Page 17

I woke disoriented, sunlight streaming through curtains I didn't remember closing. Last thing I recalled was waiting on the couch for Jax to return from Vancouver, determined to stay awake but clearly failing. Yet here I was in my bed, still fully dressed but tucked under the comforter.

The realization that Jax must have carried me to bed sent a flush of warmth through me. I tried to imagine it—his strong arms lifting me, carrying me down the hallway, gently placing me on the bed. Had I stirred? Said anything embarrassing in my half-asleep state? The possibilities made me groan and pull the covers over my head.

After a quick shower, I padded to the kitchen, expecting to find Jax preparing his usual protein shake. Instead, I found a note on the counter:

Thanks for the lasagna. Best I've had since my mom's. Had early practice. – J

P.S. Sprinkles stole my bacon when I wasn't looking. Don't believe her innocent act.

I smiled, picturing my normally well-behaved dog being won over by Jax's breakfast scraps. The domestic normality of the scene—Jax eating breakfast, Sprinkles begging for treats—felt dangerously comfortable.

At the bakery, I threw myself into preparations for both the upcoming photoshoot and the charity gala, trying to distract myself from increasingly complicated feelings about my fake husband. Chloe, naturally, saw right through my frantic energy.

"So," she said, sliding onto a stool beside me as I piped delicate rosettes onto a test cake, "when are you going to admit you've got real feelings for Ice Man?"

I nearly ruined the cake's design. "What? That's ridiculous."

"Please." She rolled her eyes. "You've been humming love songs all morning. You baked him lasagna last night. You literally check your phone every five minutes for texts from him."

"It's called maintaining our cover," I protested weakly. "We're supposed to act like a real couple."

"When no one's watching? In the privacy of your own head?" She raised an eyebrow. "Sienna, I've known you since college. You've got all the classic Sienna-has-a-crush symptoms—the dreamy sighing, the distracted baking, the constant checking of your hair in reflective surfaces."

"I do not check my hair in—" I caught myself adjusting my ponytail in the reflection of a mixing bowl and stopped mid-sentence.

Chloe's triumphant grin was infuriating. "Told you."

"Fine, I'm attracted to him," I admitted reluctantly. "He's objectively attractive. And living together creates a false sense of intimacy. It doesn't mean anything."

"Uh-huh." Her skepticism was palpable. "And when this 'business arrangement' ends in a couple months?"

The question hit a nerve I'd been trying to ignore. "We go our separate ways, just as planned. The bakery gets saved, he gets his endorsement deal, everyone wins."

"Except the part where you've fallen for your fake husband."

"I have not fallen for—" I was interrupted by the bakery door opening, Leo's distinctive voice calling a greeting.

"Speak of the devil's advocate," Chloe muttered, her expression immediately shifting to the careful neutrality she maintained around Leo.

Leo entered the kitchen area, followed by Olivia and a photography crew laden with equipment. His eyes met Chloe's briefly before he turned to me with forced professional cheer.

"Ready to become Seattle's favorite bakery?"

The next hour was a whirlwind of activity as Olivia transformed the bakery into what she called a "more photogenic version of itself." This apparently involved rearranging display cases, adding strategic lighting, and placing several subtle Perfect Home Furnishings products around the space—a branded coffee mug here, a kitchen towel there.

"We want authentic but elevated," she explained, directing an assistant to adjust a vase of fresh flowers. "Real but aspirational."

I bit back a comment about the irony of manufacturing authenticity, focusing instead on preparing the baking demonstration area as instructed. We'd be showcasing a simple cookie recipe—accessible enough for the average home baker but visually appealing for photos.

When Jax arrived directly from practice, hair still damp from his shower, something in my chest tightened at the sight of him. He looked tired but brightened visibly upon seeing me, his eyes warming in that subtle way I'd learned to recognize.

"Hey," he said, coming to stand beside me. "Sorry I'm late. Coach extended practice."

"It's fine. We're still setting up." I gestured to the organized chaos around us. "How was practice?"

"Good. Hard. Coach is pushing us with playoffs coming up." He glanced around the transformed bakery. "The place looks different."

"Olivia's magic touch. Apparently, my daily flour-covered reality isn't 'aspirational' enough."

His mouth quirked in that almost-smile I'd grown to appreciate. "I like the regular version better."

The simple comment shouldn't have warmed me the way it did.

The photoshoot began with staged shots of me teaching Jax basic baking techniques. To my surprise, he remembered several proper methods from our late-night cookie session, correctly measuring flour by spooning it into the cup rather than scooping.

"You've been practicing," I observed during a brief break while the photographers adjusted lighting.

"Maybe." He looked almost embarrassed by the observation. "I watched some baking shows. Figured I should know the basics if I'm married to a baker."

The unnecessary effort touched me. "That's... really thoughtful."

He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "It's interesting. The science of it, the precision. Different from cooking."

"Want to know a secret?" I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "Half of baking is precise measurement, but the other half is feeling. Knowing when dough feels right, when meringue is properly whipped, when to trust your instincts over the recipe."

"Is that what makes you so good? The instinct part?"

"I've been baking since I could reach the counter standing on a chair. At some point, it becomes intuitive."

Jax considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Like hockey. You practice fundamentals until they're automatic, then develop the instinct for game situations."

"Exactly." I was surprised by the apt comparison. "Though I get fewer bruises."

"Debatable. I've seen your burns."

Our conversation was interrupted when Olivia called us back to positions. We continued the baking demonstration, moving through mixing, shaping, and finally placing cookies in the oven. Throughout the process, I noticed Jax becoming increasingly comfortable, asking genuine questions about techniques and occasionally making quiet observations that made me laugh.

During another break, while the photographers reviewed images, the bakery door chimed as Mr. Henderson entered for his daily visit. The elderly man had been coming to Grandma Rose's Bakehouse for decades, first with his wife and now alone since her passing two years ago.

"Sienna, my dear!" he called cheerfully, then stopped short at the sight of the photography equipment. "Oh! Am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all, Mr. Henderson," I assured him, guiding him to his usual table. "We're just doing a little photoshoot. Your usual today?"

"Yes, please. Earl Grey and a pecan roll." He spotted Jax and his eyes widened in recognition. "Well, I'll be damned! You're that hockey player, aren't you? The defenseman?"

Jax nodded, approaching the table with unexpected warmth. "Jax Harrison. Nice to meet you, sir."

"Walter Henderson. Been watching Kraken games since the team started," Mr. Henderson said proudly. "Before that, I followed the old Seattle Bulls. Saw them play when I was just a boy."

To my surprise, Jax sat down across from Mr. Henderson, genuine interest in his expression. "The Bulls won the Finals in 1917. First American team to do so."

"That's right!" Mr. Henderson beamed, clearly delighted by Jax's knowledge. "My father took me to games at the old Ice Arena. Different game back then—no helmets, wooden sticks, slower pace. But the passion was the same."

I brought over Mr. Henderson's tea and pecan roll, expecting Jax to politely excuse himself and return to the photoshoot. Instead, he remained engaged in conversation, asking thoughtful questions about the historic teams and listening with genuine attention as Mr. Henderson shared stories from his decades of hockey fandom.

"Don't get to games much these days," Mr. Henderson admitted, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Not since Margaret—my wife—passed. She was the driver, you see. My eyes aren't what they used to be."

Jax was quiet for a moment, then said, "I could arrange tickets for you, Mr. Henderson. And transportation. For the next home game, if you're interested."

The old man's face lit up. "Really? You'd do that?"

"Absolutely. I'll leave the details with Sienna."

I stood frozen, pastry tongs in hand, utterly surprised by this unexpected gesture of kindness. Jax wasn't known for generosity with fans—cordial professionalism was his usual approach. Yet here he was, making a meaningful offer to an elderly man he'd just met, for no reason other than simple kindness.

When he rejoined me at the baking counter, I couldn't help complimenting, "That was really nice of you. The tickets for Mr. Henderson."

Jax shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "He reminds me of my grandfather. Same enthusiasm for the game's history." He glanced back at the elderly man, now happily enjoying his pecan roll. "Besides, real fans deserve recognition."

Before I could respond, Olivia announced it was time for the final shots—removing the cookies from the oven and the "spontaneous celebration" when they turned out perfectly.

The photoshoot was just wrapping up when a group of customers arrived, clearly drawn by social media posts about the famous hockey player learning to bake. Within minutes, more people arrived, creating an unexpected rush that quickly overwhelmed us.

"I can help," Jax offered, rolling up his sleeves without hesitation.

"Me too," Leo added, though he looked less certain.

What followed was barely controlled chaos as Jax took customer orders, Leo and Chloe awkwardly operated the register, and I frantically filled the increasing demand. Despite their complete lack of bakery experience, Jax and Leo adapted quickly, with Jax's confident efficiency perfectly complementing Leo's charismatic customer banter.

Most surprising was watching Leo and Chloe work side by side at the register. Their usual antagonism remained, but beneath the sharp comments and eye rolls, I noticed something else—a rhythm, an awareness of each other's movements, occasional glances when the other wasn't looking. There was something unresolved between them that clearly went deeper than old college resentment.

By the time the unexpected rush subsided and Chloe left for a dentist appointment, it was late afternoon. Leo and the photography crew had departed, leaving Jax and me alone in the suddenly quiet bakery.

I leaned against the counter, exhaustion and exhilaration mingling as I surveyed the nearly empty display cases. "That was... unexpected."

"Good business, though." Jax stood nearby, his shirtsleeves still rolled up, a light dusting of flour on his forearm. "Sold out of almost everything."

"Thanks for helping." I pushed a loose strand of hair from my face. "You're surprisingly good with customers."

"All those years at my parents' hardware store," he reminded me. "Though bakery customers are generally happier than people with plumbing emergencies."

I laughed, feeling the tension of the busy day begin to ease. "True. Nothing creates goodwill like sugar."

Jax moved closer, his eyes tracing my face with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "You have flour," he said softly, reaching out to brush his thumb across my cheek.

The simple touch sent a current through me. His hand lingered, cupping my face gently, his thumb tracing a path to the corner of my mouth. Time seemed to suspend as we stood there, the air between us charged with unspoken possibility.

Then, with a deliberateness that made my breath catch, he leaned down and kissed me.

Unlike our courthouse wedding kiss—performed for an audience and briefly deepened in surprise—this was intentional. His lips moved against mine with gentle exploration, as if asking a question. I answered by melting into him, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, then sliding around to his back.

The kiss deepened, becoming something hungry and honest. His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer until I could feel the solid warmth of him against me. He tasted of coffee and the chocolate cookie we'd shared earlier, and beneath that, something essentially Jax—clean, masculine, unexpectedly sweet.

My fingers, which had been nervously fiddling with the hem of my apron, now tangled in the soft strands at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. My breath hitched from the sheer intensity of it. This wasn't the polite peck of a fake marriage anymore. This was raw, hungry, and utterly consuming.

I could feel his hands splay against my back, firm and warm through the thin cotton of my dress, drawing me in until there was no space left between us, chest to chest, thigh to thigh.

Then, with a sudden surge of energy that sent my head spinning, he lifted me. One moment I was grounded on the worn wooden floor, the next my feet were dangling in the air, and I was perched on the cool, slick surface of the stainless-steel countertop. The unexpected shift sent a jolt through me, a mix of surprise and thrill that only amplified the already heightened sensations. My breath caught in my throat, a gasp that turned into a moan as his mouth crashed back down onto mine, even more passionately this time.

The counter was cold beneath my thighs, a stark, almost shocking contrast to the burning heat spreading through my lower belly. He shifted, pressing closer, his body a hard, insistent line against mine, and I could feel the unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressing into my thigh, through the layers of fabric, a bold, undeniable statement of his desire.

My hands were shaking now, no longer steady enough to hold onto his neck. Instead, they fumbled with the ties of my apron, my fingers clumsy and impatient as I worked to loosen the knot at my waist. It felt incredibly urgent, this need to shed the layers between us, to feel skin against skin, heat against heat. With a tug, the apron strings came undone, and the starched fabric fell to the floor with a soft rustle, unnoticed, unimportant in the sudden intensity that had engulfed us.

His hands were busy too. I felt the frantic fumble of his fingers against the buttons of his crisp white shirt, popping them open one by one with haste. Cool air kissed my exposed skin as the fabric parted, revealing the tanned expanse of his chest, sprinkled with a light dusting of dark hair that tapered down towards his belt.

I reached out, my fingers tracing the hard lines of his pectoral muscles, the ripple of his ribs beneath my fingertips. He was solid, lean muscle and heat, and the contact sent another shiver of pure desire coursing through me.

His mouth left mine, finally, but only to trail downwards, his lips hot and wet against my jawline, then the sensitive skin of my neck. He nipped at my earlobe, tugging gently, and a moan escaped my lips, soft and uncontrolled.

“Sienna,” he murmured, his breath warm and ragged against my skin, “God, Sienna…”

His hands cupped my face, turning my head back to his. He kissed me again, deeper, wetter, his tongue plunging into my mouth in a rhythm that mimicked the frantic pulse of my body. It was no longer just kissing. It was tasting, exploring, devouring. It was a conversation spoken only with mouths and tongues and breath, a silent language of desire that needed no words.

My dress rode up higher on my thighs as he pressed closer, the cool metal of the counter now a distinct, almost arousing sensation against my bare skin.

I shifted restlessly, my legs parting slightly, instinctively seeking a deeper connection, a closer proximity to the source of this intoxicating heat. I wanted him inside me, wanted him now, this urgency an almost unbearable ache in my core.

He broke the kiss again, dragging his mouth down my neck, lower still, to the hollow of my throat, where my pulse throbbed frantically beneath his lips. His teeth scraped gently against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that wasn't from cold. It was pure, unadulterated arousal, every nerve ending in my body screaming for more.

“Jax,” I gasped again, his name a plea, a demand, a desperate prayer.

He understood, instantly. He straightened slightly, his gaze burning into mine, hot and possessive. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, rough with desire.

What did I want? In this moment, on this cold metal counter, with his body pressed against mine, the answer was screamingly obvious.

“You,” I breathed, the word barely audible, but laced with an intensity that left no room for misinterpretation. “I want you, Jax. Now.”

A slow, predatory smile curved his lips, a smile that sent another jolt of excitement through me, mixed with a delicious shiver of apprehension. He knew he had me. He knew I was his.

Without another word, he shifted again, moving between my thighs, his body nudging my legs wider apart, his knee pressing gently between my core. The contact, even through the fabric of our clothes, was electric.

He braced his hands on the counter on either side of me, caging me in, trapping me in this intimate, intensely charged space. And then, he went lower.

I gasped as his mouth left mine entirely, moving downwards, tracing a fiery path along my jawline, down my neck, across my collarbone. My breath hitched again, coming in short, shallow gasps, as his lips grazed the swell of my breasts.

He paused there for a heartbeat, his breath hot against my skin, and then, with a slow, deliberate movement that made my breath catch in my throat, he dipped lower still. His fingers, suddenly bold and insistent, found the hem of my dress, lifting it higher, higher, exposing my bare thighs to the cool air of the bakery. The sensation was shockingly intimate, feeling the sudden rush of coolness against my heated skin.

And then, his mouth was on my pussy.

My back arched off the counter involuntarily, a gasp escaping my lips, half shock, half pure, unadulterated pleasure. His tongue was hot and wet, tracing a searing path upwards, towards my clit. I gripped his shoulders, my fingers digging into the muscles beneath his shirt.

He didn't rush. He took his time, teasing, tormenting, his tongue lapping and licking at my skin, exploring every curve and crevice, drawing out the anticipation until it was almost unbearable. He circled my clit with his tongue, then traced the sensitive skin of my inner labia, sending shivers of pure pleasure radiating through my entire body.

My hips started to move instinctively, pushing against his mouth, seeking a deeper, more insistent pressure. Moans bubbled up from deep within my chest, escaping my lips in soft, whimpering sounds.

“Oh, Jax,” I gasped again, his name now a desperate plea, a wordless demand for release.

He seemed to sense my mounting urgency, my nearing edge. His movements became more focused, more insistent. He began to suckle gently at my clit, drawing it between his lips, his tongue flicking across the sensitive nub with tantalizing precision. A jolt of pure electricity shot through me, tightening my core, making my thighs tremble uncontrollably.

My head fell back against the cool tiled wall behind me, my eyes fluttering closed as waves of pleasure washed over me, each one stronger, more intense than the last. The faint sounds of the city outside, the gentle hum of the bakery fridge, all faded into a distant hum, replaced only by the wet sounds of his mouth on me, my own ragged breathing, and the soft, escalating moans that were ripping from my throat.

His hands left my shoulders, sliding down my sides, then under my dress, cupping my boobs, squeezing and kneading them with a firm, insistent pressure that only intensified the sensations blooming between my legs. He shifted his position slightly, spreading my legs wider, giving himself better access, and then, with a sudden, sharp intake of breath, he began to lap at my pussy with more urgency, his tongue flicking faster, harder, his suction growing stronger, deeper.

I cried out, my body arching off the counter again, my hips bucking against his face in involuntary spasms of pleasure. The world narrowed, focused solely on the exquisite sensations erupting between my legs, on the incredible things Jax was doing to me with his mouth and his tongue.

I could feel it building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter within me, the pressure mounting. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, my body trembling uncontrollably, my muscles clenched tight.

And then, it broke. A wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure exploded through me, ripping through me with such force that I gasped aloud, a sharp cry tearing from my throat. My body convulsed around his mouth, my muscles clenching and releasing in involuntary spasms.

Waves of sensation washed over me, each one more intense than the last, shattering me into a million pieces of pure, incandescent feeling. I squeezed my eyes shut, my head thrashing from side to side against the tiled wall, my breath coming in short, sharp pants.

The world spun and tilted, and all I could feel was the pulsing, throbbing pleasure radiating outwards from the core of my being, every nerve ending firing, every muscle trembling with aftershocks.

Slowly, gradually, the intensity began to recede, the waves of pleasure subsiding into gentle ripples, then calmer waters. My breath gradually evened out, my body slowly relaxing, limp and boneless against the cold countertop. My eyelids fluttered open, and I blinked up at the ceiling, the world slowly coming back into focus.

I was still gasping for breath, my heart hammering against my ribs like a frantic bird. My legs were trembling, weak and shaky. But a profound sense of peace, of utter satisfaction, settled over me, a deep, contented sigh escaping my lips.

Then, I felt his hands on my thighs again, gently lowering my legs back together. I looked down, a slow blush creeping up my neck and across my cheeks. Jax was kneeling between my legs, his head bent, his dark hair falling forward. He looked up then, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, that slow, crooked, utterly charming smile that always made my stomach flip. He reached up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture that only amplified the heat flooding through me again.

“Well,” he said, his voice still a little husky, a little breathless, “Now we’re really starting to act like a married couple, aren’t we?”

My blush deepened, spreading down my neck and across my chest. I couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t quite process the teasing amusement in his voice, the implication hanging in the air. My gaze dropped downwards, instinctively, helplessly drawn to where he still knelt between my legs. And then, I saw it.

His smiling face, right there between my thighs.

I couldn’t help it. A giggle bubbled up from my chest, a shaky, breathless sound, laced with lingering pleasure and a healthy dose of embarrassment. I buried my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with a mixture of laughter and something that felt dangerously close to real. This fake marriage, this charade, was getting more and more complicated by the second. And, if I was honest with myself, a little more thrillingly real.

Soon, we closed the bakery in silence, both seemingly lost in thought. As we walked the familiar route to the house, I found myself hyperaware of his presence beside me, the slight distance he maintained between us, the way his hands remained firmly in his pockets.

"The photoshoot went well," I said finally, desperate to break the charged silence. "You're becoming quite the baker."

"Hardly." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "But I'm learning to appreciate the process. The patience it requires."

"That's the secret to good baking—patience and attention to detail. Rushing never works."

"Is that why you're so good at it? The patience part?"

I considered this. "Partly. But also because I genuinely love it. Creating something that brings people joy... there's nothing better."

"I saw that today," he said, his voice softening. "The way you interact with customers, how you remember Mr. Henderson's order, the pride when someone enjoys your work. It's..." He paused, searching for words. "It's beautiful to witness."

The unexpected compliment warmed me more than it should have. "Thank you."

We lapsed into silence again, but a more comfortable one this time. As we neared home, our conversation turned to practicalities—his parents' upcoming visit, preparations needed, a dinner menu I offered to cook.

"You'd do that?" Jax asked, sounding genuinely surprised by my offer to prepare a family dinner. "Cook for my parents?"

"Of course. I want to help make the visit successful." I shrugged, trying to seem casual. "Besides, I'm a decent cook, not just a baker."

"I know. That lasagna was incredible."

"High praise from someone who ranks his mother's lasagna as his favorite food."

He looked pleased that I remembered this detail from our get-to-know-you session. "My mother will be impressed by your cooking skills. She believes feeding people is the purest form of care."

"A woman after my own heart," I said, smiling.

Our hands brushed accidentally as we walked, once, twice, a third time, each contact sending small sparks up my arm. On the fourth brush, Jax's fingers captured mine, interlacing them in one smooth motion.

I glanced up, surprised. "Someone watching?"

He nodded toward a woman across the street, who appeared to be taking a photo with her phone. "Fan, I think."

"Ah. Maintaining our cover."

"Exactly."

But even after we'd turned the corner, leaving the supposed fan behind, Jax didn't release my hand. And I didn't pull away. We walked the remaining blocks home hand in hand, the simple connection feeling more intimate than our kiss in some ways—a conscious choice to maintain contact even without an audience.

As we approached the house, I wondered if he would address what had happened at the bakery—the kiss that had nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with genuine attraction. But he simply squeezed my hand once before releasing it to unlock the door, the moment for discussion apparently passed.

Inside, Sprinkles greeted us with enthusiastic circles, equally happy to see both of us. As I bent to pet her, I caught Jax watching me with an unreadable expression, something warm but guarded in his eyes.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," he replied, then after a pause, added softly, "I'm just glad you're here."

The simple admission hung in the air between us, laden with meanings neither of us seemed ready to examine. In response, I offered the only truth I felt safe expressing:

"Me too."