.

“This is the living room,” I say unnecessarily since we’re standing in it. “Kitchen’s through there. You can help yourself to anything.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, but I can feel his eyes following every detail—the shelves of books and tennis memorabilia of a life I don’t have anymore, the barely-there scent of vanilla honeysuckle candles I forgot to blow out before he got here.

I lead him down the short hallway, his duffel bag still in his hands and a backpack over his shoulder.

“That’s the hallway bathroom and the door across from it leads to the garage.” A garage too small to actually park a real life-size vehicle in it. Instead, a treadmill I bought last January sits unused there. “The spare bedroom’s my podcast studio.”

He peeks inside, raising a brow at the foam-padded walls, the mic setup, and my desk cluttered with notes and cables. “Professional setup. Looks like your contractor did a good job.”

“Thanks.” I don’t bother telling him how many late nights, maxed-out credit cards, and YouTube tutorials it took to turn that tiny room into something network-worthy. Or how much I’m counting on this room—and him—to help me land this syndication deal and recoup my expenses from this build.

We stop at the master bedroom, and I hesitate at the doorway. “And this is the main bedroom.”

Hunter steps inside, giving it the same slow, assessing glance he gave the rest of the place. “And the guest bedroom? Where’s that?”

“Guest bedroom?” I echo.

“For me to sleep,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Oh no.

I thought I’d been clear. Two bedrooms. One converted into a podcast studio. No spare bed.

“My guest room is my recording studio,” I say carefully. “There isn’t another room.”

He frowns, brows pulling together. “There’s not another bed in this house?”

“I have the couch…” I offer quickly, pointing back toward the living room.

Hunter’s mouth presses into a thin line. “That’s not going to work.”

Panic flickers in my chest. “Why not?”

“I can’t sleep on a couch and play at the level I need to. It’ll wreck my back. Throws off recovery after a long game and hard practices. Bad sleep screws everything up.”

He says it so simply, like this is a done deal. Like he’s about to walk out that door and leave this fake dating circus behind.

And I can’t blame him. I’d played at a professional level before my knee injury, though it feels like ages ago. Sleep and recovery are really important.

But I can’t let him leave. I need those two months of living expenses covered to give my bank account a break until I land this syndication deal. I can’t even think of my finances if the network doesn’t pick me.

“We tried, maybe Coach Wrenley will let me crash in his basement,” he says, and then laughs to himself as if there’s no shot in hell that the grumpy goalie coach is going to let that happen.

Hunter turns to walk back out past me, but I take a step in front of him to stop him.

My brain is screaming that what I'm about to offer is a monumentally bad idea, and yet I can already hear Abby giggling with glee when she hears about this.

“We can make it work,” I say before I can second-guess myself. “We’ll share the bed. I wouldn’t want you to have to worry about Bethany showing up at The Commons.”

Right, sure, that’s the reason.

Hunter glances at the bed again, then back at me—but something in his eyes has shifted. Lighter. Relieved, even. Like he didn’t actually want to go back to his apartment and deal with the mess waiting for him there.

“Really?” His right eyebrow lifts. “You’re sure about this? It’s only a queen, and I’m not exactly a small guy. It’s going to be tight.”

I follow his gaze toward the bed and realize what he means.

It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a bed with anyone—years, actually.

A string of bad dates, dead-end relationships, and one too many lonely nights made me realize I’m better off focusing on my career than wasting time on something that’ll only fall apart.

And guys like Hunter Reed? They’re exactly why I stopped trying. Too smooth. Too charming. Too temporary.

Which is why he’s the perfect man to share a bed with.

Because this isn’t real.

And in two months, I’ll barely remember he was here, and he’ll be back to chasing one-night stands.

“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice light. “It’ll be fine.”

What could possibly go wrong living with a man who just offered to let me “ride the elephant,” after all?

I hope Abby and my brother aren’t right about me being na?ve.

I turn on my heel before he can see how hard I’m working to keep my expression neutral.

Behind me, I hear him drop his bags inside the door, footsteps falling in line as he follows me down the hall.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as we make it back toward the living room again. I glance at the screen—another text from Mom:

Mom: You know fake can get real, sweetheart. Careful with that hockey player.

I quickly flip my phone over before Hunter can see it.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, one brow lifted.

“Nope. It’s my mom.” I clear my throat. “No boyfriend.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I guess I should’ve asked that before I made the offer.”

I ignore the way my stomach flips at the thought of him caring one way or another.

“I wouldn’t have said yes if I had a boyfriend. I’m not like that—”

He cuts me off quickly. “No, of course you’re not. I’m sorry.” His jaw flexes. “When it comes to you, I tend to put my foot in my mouth.”

I nod, letting his quick backtrack settle for a second. It’s…surprisingly nice to hear him own it.

“Speaking of boyfriends, maybe we should set some ground rules,” I say, leading him toward the kitchen island.

He leans a hip against the counter, folding his arms like he’s settling in for a show. “Hit me.”

“Rule number one—no sex.”

His mouth curves like he’s fighting a grin. “Wow, we’re just diving right into the deep end, huh? No easing into the hard rules?” He tips his head. “Are you sure? I’d give you one hell of an elephant ride.”

I level him with a flat look. “I’m serious. This is fake. We’re selling the relationship to everyone else, but in here? Strictly roommates.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Got it. Roommates. No funny business.”

I nod.

“Rule two,” he interjects before I can continue down my list. “You have to sit in my seats and attend all home games and Hawkeyes events for the next two months. Starting with the open stadium event this week. Everyone will expect you to be there now that you’re my girlfriend.”

“Every single Hawkeyes home event? That seems a little overkill, doesn’t it?” I ask, my eyebrows stitched together. That’s going to be quite a few.

“Bethany needs to see you as a doting supportive girlfriend. Let’s put it this way, you only have to come if other Hawkeyes wives and girlfriends are going to be there. How about that?”

“Fine,” I say, knowing this is going to throw off my calendar but this is part of the deal. “Then rule number three—no puck bunnies. I’m not running a brothel in my townhouse for your one-night stands.”

“Got it. No problem. The only puck bunny I’m bringing home is you.” He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I stare him down. “Too soon.”

“Okay, yeah. Too soon.” His grin fades, just slightly. “And I am sorry about that night. The bar. What I said. If I hadn’t been drunk, I would have done—” He stops himself.

“You would have done what?” I press, arching a brow.

He shakes his head. “Never mind—it doesn’t matter now. It’s in the past and this is a new slate.”

He clears his throat and straightens. “Rule four, we’re exclusive.”

I blink. “Exclusive?”

“That’s right. If we’re going to sell this, we need to make it believable. No dating anyone else, no one-night stands, and no hookups.” His eyes lock onto mine. “For the next two months, we’re crazy about each other.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Correction—you’re crazy about me.”

That damn dimple appears when he grins. “That’s fair.”

“So…exclusively not getting any,” I clarify. Which doesn’t actually change anything for me. Not that I would ever tell him that the only thing making conjugal visits is my vibrator. “Even when you’re on the road.”

“Exactly. No one for the next two months. Same goes for you.”

I nod, grab the spare key from the counter, and hand it over to him. “Welcome to the circus, Reed. I’ll be your ringmaster for the duration of your stay.”

After our conversation, I cleared some space in my walk-in closet for him, and then I excused myself, taking pajamas with me to the spare bathroom to change while he said he was going to unpack and then take a shower.

A pair of loose-fitting shorts and an old Seattle football T-shirt.

Nothing that screams “please let me ride your elephant.”

Our earlier conversation about the ground rules still has my brain reeling.

I should feel relieved. We’ve got the terms clear.

No sex. No puck bunnies. Strictly fake, strictly business.

But instead, my brain won’t stop spinning because apparently, I’ve invited six feet plus of NHL trouble to move into my townhouse and crawl into my bed every night—for the next two months, and he wants me playing the WAGs role like I’m actually a part of it all.

No big deal. I’m totally fine.

My phone dings on the nightstand, lighting up with another text.

Mom: Tell your “boyfriend” I expect him at Thanksgiving dinner.

Shit. Thanksgiving is in three days, and with everything going on, I sort of forgot.

I groan, flipping the phone over to block the screen. The longer I stare at it, the more the weight of this entire fake arrangement sinks into my chest. This was supposed to be strategic—a way to get my interviews, my subscriber numbers, my future. Not…whatever the hell this is turning into.

And now, the most complicated man I’ve ever met is hanging his clothes in my closet.

I make it halfway through editing a new podcast teaser when my body gives up. One minute I’m scrolling through social media mentions, trying to keep my anxiety at bay about tonight, sleeping in the same bed as Hunter, and then the next I’m drifting off to sleep.

I don’t know how long I’ve been out when I feel it—strong arms sliding under me, lifting me off the couch like I weigh nothing.

My eyes flutter open, groggy and disoriented. “What… What are you doing?”

“Carrying you to bed,” Hunter murmurs, voice quiet but steady. “You fell asleep.”

I’m too tired to argue. My head lolls against his shoulder, and I catch a faint trace of his smell that I caught at the charity event.

When he nudges the bedroom door open with his foot, I realize he’s made the bed. And not just made it—he’s created a literal pillow wall down the middle, like some kind of amateur Great Wall of China. There’s even an extra blanket folded neatly on his side.

“Seriously?” I mumble as he sets me down gently.

“Boundaries, Collins. You set the rules, I’m just following them.”

He steps back, pulling the covers over me before grabbing his own pillow and settling down on his side—on top of the duvet, with a spare blanket thrown over him like he’s camping out.

It should feel awkward. It should feel ridiculous.

But somehow, it doesn’t.

Instead, there’s this strange little bubble of safety settling in my chest. Like if someone broke in tonight, the hockey enforcer lying next to me would handle it without blinking.

And that’s the problem.

Because the last thing I need is to get comfortable with Hunter Reed sleeping beside me.

But it almost can’t be helped, because as I drift off again, the last thing I’m aware of is the sound of his breathing, steady and solid in the dark, and one soft, sneaky thought threading through my brain:

Hunter Reed might actually be a better man than I thought.

And that’s dangerous.