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“I’m not asking you to go on a date with me, and no, I’m not kidding. I’m serious.” I drop my voice. “My ex-girlfriend, Bethany—she’s here. She’s planning to bid on me tonight. And I can’t—” I stop, exhale. “I just can’t let her win.”

The bartender sets Peyton’s drink on a napkin, muttering something about a blueberry lemon drop with a marinated vodka blueberry garnish, then glances at me.

“Nothing for me,” I say, stepping aside so the next guest can order. Peyton follows.

“Hold on a second,” she says, pulling the metal skewer from her drink. She slides one blueberry off with her perfectly straight white teeth and painted pink lips, chewing as her expression shifts—processing everything.

“Bethany Richards is your ex? As in, the soon-to-be ex-wife of Kevin Richards, the owner of the team you used to play for?”

“I dated her first,” I say, sharper than I mean to. And stupidly, without thinking about the fact that Peyton is the last person I should be spilling this to since she has a podcast that she could use to air this information.

Her eyebrows lift in question. I know exactly what she’s about to ask, and I cut her off fast.

“But that was a lifetime ago. And that’s not what this is about.”

Not exactly, anyway.

I’ve spent years killing the rumors—shutting down every whisper, every question about why I was demoted mid-season. I know what people assumed. What they still wonder. And the last thing I need is a podcaster sniffing around for a viral story to save her syndication deal.

That chapter of my life is closed.

Or at least, it was until thirty minutes ago.

“Okay, so why me?” she asks, arms folding across her chest. “There are at least fifty women in this room alone who’d sell their souls for a date with you. Ask one of them to outbid her.”

“I can’t ask any of them because you’re the only person here who doesn’t want something from me, except for an interview.

” I pause, watching her slide another blueberry off the skewer with her lips.

“This is transactional. We both want something. We make the trade, and when it’s done, you never have to see me again. ”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes narrow, she’s considering it. She’s sharp—too sharp for my own good.

“And you’ve already seen me at my worst,” I add. “You’ve got more to gain than lose.”

“I have plenty to lose,” she fires back. “Like the last shred of professional dignity I have, after you basically accused me of being a puck bunny, then told me to find another teammate to screw in front of a packed bar of players and fans.”

I flinch. No comeback. No defense.

“I deserved that.”

“You did,” she agrees easily, uncrossing her arms and shifting her weight from one hip to the other, clearly enjoying this.

I take a breath. “Let me make it up to you. If you bid on me—and win—I’ll do the interview.”

“You want me to bid against a billionaire’s wife for an interview with you? Are you crazy? I don’t have that kind of money. I just bought a new townhouse outside of town and renovated it for my podcast studio. I blew through my savings.”

The news of her townhouse and a place to crash, away from The Commons, sparks a thought, but I need her to agree to one thing at a time. If I show all my cards, she’ll bail out immediately.

“I’ll pay for it. Whatever you bid, I’ll cover the bill. You just have to win.”

Peyton glances over in Bethany’s direction, and I follow her line of sight, cringing when I see Bethany chatting up Everett, who’s making his rounds with guests.

I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to ask for this next thing, but by the looks of it, Bethany is making good on her threats to attempt to get me traded.

“Actually, I need one more thing.”

Peyton’s eyes snap back to mine. “Oh God…what now?” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I need to live with you for two months,” I say, “and I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

Peyton freezes, dropping the skewer with the last blueberry into her drink. It lands with a quiet plop, sending a few droplets splashing onto the napkin.

She blinks at me in disbelief.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Now I know you’ve lost your mind, and I’m going to do us both a favor and walk away.”

She turns, clearly ready to bolt—but I gently reach out and catch her arm, just above the elbow. Not hard. Just enough to stop her without pushing my luck.

“Peyton, I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”

“You do have another choice. Pick someone else. I’m the wrong girl for this.”

“Name your price,” I say. “How many interviews is it going to take?”

That gets her attention. The word “interviews” is like a switch—her eyes narrow on me—and she’s considering the offer in a whole new light.

“Five,” she says, lifting her glass. “And I want the full story on you and Bethany.”

“Two,” I counter, “and nothing about my mom or my past relationship with Bethany.”

“Well, well, turns out you’re not as desperate as you said you were. Goodbye, and good luck,” she says, turning like the conversation’s over.

But I grip her elbow gently again, stopping her in her tracks.

“Hold on. Three interviews,” I say quickly. “Nothing about my mom. And I’ll cover all your townhouse expenses for the two months I live there.”

She pauses, chewing on the inside of her cheek. I can tell she’s close. She wants the interviews, and she already told me she’s flat-broke after soundproofing her studio. I’m almost there—I can feel it.

“Fine,” she says, her tone sharp and deliberate. “Three interviews. Two months of expenses.”

“Deal,” I say.

“…And you wash my car every Sunday,” she adds quickly like she’s scrambling to tack on more demands while she can.

Whatever. I don’t care. I’ll wash her car plus the neighbor’s if it gets her to agree.

“Okay…sure.”

“…In a Speedo. And Crocs.”

I blink. “You’re kidding.”

She arches a brow, deadpan. “Am I? I’m giving up two interviews. You’ve got to give me something back.”

“It’s the middle of winter, and you want me to wash your car in a Speedo?”

“You’re a professional hockey player. Cold is practically your natural habitat.”

“I play hockey, Collins. I’m not a damn polar bear.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The way she says it—cool, casual, not quite daring me but absolutely daring me—almost makes me laugh. Almost.

It’s not about the Speedo. It’s a power move. She wants to see if I’ll jump through hoops for her. If she’s the one in control.

“Fine,” I say, mostly because, at this point, I’ll agree to anything. “I look damn good in a Speedo anyway.”

“And,” she adds, voice softening, “you come to my nephew’s career day.”

That one lands differently.

“Your nephew’s career day?”

She nods. “My brother’s stationed overseas. My sister-in-law’s an ER nurse, and she’s slammed. Jesse’s a huge Hawkeyes fan, and he just switched schools again. This would mean the world to him.”

It’s a small task that she’s asking for. And if a hockey player from my favorite team had come to my school for my career day when I was a kid, it would have been the highlight of my life.

“Done. Are we in agreement now?” I ask, catching Everett headed our way from across the room.

“I guess so. How much can I spend on the bid?” she asks.

“Whatever it takes. Bleed my bank account dry if you have to, but don’t let her win a date with me,” I say, my eyes shifting to Everett as he walks up.

“Bleed your bank account dry?” Peyton asks with a twinkle in her eye. “With pleasure number seventy-two.”

Everett's voice cuts through the crowd. "Mr. Reed. We need you backstage."

I take one last look at her, unsure if she’s going to follow through or if she agreed to all of this just to screw with me and leave me with no other options.

At this point, I have no other choice than to trust she’s going to make good on our verbal agreement as I follow Everett back through the crowd to the stage.

“Bethany Richards is a motivated negotiator,” he says over his shoulder. “Do you two have history I should know about?”

Shit…she’s serious about trying to make a trade for me.

“There’s no history between us that’s of any relevance,” I tell him.

He nods, though I can tell that he’s thinking through something she said to him earlier. “If there’s anything I need to know, you’ll be sure to tell me?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

Then he turns and heads for the podium as I head backstage.

Backstage is organized chaos. Luka's practicing his runway walk, completely in his element, while Aleksi critiques it. Wolf's adjusting his tie for the hundredth time. But all I can think about is Bethany out there, stalking the front row like she already owns the outcome. My stomach tightens.

I can hear the auctioneer warming up on the mic, already cracking jokes with the crowd. The curtain might as well be paper-thin—every cheer and laugh from the audience punches right through it.

Wolf adjusts his tie again. He’s been doing it every thirty seconds.

"Why does it feel like I’m about to walk into a shootout, not a charity auction?" I ask.

Trey claps me on the back. "Because you're about to be objectified for a good cause. Just smile and pretend to be charming."

I try. But the smile doesn't quite land. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

Bethany’s sitting in the front row with a bid paddle in hand and a smile sharpened into something dangerous on her face.

“Hard to smile when your ex-girlfriend is out there with her soon-to-be ex-husband’s money to burn,” I mutter.

Trey’s head snaps toward me. “Your ex is here?”

I nod toward the curtain. “Blonde. Red lipstick. Sitting between Penelope and Everett’s empty seat.”

Trey moves to the edge of the curtain and peeks out. “Isn’t that Kevin Richards’s wife?”

“Not for long, apparently.”

“Jesus, Reed.” He shoots a glance back at me. “If she’s got Richards on the hook, then what the hell does she want with your ugly mug?”

“Shut up,” I snicker.

But I know exactly why. It’s not about me. It’s about control. About seeing if she can still pull the strings and make me dance. Tonight, it’s me. Tomorrow, it’ll be someone else. That’s who she is. Always has been.

And Richards? He deserves whatever mess he’s in. He’s the one who shipped me off like damaged goods to keep his wife in check. How’s that working out for him now?

I glance back toward the crowd, my gaze locking on Peyton.

She’s standing off to the side, her blue dress catching the light like a damn spotlight. Calm. Cool. Uninterested in the chaos swirling around her.

She’s the only thing between me and a complete PR disaster.

I still don’t know why she said yes. Maybe it’s the interviews. Maybe it’s for her nephew. Or maybe she just wants to watch me sweat after I embarrassed her at Oakley’s a few nights back.

But I meant what I said. She can spend whatever it takes. I’ll take the hit, so long as Bethany walks away empty-handed.

I hear my name announced after Luka’s bid finishes.

Luka goes to a socialite who looks like she just stepped out of a country club catalog. He seems thrilled, already chatting about his Olympic medals.

Then it’s my turn. The stage lights are hot, but Bethany's stare is hotter.

The bidding starts like a firecracker—fast, loud, and out of control. Ten different women, their paddles rising like birds taking flight. But I only watch two: Bethany, smugly confident in the front row, and Peyton, who hasn't moved her paddle once.

Come on, come on...

The numbers climb higher. Women drop out one by one as Bethany counters every bid. Still nothing from Peyton. Sweat trickles down my back under my suit jacket.

Then—finally—Peyton lifts her paddle, and the air in the room changes. Bethany locks in on her like a predator who just spotted a challenger.

The bids fly back and forth. Each time Bethany goes higher, Peyton doubles it. The crowd gasps and cheers, caught up in the drama. Even the other players have stopped their conversations to watch.

"Sold!" I shout, jumping off the stage before I can second-guess myself.

Gasps ripple through the crowd, but I don’t stop. In three long strides, I’m in front of Peyton. She stares up at me, wide-eyed, stunned.

My heart is pounding like I just took a puck to the chest.

"Warning," I murmur, lowering my voice so only she can hear. "I’m about to kiss you."

Then I do.

I sweep her into my arms and crush my mouth to hers.

For a moment, she’s frozen—surprised. But then she melts into me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her lips parting against mine.

She tastes like vodka, blueberries…and possibility. Like everything I didn’t know I needed until now.

And just like that, something dangerous—and completely unstoppable—releases in my chest.

Turning to the crowd, I announce, "Sorry everyone, but I couldn't let anyone but my gorgeous girlfriend win a date with me."

"You didn’t say anything about kissing," she mutters, breathless but not exactly pulling away.

I just grin wider. The crowd awws appreciatively, eating up the romance of it all. Trey gives me a knowing look from the side of the stage while Aleksi whistles suggestively.

Only Bethany's cold stare reminds me that this is just the beginning. But with Peyton in my arms, soft and warm and already arguing about something under her breath, I can't bring myself to care.

Besides, how hard can fake dating be?