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5

JEANNIE

Two weeks later…

T his was insanity – sheer insanity…

And Jeannie was swimming up to her hairline in crazy waves threatening to drag her down. Matthieu had flown out this morning, and it was just last night that he sat grinning on the couch like a fiend. The news broke about his departure from Seattle - and that he was the new starting goalie for the Quebec Wolverines.

The newscasters looked completely stunned.

Matthieu was grinning.

She was utterly flabbergasted by the whole situation.

Her fake-husband was on the news , being talked about like he was the next big thing to hit hockey, as a bunch of strangers in suits on the screen dissected this new life, breaking it down, bit-by-bit.

‘Larsson and his family will be making the move to Quebec – and the Wolverines are hitting the ice this coming season with some big names…’

They are out for blood – aren’t they, Tony?

They sure are – and I think they are going to get it, too

Kenneth Salas, Jett Acton, Barrett Coeur, Kenneth Boucher…

You know, a few years ago, we would be sitting here saying ‘Who would be crazy enough to sign Boucher with his baggage’ – but apparently it’s Quebec, and I don’t blame them. The man’s a beast on the ice.

So is Larsson – and with Lafreniére teaching him the ropes?

The Wolverines are going to be unstoppable this season.

“This is the best newscast ever,” Matthieu had laughed beside her, overjoyed by the announcement as they had sat on the couch last night.

Wow.

That had been last night…

The same couch that was currently being hefted out by movers who needed to hurry because her flight left at six this evening, and she still needed to get a cab, turn in the keys, and get going.

“Hey, Mrs. Larsson, I bet your husband is really excited about the Wolverines signing him, eh? I saw that wicked ‘butterfly-save’ against the Penguins and that rob? Ohhh boy! Mannnn, that made me hurt for a week just watching it.”

“That’s him,” she said brightly, realizing that she had literally no clue as to what they were talking about. Was Matthieu skating with penguins on the ice – and how did they contain the butterflies in the arena – much less how did one go about robbing one? And why would you steal nectar from a butterfly? “That’s my husband. He does all the robbing of those mean ol’ butterflies and fights penguins like it’s going out of style.”

And both men looked at her like she was crazy – nearly dropping the couch. A part of her thought about explaining or adding to her statement but it was best she left it alone. How did you explain that a ‘dedicated hockey wife’ had no clue what was involved in a ‘ hockey life’ ?

But she didn’t feel like a wife.

Right now, she didn’t feel like a very good friend. She never sat with him to watch the games, never asked questions, and unfortunately, that seemed to suit him. He was either coming or going, trying to be on his best behavior for work and keeping a low profile until things were settled.

The contract had been signed, but he requested nothing be announced until they were set to move in. Sure enough, the moment the house was ready to sign the papers on, do the closing, and get the keys. He called Fallon to arrange for the press conference and went to practice – only to come home an hour later.

Fired.

And smiling.

His golden hair was a mess, windswept and unruly as though he had run a hand through it a dozen times. His face, flushed with excitement, held a joy so pure it nearly blinded her. It wasn’t just happiness—it was something more, something breathtaking, something that sent a sharp ache through her chest. She had thought him handsome before, but this?

This was staggering.

This was devastating .

Her heart clenched, squeezed tight by a force she didn’t understand, something far more powerful than attraction. It was a pull, a gravitational force dragging her toward him with undeniable certainty. It made her breath hitch and her fingers tremble. She had never felt anything like this before—never wanted something so fiercely, so desperately, with every fiber of her being. It stole the air from her lungs and left her unsteady on her feet.

And Matthieu wasn’t interested in her.

She saw it.

She knew it.

She lived it.

The realization hit like ice water down her spine.Sharp, jarring, and painful. She wasn’t the type of girl guys went for – and Matthieu would be no different. She was scrawny, her backside being the largest part of her. Her hair was chin-length and poofy, and her eyes were hidden behind glasses much too large for her face. She would never be a beauty queen… and the man she was supposed to be pretending to be married to looked like an angel.

Sighing heavily, Jeannie tried to focus as the last of the things from Matthieu’s condo was emptied, and her time in Seattle was over. She was unexpectedly closing another chapter of her life and a little confused about the direction that the book was now heading.

H ours later, it was nearly ten o’clock at night when Jeannie’s plane finally touched down in Quebec. She was drained, her body aching from the long flight, her mind sluggish from the whirlwind of emotions that had chased her across the sky.

As she followed the slow-moving crowd toward the exit, she listened to the announcements overhead, first in rapid French, then in English. The foreign syllables rolled over her, a stark reminder that this was her new reality. A new country. A new life. A new set of challenges she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she neared the doorway marked Sortie . Just one more step, and then?—

Her breath caught.

There, standing just beyond the barrier, was Matthieu. Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, her pulse roaring in her ears.

He was waiting for her.

Dressed in a Wolverines T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, he looked effortlessly handsome, golden hair tousled as though he’d run his fingers through it a dozen times. But it wasn’t just the sight of him that stopped her dead in her tracks—it was what he held.

A bouquet of flowers.

Not just any flowers, but roses, impossibly soft-looking and vibrant, their petals a fiery orange with playful hot-pink edges. They were striking, unexpected. Beautiful. They made her chest tighten and her throat burn.

For one blissful, aching second, she let herself believe. Let herself pretend they meant something. Then he smiled—easy, casual. Lifted a hand in greeting like this was nothing.

“Hey!” he called out, his voice warm and familiar, hitting her like a jolt of electricity. “I was wondering if you’d make it today or if there was another delay. How was your flight, Jeannie?”

She swallowed hard, struggling to form words. “Oh, it was good,” she managed, though the word felt hollow in her mouth.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and handed her the bouquet. The scent of the roses swirled around her—sweet, rich, intoxicating. But before she could get lost in it, before she could let herself fall, he winked.

“Gotta make it look good, remember?” he murmured, amusement dancing in his deep brown eyes.

The moment shattered.

Jeannie barely kept hold of the flowers, staring down at them as if they had suddenly withered in her hands. The colors seemed duller now, their warmth faded. Of course, they weren’t for her . Not really. This wasn’t a gesture of affection. It was a performance . A show. A perfectly choreographed move to keep up appearances.

The sting was sharp, immediate.

“Ah, yes,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even though it felt like something inside her had cracked. “That whole ‘we’re a couple’ thing.”

She lifted her gaze to him, studying his face, searching for—what? Some sign that he cared? That he felt even a fraction of what was beginning to take root inside her?

But he was unreadable.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” she admitted, the words slipping out flat, detached.

Because the truth was, she was surprised. Not just that he had come to meet her, but that seeing him here—waiting, standing so effortlessly in her world—made something inside her ache.

She was starting to feel things for him.

Real things.

Dangerous things.

And it was only going to end in disaster.

She was two weeks into this debacle built on lies and already struggling. Because Matthieu might be her husband on paper, but he wasn’t hers . Not in the ways that mattered. He had never once asked her about her dreams, her ambitions, what made her heart race or her soul ignite. He’d never considered that there might be more to her than the surface-level assumptions he had made. No, to him, she was nothing more than a convenience.

She had a role to play.

An obligation to fulfill.

And that realization hurt more than she’d expected.

“Let’s head home so you can see the house – and I’ll give you the tour tomorrow,” he said happily, taking her backpack from her.

She felt like she might be sick at how easy it was for him to play this part. He hefted her backpack onto his shoulder and held out his hand. They were in public so it wasn’t like she could say ‘no’ – and she sure wasn’t brave enough to ask if there was any chance at all for her in his future romantically.

The signs had been there all along. Subtle at first, but undeniable in hindsight. The distance crept between them like a silent, creeping fog, chilling everything in its path. The hushed phone calls, the way he would step out of the room whenever his family called, leaving her to sit in the quiet, staring at the walls. The nights spent side by side sitting on the couch yet miles apart—him glued to his laptop or engrossed in whatever show he had chosen, never once asking what she might want to watch. It was his home. It had always been his home. And she… she had merely been a guest in whatever this was supposed to be. A visitor who had overstayed her welcome.

And now, walking beside him as he spoke, all those little moments of doubt—the ones she had shoved down, ignored, swallowed—rose like bile in the back of her throat.

“Man, I think you are really going to love it here, Jeannie,” Matthieu was saying, his voice full of excitement, of promise, of something warm she wished she could hold onto. “The weather is amazing so far, but everyone keeps telling me ‘just wait’ because the winters are rough… but it gets cold in Seattle, so I think we’ll be just fine. And the arena— oh Jeannie —the arena is breathtaking. There’s a huge room for the families to hang out and wait for us after a game, the lockers, the suites, the gym—it's all new, state-of-the-art. They’re really taking care of us. On top of it all—they said to let them know if we need anything at all. I’ve got tickets for you at each of the games and plenty for a friend, so you can invite people to go, too.”

She kept walking, nodding absently, but his words pressed against her like a weight she couldn’t lift. A friend. He said it so easily, as if she had someone—anyone—here besides him. But she didn’t. She had no one. No job. No car. No independence. She didn’t even speak the language well enough to order coffee without fumbling. The realization settled over her like a heavy shroud, suffocating, inescapable.

I’m going to end up heartbroken.

She turned her gaze to him, taking in his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the easy smile, the way the late afternoon sun caught in his hair, making him look golden and untouchable. He kept talking, so happy, so unaware of the slow, quiet breaking happening inside her.

“So… what do you think?” Matthieu’s voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the moment. He turned to face her, his grin wide and boyish, his eyes searching hers. “I thought, ‘ What would my Jeannie like and approve of?’ —and I hope this fits the bill.”

“What?”

“Your car,” he chuckled, holding out a key. “I made a smart, economical decision with you in mind—and I hope I got it right. I don’t want you trapped at the house, but free to explore and learn your way around here. So, what do you think?”

She blinked at him, uncomprehending. “You got me… a car?”

“And I was good,” he whispered, grinning as he slung an arm around her shoulders in an awkward, friendly hug. The kind of hug that spoke of camaraderie rather than longing. “Isn’t it cute? It’ll be fun to drive around in during the summer and… you’re not smiling.”

Jeannie turned, staring at the small dark-blue Beetle convertible parked in front of them. The world tilted, her breath catching somewhere in her throat. He’d bought her a car. A used car. She should be grateful. She should be happy.

Instead, she felt like something inside her had just cracked.

Matthieu must have noticed the shift in her expression, because he immediately lifted his hands in mock surrender, his voice rushing now, as if trying to placate her. “Before you flip out, I was good. It was a used car, on sale, and I paid cash for it. There’s no car payment, and it’s in both of our names. I did the titling as ‘Matthieu or Jeannie’—so either one of us could handle it. If you decide to get something else later, you don’t need me present.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut.

You don’t need me present.

A slow, aching numbness spread through her, dulling everything. The air seemed colder. The world quieter.

If she had been a flower, slowly turning toward the light, desperate for warmth, for a reason to bloom and she had just lost another petal.

And she was dying.

She looked at him and plastered a weak smile on her face.

“It’s great, Matthieu… thank you.”

F orty minutes later, they were getting out of the tiny car, and Jeannie was fighting back the urge to break down and cry. It was almost like he couldn’t stand the silence; Matthieu talked the entire way to the house about nothing and everything. He kept reassuring her that everything was handled, mentioned again how they didn’t ask him for the marriage license yet, and kept asking her if she liked the car.

She didn’t know what to say right now.

She loved the car.

She loved the house.

She was falling for him – and hated that he wasn’t interested in her. Why couldn’t he show interest or give her a chance. While she might not be exactly what he was looking for on the outside, inside, she was a wonderful person screaming for attention.

She stared at the house before her, the very picture of a dream she had once dared to hope for, and felt utterly, achingly lost. This was supposed to be her fairytale, her castle in the clouds—but the prince was playing an entirely different game.

She was Sleeping Beauty, waiting for a kiss to awaken something magical. He was off somewhere in another world, playing Halo. Same stage. Same players. Different stories. And if they weren’t careful, they were both going to lose everything in the end.

The thought crushed her. Swallowing back her despair, she heard Matthieu shut the trunk, his footsteps crunching over gravel as he approached.

This sucks, she thought morosely as she looked at the house, hearing Matthieu shut the trunk of the car after getting her backpack. And heard him walking up behind her.

“Here you go,” he said, his voice bright, as if he had no idea how shattered she felt inside. He handed her a set of keys with a proud smile. “Your car keys and your copy of the house keys. The insurance and registration are in the glovebox if you ever need anything. And the Wi-Fi password is Wolverines Hockey Team—all one word. I figured I’d keep it simple since we’ll be setting up everything on the system. I even picked up a few smart gadgets to make it cozier. How do you feel about having the lamps in the living room on the Wi-Fi system? That way, when you come in at night, you can just say, ‘ Alexa, turn on the lights ,’ and boom—instant brightness. What do you think?”

She curled her fingers around the keys, their cool weight pressing into her palm, grounding her against the storm of emotions threatening to consume her.

“It’s whatever you want to do,” she said softly, forcing the words out past the knot in her throat.

“Well, yeah, I guess... but what do you want me to do?”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“I’m sure it has. Let me get you inside,” he murmured, his tone almost tender. She refused to look at him, afraid that if she did, something inside her would crack wide open—or worse, she’d beg him to see her differently. And she had promised herself she would never beg for love from anyone ever again.

As Matthieu pushed open the front door, her breath hitched. Beyond the vast expanse of glass, darkness stretched over where the water would be visible in daylight, a reflection of the emptiness she felt inside. The house was warm, welcoming, perfect... and yet, in that moment, it felt like the loneliest place in the world.

And then she was weightless.

A startled gasp escaped her lips as Matthieu effortlessly lifted her into his arms, his chest solid, his embrace steady.

“I may not have married you,” he whispered with a soft chuckle, his breath warm against her ear, “but I think we could both use a dollop of good luck in our lives and our future together—eh?”

Her heart clenched. For one fleeting moment, she could almost pretend. Almost believe that this meant something more than just another of his playful, meaningless gestures.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Carrying my bride over the threshold.”

“I’m not your bride, remember?” she murmured bitterly. “I’m nothing.”

He stopped, his arms tightening around her before he carefully set her down. She looked up and met his gaze—those striking blue eyes clouded with confusion, hurt flickering beneath the surface.

“I thought it would be sweet,” he admitted, frowning slightly. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. It’s like I’m doing everything wrong when I’m trying to do the right things for us. What is going on?”

She swallowed hard, looking away because if she didn’t, she might break entirely. His words hovered between them, heavy and unspoken.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely holding steady. “I guess I’m just tired.”

“I can understand that.”

“It’s been a lot...”

“I get that too—but you’re home now. You’re safe and can rest unbothered,” he murmured, his touch light as he took her elbow and led her down the hall. “Here’s your room. I took the liberty of setting it up so you could get some sleep when you got home. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Well, I guess this is good night.”

“I guess so,” she replied, her heart clenching as she tried to push down those feelings of inadequacy deep down inside.

“Jeannie?”

“Yeah?” she answered automatically, turning and looking up at him, trying to control that sudden surge of hope within her chest. Her eyes met his, saw him searching her gaze, waiting, and then seemed to visibly deflate before her eyes.

“Nothing. Sweet dreams – and I’m glad you are here.”

Matthieu’s words hung in the air, an invisible wall falling into place between them. Jeannie watched, her breath caught in her throat, as he turned without hesitation, walking away from her. His broad shoulders disappeared through the doorway at the far end of the house, his steps steady, unhurried—so unlike the chaos roaring inside her chest. She wanted to call out, to stop him before he vanished completely, before the last shred of hope slipped through her fingers like sand.

But no sound came.

She stood frozen in place, her body stiff with rejection, her mind reeling from the quiet devastation of his retreat. A hollow ache spread through her, deep and cavernous, like something inside her had cracked wide open. Was it truly that awful? Was she so repellent to him that he couldn’t even spare her a second glance? The thought sent a shiver through her, raw and unbearable.

For a fleeting moment, desperation clawed at her insides. She wanted to run after him, to grab his face between her trembling hands and force him to see her—to really see her. To kiss him with all the longing that grew exponentially within her each time she saw him, thought of him, or talked to him. To make him feel what she felt, to shatter the distance between them.

But her feet refused to move.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms as she struggled to hold herself together. It was useless. He didn’t want her. He had made that painfully, devastatingly clear.

Slowly, her limbs like lead, she turned back to the bedroom, the weight of unspoken words pressing against her ribs. Her fingers trembled as she shut the door, the soft click sounding so much louder in the suffocating silence. The bed stood before her, pristine, untouched—just like her.

With a strangled breath, she sank onto the mattress, her body folding in on itself. The first sob tore through her, sharp and uncontrollable, and then another, until she was shaking beneath the crushing weight of sorrow. Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and relentless, soaking into the pillow as she buried her face against it.

She wept like her heart was breaking—because it was.

Because she was playing the part of a beloved wife, married to some celebrity hockey star, and he looked at her like she was nothing; like she was again a disappointment to someone who should have accepted her unconditionally. She had felt like a reject by wanting to be her own person growing up – and now she was an adult – and still rejected.

Matthieu didn’t even try to broach the space between them. No kiss good night, no hug, and no effort made to cross those lines. They were going to be friends, roommates, and nothing more – just as he originally planned – and had just walked away as if she were nothing at all.

What is wrong with me?