Page 18

I woke to warmth, softness, and Sienna's familiar floral scent. Somehow, overnight, we’d abandoned the pillow barrier, and I found myself curled around her, my arm draped over her waist in the classic spoon position.

For a moment, I stayed still, reluctant to break the intimacy. Her steady breathing and the gentle tickle of her hair stirred a protective, possessive longing—a desire to make this fleeting arrangement permanent.

Then the thought jolted me awake. This was dangerous territory, blurring business with genuine feelings. Carefully, I disentangled myself, missing her warmth as I retreated to my side of the bed.

Sienna shifted slightly, still lost in peaceful sleep under the early morning light. I stole one last look at her—the soft curve of her cheek and the slight part of her lips—before forcing myself to think of hockey plays and contract details instead of the woman beside me. Lost in thought, I drifted off to sleep once again.

When I woke later, the bed was empty, replaced by the scent of baking and off-key singing from the kitchen. A year ago, I’d have been irritated by the disruption; now, I smiled at the familiar signs of Sienna’s presence in my home.

In the kitchen, I found her wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts, flour-dusted as usual, arranging pastries on a cooling rack while singing along to the music playing from her phone. She hadn't noticed me yet, giving me a moment to appreciate the domestic scene—her comfortable presence in my space, the way she'd transformed the once-sterile kitchen into a warm, lived-in area.

"Those smell amazing," I said, finally announcing my presence.

She turned, a smile lighting her face. "French breakfast pastries. I'm experimenting for your parents' visit. Your mom mentioned loving Paris in that phone call last week, so I thought French-inspired breakfast might impress her."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture—remembering a detail from a conversation she'd only heard one side of—created a warm sensation in my chest. Without thinking, I moved behind her to look over her shoulder at the pastries, placing my hands lightly on her waist.

She stilled immediately, and I realized I'd crossed one of our unspoken boundaries. We touched for photos, for public appearances, but rarely in private moments like this. Yet since the kiss at the bakery two days ago, the rules seemed increasingly blurred.

I stepped back quickly. "Sorry. Need coffee."

"In the pot," she replied, her voice slightly higher than normal. "Fresh."

We moved around each other with careful distance after that, the easy domesticity of moments before replaced by hyperawareness of each other's presence. I left early for practice, grateful for the physical exertion that would hopefully clear my head.

On the ice, I channeled my confused energy into perfect execution, making defensive plays with calculated precision and joining rushes with controlled aggression. Coach Miller noticed immediately.

"Whatever's got you fired up, Harrison, bottle it," he called after I broke up a particularly dangerous scoring opportunity. "That's the kind of play we need in the playoffs."

In the locker room afterward, I was removing my gear when I overheard Marco's voice from the next row of lockers.

"Harrison's baker girl is hot, I'll give him that. Wonder if she's as sweet in bed as her pastries."

Cold fury washed over me. Before I could process what I was doing, I was on my feet, rounding the lockers to confront Marco, who was smirking at another teammate.

"What did you say?" My voice was deadly quiet.

Marco's smirk faltered slightly. "Just complimenting your wife, man. No harm intended."

"Say her name."

"What?"

"Her name is Sienna. Not 'baker girl.' And you don't talk about her. At all. Ever. Understand?"

Marco stood, clearly not backing down. "Since when are you so sensitive? It was a joke."

"It wasn't funny." I stepped closer, fists clenched. "Apologize."

"For what? Saying your wife is hot? Most guys would take that as a compliment."

I moved without thinking, grabbing the front of his shirt and backing him against the lockers with enough force to create a loud bang. "Apologize," I repeated, barely recognizing my own voice.

"Whoa!" Finn appeared suddenly, pushing between us. "What the hell is going on?"

Anders was there too, his quiet voice a contrast to the tension. "Step back, Jax. Not worth it."

I released Marco, suddenly aware of the entire locker room watching in shocked silence. In all my years with the team, I'd never lost control like this, never initiated physical confrontation off the ice.

"He's lost his mind," Marco muttered, straightening his shirt. "All because I said his baker wife—"

"Sienna," I corrected sharply. "Her name is Sienna."

Coach Miller's voice cut through the tension. "Harrison. My office. Now."

I followed him silently, aware of the stares from my teammates. In his office, Miller closed the door and studied me with narrowed eyes.

"Want to tell me what that was about?"

"Marco was disrespectful about Sienna. I lost my temper."

"I've heard worse locker room talk. Never seen you react like that." He leaned against his desk. "What's going on with you lately? The distracted play in Vancouver, now this? This isn't like you."

I struggled to articulate what I myself didn't fully understand. "I don't know, Coach. Things are... complicated right now."

"The marriage? The endorsement stuff?" His expression softened slightly. "Look, I get it. Your life's changed a lot. But I need your head in the game, Harrison. The team needs the focused player who earned that 'Ice Man' nickname, not someone who loses control over locker room trash talk."

"It won't happen again," I promised.

"See that it doesn't." He stood straighter.

I nodded stiffly, though Marco’s comment still set my blood boiling. It wasn't just his crude remark that bothered me—it was my unexpectedly intense reaction. I had always been controlled, disciplined, able to brush off provocations. So what had changed?

The answer was clear. In just a few short weeks, Sienna had become someone I felt fiercely protective of, someone whose honor now outweighed my carefully cultivated reputation for cool detachment.

At home, I found Sienna in full preparation mode for my parents' visit. She'd been rearranging photos and adding personal touches to make our relationship appear longstanding and genuine.

"I've been editing some of our photos to look like they were taken on different occasions," she explained, showing me several framed pictures on the mantle. "This one looks like a date at the park, this one a night out, this one at a team event."

The effort she was putting into maintaining our charade touched me. "It looks convincing."

"I hope so." She straightened a photo of us laughing, taken during the kitchen photoshoot. "I've also been working on our timeline. We need consistent details about when we met, first date, when you proposed..."

I studied her as she continued explaining her preparations, admiring her thoroughness and attention to detail. She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, with loose strands framing her face as she gestured animatedly.

"...and then after the season ends, we thought we might visit Italy to see my parents," she was saying. "They've been asking when they'll meet you. And of course, we've discussed adopting another dog as a friend for Sprinkles. Maybe a smaller breed, since Sprinkles is already so energetic..."

I blinked, realizing she was creating not just our past but a fictional future together. The strange part was how easily I could imagine it—traveling to Italy together, adopting another dog, building a life beyond our three-month agreement.

"That sounds reasonable," I said, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that none of it was real. "My parents will be convinced."

She smiled, though something in her eyes seemed sad. "That's the goal, right? Keeping up appearances."

Before I could respond, my phone rang—Perfect Home Furnishings' executive number displayed on the screen. I excused myself to take the call in my office, closing the door for privacy.

The conversation was brief but significant. The company was thrilled with the public response to our relationship, particularly the bakery photoshoot images, which had generated unprecedented engagement on their social media platforms. They wanted to finalize the endorsement contract earlier than planned—next month.

What should have been triumphant news left me strangely conflicted. I thanked them professionally, agreed to the meeting date, and hung up feeling unsettled rather than victorious.

When I emerged from my office, I found Sienna in the kitchen, methodically mixing cookie dough—her stress-baking tell. She looked up when I entered, a question in her eyes.

"Perfect Home Furnishings wants to finalize the contract next month," I said. "They're moving up the timeline. Apparently, our... arrangement has exceeded their expectations."

"That's great news," she replied, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "The plan is working perfectly."

"Yes." I moved to stand beside her at the counter. "It is."

We worked side by side in comfortable silence—Sienna shaping cookie dough, me handling the baking sheets as directed. The domestic rhythm we'd developed felt natural now, our movements coordinated without need for discussion.

As I watched her work, I realized with startling clarity that I would miss this when our arrangement ended. Not just the convenient endorsement narrative or the improved public image, but this —the simple moments of shared domesticity, the comfort of her presence in my space.

"Does this mean we'll be ending our arrangement early?" Sienna asked suddenly, not looking up from her task. "Once the contract is signed?"

The question caught me off guard. "I hadn't thought about it. I suppose we could, if you wanted to. The bakery debt would be paid either way."

She nodded, still focused on the cookies. "That would make sense. Logically. No need to continue the charade once we've both achieved our goals."

"Logically," I agreed, though something in my chest tightened at the thought.

Did either of us want to end this arrangement early now that we could?

As Sienna passed me another baking sheet, our fingers touching briefly, I wondered if she shared my confusion. If she, too, had begun caring more than our contract specified.

If she, like me, dreaded our inevitable ending.