Page 14

The drive home from the bakery filled me with an unfamiliar contentment. Sienna sat beside me, filling the car with stories about particularly demanding wedding cake clients, her animated gestures and expressive face bringing each tale vividly to life. I found myself laughing more than I had in months, possibly years.

"So the bride's mother calls at midnight, demanding a completely different design than what they'd approved," Sienna recounted. "And I had less than eight hours to remake a four-tier wedding cake from scratch."

"What did you do?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"Pulled an all-nighter, drank enough espresso to kill a small horse, and delivered the cake with twenty minutes to spare." She grinned. "The bride cried when she saw it. Happy tears, thankfully."

"You saved the day."

"I saved my reputation," she corrected. "In the bakery business, word-of-mouth is everything. One disaster can undo years of goodwill."

I nodded, understanding completely. "Same in hockey. You can play a hundred perfect games, but fans remember the one time you miss a crucial block in the playoffs."

"Exactly!" She seemed pleased by the comparison. "Though nobody throws themselves in front of flying objects in my line of work."

"I've seen you navigate that bakery during the morning rush. Those customers with their grabby hands and coffee deprivation aren't much different from opposing forwards."

She laughed again, the sound filling the car with warmth. I found myself driving a little slower than usual, in no hurry to end the conversation.

My phone buzzed repeatedly from the center console. I ignored it until we stopped at a red light, then glanced at the screen to see multiple texts from teammates. All referenced the photoshoot pictures, which apparently had already been released online.

Looking pretty cozy in those kitchen shots, Ice Man. – Marco

She's got you BAKING? Man, she must be special. – Nichols

Didn't know you could smile like that. Good look on you. – Finn

I set the phone down, uncomfortable with their observations. The photos couldn't have been published more than an hour ago, yet everyone had already seen them. The public scrutiny was exactly what we'd wanted for the endorsement deal, but I hadn't anticipated how invasive it would feel.

"Bad news?" Sienna asked, noticing my change in mood.

"Just teammates." I accelerated as the light turned green. "The photos are already online."

"Oh." She bit her lip. "That was fast."

"Olivia works quickly when it comes to PR."

By the time we arrived home, both our phones were buzzing constantly with notifications. Leo had texted that the Perfect Home Furnishings executives were "thrilled" with the images and wanted to schedule a meeting to talk about the endorsement contract. The plan was working perfectly.

So why did the success feel so hollow?

I stood in the kitchen, staring at the congratulatory text from Leo, trying to recapture the satisfaction I'd imagined I'd feel when this plan came together. Instead, I felt strangely unsettled.

"Jax?" Sienna's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Everything okay?"

I looked up to find her watching me with concern. She'd changed into comfortable clothes—leggings and an oversized sweatshirt—and had pulled her hair into a messy bun. Even in this casual state, something about her presence made the house feel more like a home than it ever had before.

"Fine," I replied automatically. "Just tired. It's been a long day."

She studied me for a moment, clearly not believing me, but didn't press the issue. "I'm going to make some dinner. Nothing fancy, just pasta. Would you like some?"

"Sure. Thanks." I retreated to my home office, needing space to sort through my conflicted feelings.

The endorsement was happening. The fake marriage was working exactly as planned. In three months, I'd have the contract secured, Sienna would have her bakery debt paid off, and we'd go our separate ways. Everything according to plan.

I stared at the wedding ring on my finger—a simple gold band that meant nothing yet somehow felt heavier each day. This was business, I reminded myself. Not real life.

But watching Sienna at the bakery today, in her element, confidently creating and connecting with customers, I'd glimpsed something genuine that made our manufactured relationship feel hollow by comparison. She'd built something real with her bakery—a business based on passion and family tradition rather than calculated image management.

My phone rang, Leo's name lighting up the screen.

"The photos are gold," he said without preamble when I answered. "The kitchen ones especially. Perfect Home Furnishings is ecstatic—exactly the family-man image they wanted."

"Great," I replied flatly.

Leo paused. "You don't sound thrilled. This is working, Jax. The plan is perfect."

"I know. It's just been a long day." I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting off a headache. "What's next?"

"Meeting with the executives next Tuesday. They want to meet Sienna too, of course. Everything's progressing according to the plan."

"Good." I couldn't muster more enthusiasm.

"Is everything okay with you two?" Leo asked, his tone shifting to concern. "You're not... having issues, are you?"

"No issues. Everything's fine."

"You sure? Because Olivia mentioned you seemed tense during the photoshoot."

"I hate photoshoots. You know that."

"Right." He sounded unconvinced. "Well, just keep it together for a few more weeks. The hard part's almost over."

After hanging up, I stared at the wall of hockey memorabilia in my office—trophies, framed jerseys, game pucks—physical reminders of what had always been my sole focus, until now.

Dinner was quiet, both of us tired from the long day. Sienna talked about the bakery's increased business since our marriage had made the local news, while I nodded and offered minimal responses, still distracted by my unsettled thoughts.

After she went to bed, I tried to sleep but found myself staring at the ceiling, mind racing. Around midnight, I gave up and headed to the kitchen for water. To my surprise, lights were already on, and the scent of vanilla and butter filled the air.

Sienna stood at the counter in pajama shorts and a tank top, measuring ingredients with focused precision. A dusting of flour marked her cheek, and loose strands of hair fell around her face as she worked.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I asked, startling her.

She jumped slightly, hand going to her chest. "You move too quietly for someone your size."

"Sorry." I moved to the refrigerator for water. "What are you making at midnight?"

"Chocolate chip cookies." She continued measuring. "Stress baking. It helps me process."

"Process what?"

She shrugged. "Everything. The photoshoot. The attention. This whole..." She gestured vaguely between us. "Situation."

I watched her methodically cream butter and sugar, her movements confident and practiced. There was something mesmerizing about the way she worked, a rhythm and purpose I found myself drawn to.

"Teach me," I said suddenly, surprising myself as much as her.

She looked up, confusion clear on her face. "Teach you what?"

"How to make cookies." I set down my water and approached the counter. "If I'm going to be photographed baking, I should probably know the basics."

A smile tugged at her lips. "The great Jax Harrison wants baking lessons at midnight?"

"Is there a better time?"

"Fair point." She pulled another mixing bowl from the cabinet. "Wash your hands. Baking rule number one."

For the next thirty minutes, I followed her instructions, measuring flour, apparently it matters how you scoop it. Adding chocolate chips, there's a right amount, and then there's the correct amount, which is more. Learning the importance of not overmixing, it makes cookies tough, apparently.

"Now for the most important part," Sienna said, demonstrating with her bowl. "Creaming the butter and sugar properly creates tiny air pockets that make the cookies light instead of dense."

I mimicked her movements, but apparently not well enough.

"No, like this." She moved behind me, reaching around to place her hands over mine on the mixing bowl. "You need to press the butter against the side of the bowl, then fold it back into the sugar."

Her body pressed against my back as she guided my hands, her chin nearly resting on my shoulder. The clean scent of her shampoo mingled with the vanilla and butter, creating an intoxicating combination. I found myself hyperaware of every point where her body touched mine—her chest against my back, her arms alongside mine, her breath warm against my neck.

Suddenly, my grip slipped on the mixing bowl, sending a cloud of flour into the air between us. A patch landed directly on my dark t-shirt, standing out starkly against the fabric.

"Oh!" Sienna pulled back, laughing. "Sorry about that."

Without thinking, she reached out to brush the flour from my chest, her fingers lingering longer than necessary. The simple touch sent an electric current through me. I inhaled sharply, caught off guard by my body's immediate response to her proximity.

Her eyes met mine, her hand still resting lightly on my chest. For a moment, neither of us moved, the atmosphere between us suddenly charged with something beyond our carefully maintained boundaries.

Then she laughed—a slightly nervous sound—and stepped back. "Hazard of baking lessons. Flour gets everywhere."

The moment broke, but the memory of her touch lingered as we finished the cookies in a strange new tension that hadn't existed before. We worked side by side, careful not to brush against each other again, our conversation reduced to basic instructions and brief responses.

When the cookies were finally baking, filling the kitchen with their sweet aroma, Sienna leaned against the counter, arms crossed protectively across her chest.

"So," she said, breaking the awkward silence. "Did you learn anything?"

"Several things," I replied, meaning far more than just baking techniques. "Mainly that there's a reason I stick to protein shakes."

That earned a genuine laugh, easing some of the tension. "You did well for a beginner. Not bad hand-eye coordination for a hockey player."

"High praise from a master baker."

Her smile softened. "Hardly a master. Just carrying on my grandmother's legacy."

"You sell yourself short." I surprised myself with the sincerity in my voice. "What I saw at the bakery today—the way you connect with customers, how you talk about your recipes, the care you put into everything—that's special, Sienna. Real skill, not just inherited recipes."

Her expression shifted to something I couldn't quite read—surprise mingled with vulnerability. "Thank you," she said quietly. "That means a lot."

The oven timer saved us from another charged moment. As Sienna removed perfectly golden cookies from the oven, I found myself thinking that in all my years of living in this house, this was the first time it had ever smelled like a home.

The next morning, I woke to find a plate of cookies beside my bed with a simple note, "Thanks for your help at the bakery yesterday. –S"

I ate one before my morning workout—a cardinal sin in my usual nutrition plan—and found myself smiling at the memory of flour clouds and gentle hands guiding mine.

At practice, I skated harder than usual, channeling my confused energy into physical exertion. Coach Miller noticed immediately.

"Whatever's gotten into you, Harrison, keep it up," he barked after I executed a perfect defensive play during scrimmage. "Best I've seen you look all season."

In the locker room afterward, the guys were merciless.

"Look at Harrison, skating like he's trying to impress someone," Reynolds called across the room. "Honeymoon phase really got you, huh?"

He continued, mimicking stirring with an imaginary bowl, "And those kitchen shots, man—never thought I'd see the day. She must be something special to have the Ice Man moonlighting as Pastry Chef."

I expected to feel annoyed, but instead found myself almost proud. "She owns a bakery. I was helping."

"Helping, he says." Anders raised an eyebrow. "Is that what they call it these days?"

Even Marco, who'd been the most skeptical about Sienna, grudgingly admitted: "She seems pretty cool, though. For a civilian."

"High praise from Marco," Finn said, throwing a towel at him. "Speaking of which, Willow wants you and Sienna to come to dinner tonight. Our place, around seven."

The invitation caught me off guard. While Finn and I were friends on the ice and occasionally grabbed beers with the team, I rarely socialized outside mandatory team functions. My instinct was to decline, but I realized this was exactly the kind of normal couple activity that would reinforce our marriage narrative.

"I'll check with Sienna, but it should be fine," I found myself saying.

"Great. Willow's making her famous lasagna." Finn grinned. "Bring wine or dessert. Or both, since you're married to a baker."

In the car, I texted Sienna about the dinner invitation, surprised by the quick, enthusiastic response:

Sounds fun! I'll bring dessert. What time should we be ready?

Her easy acceptance sent an unexpected wave of pleasure through me. I found myself looking forward to the evening—a novel feeling for someone who usually dreaded social obligations.

On the way home, I realized I had no idea what constituted an appropriate hostess gift. After a brief internal debate, I did something I rarely did—I called my mother.

"Jackson?" Her surprised voice answered on the third ring. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, Mom." I navigated through traffic. "I just need some advice."

"Advice? From me?" The shock in her voice made me wince internally. Had I really become so distant?

"We're having dinner at a teammate's house tonight. Sienna's bringing dessert, but I thought we should bring something else. Wine, maybe?"

"Oh!" My mother's tone warmed immediately. "How thoughtful. Yes, wine is always appropriate. Red if they're serving beef or pasta, white for chicken or fish."

"It's lasagna."

"Then a nice Chianti or Cabernet Sauvignon would be perfect." She paused. "It's so nice to hear from you, especially about something like this. How are things with Sienna?"

The genuine interest in her voice made me realize how rarely I shared any personal details with my parents. "Things are good," I said, surprised to find I mostly meant it. "She's not what I expected."

"In a good way, I hope?"

"Yeah." I found myself smiling. "In a good way."

Our conversation continued longer than usual, with my mother offering more dinner party advice than I needed but seeming so pleased to be asked that I couldn't cut her off.

At Finn and Willow's apartment that evening, I watched Sienna charm our hosts with the same ease she'd shown at the team gathering. She'd brought an elaborate chocolate torte that earned Willow's immediate admiration, and complimented their home with genuine warmth.

"That painting is gorgeous," she said, admiring a colorful abstract on their living room wall. "The colors really bring the room together."

"Thanks!" Willow beamed. "It's by a local artist I met through my literacy program. I'll give you her information—she's doing an exhibition next month."

Throughout dinner, conversation flowed naturally—Finn sharing team gossip, Willow discussing her nonprofit work, Sienna contributing bakery stories that had everyone laughing. I found myself speaking more than usual, drawn out by Sienna's occasional prompts and the comfortable atmosphere.

As we lingered over dessert and coffee, Willow said with a playful smile, "I never get tired of your story about how you two met—it's like something straight out of a movie! But tell me, when did you truly fall in love? The coffee spill meet-cute is adorable, yet I want to know the exact moment you knew."

The question dropped abruptly, shattering the pleasant atmosphere. Sienna and I exchanged a quick glance—we had a rehearsed answer, but suddenly it felt woefully inadequate. Although Finn knew our secret, a chill ran through me as I realized he hadn't yet revealed our charade to Willow.

To my surprise, Sienna took the lead smoothly.

"It wasn't one big moment," she said, her voice soft but confident. "It was a collection of small ones. The way he'd come to the bakery pretending he wanted pastries but really just to talk. How he remembers exactly how I take my coffee without being told. The fact that beneath all that 'Ice Man' reputation, he notices everything—like when a customer is having a bad day, or when I'm worried about the bakery."

She looked at me, her expression so convincing I almost believed her myself.

"I think what really got me was his focus," she continued. "When Jax cares about something, he gives it his complete attention. On the ice, in conversation, everything. When that focus shifted to me..." She shrugged, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "How could I not fall for that?"

The room fell silent. I stared at Sienna, caught off guard by the specific details she'd woven into our fictional relationship—details that felt personal, observed, real in a way our rehearsed story never had.

"That's beautiful," Willow said, breaking the moment. "Don't you think, Finn?"

"Absolutely," Finn agreed, his sharp eyes darting between us. He raised his glass with a knowing smile. "To Jax and Sienna—may what begins as convenience grow into something real."

I lifted my glass, forcing a smile. His cryptic toast would fool Willow, but the message to us was clear.

The conversation moved on, but I remained distracted, wondering about Sienna's earlier words. Was she just acting well, or had she truly seen parts of me others missed?

The thought was still with me hours later as we walked home, having decided to leave the car since we'd both had several glasses of wine. The night was clear and cool, stars visible despite the city lights. We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the wine and good food creating a peaceful bubble around us.

When we reached a busier intersection, I found myself reaching for Sienna's hand. I told myself it was for appearance's sake—we were a married couple, after all, and people in the neighborhood might recognize us. But when her small, warm hand fit perfectly into mine, I knew the excuse was flimsy at best.

She glanced up at me, surprised but not pulling away. "Someone watching us?"

"Just maintaining our cover," I replied, nodding vaguely at a couple across the street who weren't actually looking our way at all.

"Of course," she said, a small smile playing at her lips. "Very professional."

We continued walking hand in hand, and I found myself slowing our pace, in no hurry to reach home and break this unexpected connection. Her hand in mine felt right somehow, as if it belonged there.

As Sienna's thumb absently stroked the back of my hand, sending a shiver of warmth up my arm, the line between business and pleasure had never felt more dangerously blurred.