Page 13

I woke before dawn, anxiety about the photoshoot propelling me out of bed despite my exhaustion. The house was silent and dark as I tiptoed to the kitchen, barefoot in sleep shorts and an old t-shirt. I'd set out ingredients the night before—flour, sugar, butter, vanilla—planning to bake something that would make the house smell lived-in for the photographers.

The kitchen lights flickered on, illuminating the professional-grade appliances that still intimidated me slightly despite yesterday's shopping spree. I knew exactly what to bake: cinnamon rolls, my grandmother's recipe. Nothing said "home" like the scent of cinnamon and sugar.

Working quietly, I measured ingredients with practiced precision, losing myself in the familiar process. Making dough from scratch was therapeutic—the measured steps, the physical kneading, the transformation of simple ingredients into something greater than the sum of its parts. By the time I'd rolled out the dough and spread it with the cinnamon-sugar mixture, the sky outside was beginning to lighten.

I was so focused on rolling the dough into a tight spiral that I didn't hear footsteps approaching. A deep voice behind me nearly made me jump out of my skin.

"What are you making?"

I spun around, clutching my rolling pin like a weapon, to find Jax leaning against the doorframe. He wore only low-hanging sweatpants, his chest bare in the soft morning light. I'd known he was fit—he was a professional athlete, after all—but seeing him shirtless was different from imagining it. The defined muscles of his chest and arms spoke of years of dedicated training, a few scars telling stories of past injuries.

I realized I was staring and quickly turned back to my dough, hoping he hadn't noticed the heat rising in my cheeks. "Cinnamon rolls. I thought the house should smell lived-in for the photoshoot."

"Smart." He moved into the kitchen, coming to stand beside me at the counter. "Need help?"

The offer surprised me. "You bake?"

"No, but I can follow instructions. Usually." There was a hint of humor in his voice that I was still getting used to—these brief moments when the intimidating "Ice Man" facade cracked, revealing something warmer underneath.

"You can slice these while I make the glaze," I said, handing him a sharp knife. "About an inch thick."

We worked side by side, our arms occasionally brushing in the shared space. I was acutely aware of his bare skin near mine, the heat of him perceptible even without direct contact. The domesticity of the scene wasn't lost on me—barefoot in the kitchen at dawn, preparing breakfast together like a real couple.

"Like this?" he asked, holding up a perfectly sliced roll.

"Perfect," I nodded, impressed by his precision. "Arrange them in that pan, leaving a little space between each."

As he worked, I stole glances at him. His brow furrowed in concentration, the morning stubble along his jaw catching the light, the controlled strength in his hands as he arranged the rolls carefully. There was something unexpectedly endearing about watching this intimidating man focus so intently on such a mundane task.

"You're staring," he said without looking up.

I flushed. "I'm making sure you're doing it right."

"Mmhmm." The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smirk. "Admit it—you're surprised I can follow directions."

"Shocked, actually," I teased, whisking together powdered sugar and vanilla for the glaze. "I assumed hockey players just grunted and hit things."

"That's only on the ice." He placed the last roll in the pan. "Off ice, we're very domesticated."

"Clearly." I gestured to his bare chest with my whisk, then immediately regretted drawing attention back to his state of undress. "Though most people wear shirts when they cook."

His eyes met mine, a hint of mischief in them. "Does it bother you?"

The directness of the question caught me off guard. Did it bother me? Not in the way he meant. It bothered me that I'd noticed. It bothered me that I'd been unable to stop myself from appreciating the view. It bothered me that for a brief, inappropriate moment, I'd wondered what those muscles would feel like under my hands.

"Just trying to maintain professionalism in our arrangement," I replied, focusing intently on my glaze.

"Of course." His tone was neutral, but when I glanced up, there was something in his eyes I couldn't quite define—amusement, perhaps, or something more complex. "Professionalism."

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of the photography crew. Jax thankfully went to put on a shirt before answering.

The next hour was a whirlwind of activity as Olivia directed a team of photographers and stylists through the house. They adjusted the decorations we'd placed the night before, added fresh flowers on tables, and positioned lighting equipment in strategic locations.

"The concept is 'domestic bliss,'" Olivia explained, reviewing a shot list with the lead photographer. "We want to capture authentic moments between the newlyweds in their home environment."

"Authentic," I muttered to Jax as we stood to the side, watching our house be transformed. "Because nothing says authentic like staged photos of fake spouses."

He surprised me with a quiet laugh. "Just follow the director's instructions and try not to look like you're being held hostage."

"Is that how I look?"

"A little." He touched my shoulder briefly. "Relax. It's just pretend."

Just pretend. The reminder was necessary, but somehow deflating.

The photoshoot itself was excruciating. We posed cooking together in the kitchen with the cinnamon rolls serving as perfect props, reading on the couch with books open to random pages, and even playing with Sprinkles in the backyard, which was the only genuinely enjoyable part, as the dog's enthusiasm couldn't be staged.

"Now I need some more intimate shots," the photographer announced, leading us upstairs. "Let's try some casual moments in the bedroom."

I exchanged an alarmed look with Jax. We hadn't discussed bedroom photos.

The master bedroom had been styled with additional pillows and throws, the bed artfully rumpled to suggest recent occupation. I stood awkwardly at the threshold, suddenly uncomfortable with this invasion of Jax's private space.

"Sienna, sit on the edge of the bed," the photographer instructed. "Jax, stand between her and the window. We'll capture the morning light around you."

I perched stiffly on the bed, hyperaware of Jax's presence as he stood nearby. The photographer frowned at our rigid postures.

"You're supposed to be newlyweds, not strangers at a bus stop. Jax, put your hand on her shoulder. Sienna, look up at him adoringly."

Adoringly. Right. I tilted my face up, trying to manufacture an expression of adoration for a man I barely knew.

"Not quite," the photographer sighed. "Let's try something else. Both of you on the bed, leaning against the headboard, like you're having a lazy Sunday morning."

This was even worse—side by side on Jax's bed, shoulders touching, trying to appear comfortable with an audience watching. The photographer continued issuing directions, each pose more intimate than the last.

After nearly an hour of bedroom photos that made both of us increasingly tense, the photographer announced he needed some shots on the deck overlooking the lake. As the crew relocated, I escaped to the bathroom, needing a moment alone.

When I emerged, the bedroom was empty except for Jax, who stood by the window staring out at the water. His shoulders were tight with tension, jaw clenched.

"You okay?" I asked.

He didn't turn. "I hate this."

"The photoshoot?"

"All of it." His voice was low, controlled. "Strangers in my house, moving my things, staging my life like it's a movie set. Being directed to act a certain way in my own space."

I approached cautiously, understanding his discomfort. For someone who valued privacy and control as much as Jax clearly did, this invasion must be excruciating.

"It's just for today," I said gently. "They'll be gone soon."

He turned then, his expression surprisingly vulnerable. "It's not just today, though, is it? It's three months of this—performing, being watched, having my private life become public property."

"I know." I hesitated, then admitted, "I'm struggling with it too. I'm not used to being the center of attention."

He looked surprised by my honesty. "You hide it well."

"Years of serving customers." I attempted a smile. "The show must go on, right?"

For a long moment, we just looked at each other—two strangers bound by a contract but sharing something genuine in this quiet moment of mutual understanding. Jax's mask had slipped, showing me a glimpse of the man beneath the carefully controlled exterior. I found myself wanting to know more about that man.

The moment was broken by Olivia calling from downstairs. "Jax? Sienna? We're ready for the deck shots!"

The deck photos were the most challenging yet. The photographer wanted "romantic intimacy" with the scenic lake as backdrop. We stood facing each other, Jax's arms around my waist, my hands on his chest, our faces close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin.

"Look at her like she's your whole world, Jax," the photographer directed. "Like you can't believe she's yours."

Jax tried, his expression stiff with concentration. The photographer sighed in frustration.

"It looks forced. Let's reset."

After three failed attempts, Jax's tension was palpable. I could feel him withdrawing further with each criticism, his body rigid against mine. Impulsively, I leaned closer and whispered, "Remember Marco's face when I said I'd never watched a hockey game?"

Confusion flickered across his features. "What?"

"He looked like I'd said I breathe underwater. And then Anders just nodded and said 'wise choice' and Marco nearly choked on his drink."

The memory—a small moment from yesterday's team barbeque—startled a genuine laugh from Jax. His face transformed, eyes crinkling at the corners, tension momentarily forgotten.

"Perfect!" The photographer exclaimed, capturing the moment. "That's exactly what we need. Natural, authentic joy."

The irony wasn't lost on me—our most "authentic" moment was one manufactured through deliberate distraction. But it had worked, momentarily breaking through Jax's carefully constructed walls.

By early afternoon, the photographers finally declared they had what they needed. As the crew packed up their equipment, Olivia reviewed some of the shots on a laptop, nodding with satisfaction.

"These are excellent," she said. "The kitchen ones especially—you two have surprising chemistry on camera."

I avoided looking at Jax, uncomfortable with the observation. We didn't have chemistry. We had a business arrangement. Any perceived connection was simply good acting on both our parts.

After the crew left, we stood in the suddenly quiet living room, surrounded by the aftermath of the photoshoot—moved furniture, discarded coffee cups, lingering tension.

"Well," I said, breaking the silence. "That was..."

"Excruciating," Jax finished.

"I was going to say 'intense,' but your word is better." I checked my watch. "I should get to the bakery for the afternoon shift."

"I'll drive you," Jax offered immediately.

I blinked in surprise. "You don't have to do that."

"I know. I want to." He grabbed his keys from the counter. "Besides, I've been thinking about trying those chocolate croissants again."

The drive to the bakery was surprisingly comfortable, our shared ordeal of the photoshoot having created a kind of camaraderie between us. When we arrived, Chloe's eyebrows shot up at the sight of Jax following me through the door.

"Well, hello there, Mr. Harrison," she said, her tone overly polite. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Just dropping off your boss," Jax replied. "And hoping for one of those chocolate things."

"Chocolate croissants," I corrected, tying on my apron. "Coming right up."

The afternoon rush kept me busy, but I was aware of Jax seated at a corner table, alternating between checking his phone and watching me work. He seemed genuinely interested in the bakery operations, occasionally asking questions about different pastries or baking techniques.

When a flour delivery arrived—fifty-pound bags that always left Chloe and me sore from hauling them inside—Jax immediately stepped up to help, lifting the heavy bags with ease and carrying them to the storage room.

"Your husband is handy," Chloe whispered as we watched him stack the bags. "And those arms... no wonder you're blushing."

"I'm not blushing," I hissed, though my cheeks felt warm. "It's hot in here."

"Mmhmm." Her knowing smirk was infuriating. "Hot indeed."

As closing time approached, Jax surprised me again by offering to help clean up. He rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt and joined us in wiping down counters and sweeping floors.

"You don't have to do this," I told him as he carefully cleaned the espresso machine under my direction.

"I don't mind," he said simply. "It's interesting seeing how a small business operates. My parents owned a hardware store when I was growing up."

This casual revelation—the first personal detail he'd volunteered about his childhood—caught my attention. "Really? You never mentioned that."

He shrugged. "It never came up."

"So retail is in your blood," I teased. "No wonder you're so good with customers."

The sarcasm made him smile. "I worked the register every summer from age twelve until I left for junior hockey. I hated it."

"Let me guess—you didn't enjoy making small talk with strangers?"

"I was terrible at it. My dad used to say I had the customer service skills of a cranky teen."

The image of teenage Jax glowering at customers from behind a cash register made me laugh. "Some things never change."

Chloe, who had been unusually quiet during this exchange, suddenly stepped between us. "While this domestic bliss is adorable, I need to ask Jax something."

Her serious tone made us both straighten up. "What is it?" Jax asked.

Chloe crossed her arms. "What are your intentions toward my best friend?"

"Chloe!" I exclaimed, mortified.

She ignored me, eyes fixed on Jax. "I'm serious. This whole arrangement seems nice and tidy on paper, but Sienna is giving up three months of her life for this. She's lying to her family, changing her routine, living with a stranger. Meanwhile, you get your endorsement deal and go back to being the Ice Man. Seems a little one-sided."

I wanted to sink through the floor, but to my surprise, Jax didn't dismiss the question. Instead, he seemed to genuinely consider it.

"You're right that Sienna is making significant sacrifices," he said finally. "I recognize that, and I'm grateful. My intention is to honor our agreement completely—financial support for the bakery, as promised, and making these three months as comfortable as possible for her."

Chloe narrowed her eyes. "And emotionally? Because living together, pretending to be in love—that gets messy. People develop feelings."

"Chloe, stop," I interrupted firmly. "Jax and I have an understanding. This is business."

"Everything's business until it isn't," she replied cryptically, then sighed. "Fine. I've said my piece. Just be careful, both of you."

An awkward silence fell over the bakery. I busied myself with closing procedures, embarrassed by Chloe's protective outburst but also touched by her concern.

As we drove home, the tension from Chloe's questioning lingered between us.

"I'm sorry about that," I finally said as we pulled into the driveway. "Chloe can be overprotective."

"Don't apologize," Jax replied. "She cares about you. That's a good thing."

"Still, the interrogation was unnecessary."

He turned off the engine but made no move to get out of the car. "Was it, though? Her concerns aren't invalid. This arrangement does impact you more directly than me."

I hadn't expected this level of self-awareness from him. "I'm a grown woman who made this choice. I knew what I was agreeing to."

"Even so." He looked at me directly, his expression serious. "If at any point this becomes too difficult, too invasive, too anything—tell me. We'll figure something out."

The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't the cold, transactional Jax who had proposed our arrangement in my bakery office. This was someone different—someone who actually seemed to care about my wellbeing beyond what it meant for his endorsement deal.

"I will," I promised, oddly touched. "But I'm tougher than I look. It takes more than a photoshoot and a pushy best friend to rattle me."

His mouth curved into a small smile. "I'm beginning to see that."

As we entered the house, greeted by an ecstatic Sprinkles, I found myself thinking about Chloe's warning. People develop feelings. It was precisely what I'd promised myself I wouldn't do—confuse this business arrangement with anything genuine.

Yet watching Jax kneel to greet my dog, his usual reserve softening as Sprinkles licked his face, I felt something shift inside me—a dangerous warmth I couldn't quite name but recognized I needed to guard against.

This wasn't real, I reminded myself firmly. No matter how domestic our day had been, no matter how genuinely considerate Jax could sometimes be, this was still a transaction.