Page 103 of Daddies on Ice

But the flush that spreads across Tish’s cheeks is real, and it makes something twist in my chest.

This is supposed to be fake.

A publicity stunt to clean up my image and give the team some positive press.

So why does every interaction with her feel like it means something more?

I’ve shared women before. Hell, I’ve been in situations that would make most people blush, and I’ve never thought twice about it.

Sex is sex, pleasure is pleasure, and I’ve never been one to get emotionally attached.

But last night…last night was different.

Maybe it’s because we’ve been playing house, pretending to be in love for the cameras.

Maybe all this fake intimacy is messing with my head, making me think I feel things I don’t actually feel.

Because Jake Sorenson doesn’t fall for anyone.

Not after Lillian.

Not ever again.

“Tell me about your family’s Christmas traditions,” Tish says, leaning forward slightly. The movement causes her sweater to dip just enough to give me a glimpse of the creamy skin beneath, and I have to force myself to look at her face instead.

“We didn’t really have many,” I admit, taking a sip of wine to buy myself time. “My parents were always working, even on holidays. Christmas was usually just another day, maybe with slightly better takeout.”

It’s not entirely true, but it’s easier than explaining how Christmas used to be my favorite holiday until Lillian destroyed it for me.

How I used to love the idea of creating traditions with someone special, of building a life filled with moments like this.

“That’s sad,” Tish says softly, and for a moment I forget about the cameras entirely. There’s genuine sympathy in her voice, the kind that makes me want to tell her everything. “What about now? Do you do anything special?”

“Usually just hang out with the team. We have a big dinner at Carl’s place.” I cut another piece of turkey, using the action toavoid her penetrating gaze. “What about you? What are your traditions?”

Her face lights up as she talks about Christmas morning with Becky, about how they make pancakes shaped like snowmen and open presents while still in their pajamas.

She describes the way her daughter’s eyes get wide when she sees what Santa brought, and I find myself hanging on every word.

This is what I used to want. This warmth, this sense of family, this feeling of belonging somewhere.

But wanting those things is what got me hurt before, and I can’t afford to make that mistake again.

“We should probably move to the living room,” Tish suggests after we’ve finished eating. “The presents are under the tree.”

The crew follows us into the small living room, rearranging their equipment around the Christmas tree.

The space feels even more cramped now, with barely enough room for all of us to fit. Tish settles onto the couch, and I sit beside her, close enough that our thighs touch.

She hands me a wrapped box, and I’m surprised by the weight of it. “You didn’t have to get me anything real,” I murmur, low enough that the cameras won’t pick it up.

“I wanted to,” she whispers back, and something in her tone makes my chest tighten.

I unwrap the gift carefully, aware that this moment is being recorded for posterity. Inside is a leather-bound journal with my initials embossed on the cover.

It’s simple but elegant, the kind of thing I would never buy for myself but immediately love.

“For your thoughts,” she explains. “You mentioned once that you used to write when you were younger.”