Page 19

Jax's parents arrived precisely on time, rolling suitcases in tow as they approached the front door. I stood beside Jax in the entryway, nervously smoothing my sundress and reminding myself to breathe. Meeting the in-laws was stressful enough in a real relationship; in our situation, it felt like the final exam for a class I hadn't properly studied for.

"Ready?" Jax asked quietly, his hand finding the small of my back in what had become a familiar, comforting gesture.

"As I'll ever be," I whispered back, plastering on my best welcoming smile as he opened the door.

Nancy Harrison embraced me immediately, as if we'd known each other for years rather than minutes. She was a petite woman with Jax's blue eyes and a warmth that radiated from her like sunshine.

"Sienna! Finally!" She hugged me tightly, then held me at arm's length to examine me. "You're even lovelier than your photos. Isn't she lovely, Robert?"

Robert Harrison was essentially Jax in thirty years—tall, broad-shouldered, with the same strong jaw and reserved expression. He nodded politely, extending his hand instead of offering a hug.

"Nice to meet you, Sienna. We've heard... surprisingly little about you." His tone carried a hint of reproach directed at his son.

"Dad, you've just arrived," Jax warned.

"And we're thrilled to be here!" Nancy interjected cheerfully. "Now where's this dog we've heard about? Jax mentioned you have a golden retriever?"

On cue, Sprinkles bounded into the entryway, tail wagging furiously at the prospect of new friends. Before I could grab her collar, she launched himself at Robert, muddy paws leaving perfect prints on his khaki pants.

"Sprinkles! Down!" I pulled her away, mortified. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Harrison. She tends to get overly excited around new people."

To my surprise, Nancy laughed delightedly. "Just like your childhood dog, Jax! Remember Rusty? Impossible to train, that dog. Destroyed three pairs of Robert's golf shoes."

I filed away this new information—Jax had a dog as a child—and noted his slightly embarrassed expression. Another detail he hadn't shared during our get-to-know-you session.

"Let me show you to your room," Jax said, reaching for their suitcases. "You can freshen up before dinner."

As they disappeared down the hallway, I retreated to the kitchen to check on the meal I'd been preparing all afternoon—a roasted chicken with Provencal herbs, a creamy potato gratin, fresh seasonal vegetables, and homemade baguettes, finished off with a decadent chocolate torte for dessert. I’d chosen comfort food with a Parisian twist, hoping to create a warm, inviting atmosphere.

When they returned, Nancy immediately joined me in the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves and asking how she could help. Despite my protests that she was a guest, she insisted on arranging the salad while peppering me with questions about the bakery.

"Jackson tells us you took over from your grandmother," she said, expertly slicing cucumbers. "That must have been both an honor and a challenge."

"It was," I admitted, checking the chicken. "Grandma Rose built the bakery from nothing. Living up to her legacy is intimidating sometimes."

"I'm sure she'd be proud of you." Nancy squeezed my arm affectionately. "Carrying on family traditions is something special."

Dinner started smoothly, with Nancy dominating the conversation, sharing stories about their trip and asking questions about the bakery. Robert remained mostly quiet, observing more than participating, occasionally asking Jax about upcoming games or playoff positioning.

The tension ratcheted up when Nancy inevitably steered the conversation toward our relationship.

"So tell us how you two met," she said, eyes bright with curiosity. "Jackson's been frustratingly vague about the details."

Jax and I exchanged a glance before launching into our rehearsed story about the coffee spill, the viral video, and subsequent meetings at the bakery. We'd practiced this narrative multiple times, but under Robert's scrutinizing gaze, I found myself elaborating more than planned, adding specific details about Jax's regular orders and our conversations.

"He pretended to be interested in trying different pastries, but I could tell he really just wanted to talk," I said, the words flowing naturally despite being largely fiction. "He'd ask about baking techniques, the history of the bakery, my grandmother's recipes..."

"Jackson? Asking questions about baking?" Robert's skepticism was palpable. "That doesn't sound like him."

"People change, Dad," Jax said quietly, a rare challenge in his voice.

I reached for his hand on the table, the gesture partly for show but also offering genuine support. "Jax has been incredibly supportive of the bakery. He's even learned some basic techniques."

"He made excellent chocolate chip cookies last week," I added, sharing a real memory to ground our fabricated relationship. "Though he's still a disaster with pie crust."

"Too impatient," Jax agreed, playing along with a small smile. "Sienna says I overwork the dough."

"You do. Every time."

The moment felt surprisingly genuine, our shared experiences—real and invented—creating an authentic connection that seemed to satisfy Nancy, though Robert still watched with calculating eyes.

"And what made you decide to get married so quickly?" he asked bluntly. "You've known each other, what, a few weeks? Seems rushed."

The direct question created a momentary panic. Our prepared answer about "knowing it was right" suddenly felt flimsy under Robert's intense scrutiny.

"When something feels right, why wait?" I said, squeezing Jax's hand. "Life is unpredictable. My grandmother always said happiness should be seized when found, not questioned and analyzed until it slips away."

"The way Jax helped me during a difficult time with the bakery, how he listens when I talk about my dreams for the business, the way he's welcomed Sprinkles despite not being a dog person initially—these things showed me his character. That's what matters, not some arbitrary timeline."

The table fell silent, and I worried I'd overstepped or said something unconvincing. Then Nancy reached across to pat my hand, her eyes suspiciously moist.

"That's beautiful, dear. And absolutely right." She gave her husband a pointed look. "Isn't it, Robert?"

He nodded grudgingly, though his expression remained skeptical.

After dinner, while Jax and his father discussed the endorsement deal in the living room, Nancy helped me clean up, insisting it would give us "girl time." As we worked side by side, she shared stories about Jax's childhood—his determination to master skating before he could properly walk, his methodical approach to everything from homework to hockey practice.

"He was such an affectionate child, you know," she said wistfully, handing me a plate to dry. "Always hugging, always wanting to be close. Then something changed in junior hockey." She sighed. "The coaches, the pressure—they convinced him showing emotion was weakness, that the 'Ice Man' persona was strength."

I thought about Jax—his carefully maintained reserve, the rare moments his guard dropped. "He's not always so guarded," I offered. "Not with me."

Nancy studied me with surprising intensity. "I can tell. The way he looks at you, Sienna... I've never seen him look at anyone like that."

Her words created a flutter of panic. Was our performance that convincing, or was there something real that even Jax's mother could perceive? Before I could formulate a response, she continued.

"It worried me when he called about the sudden marriage. Jackson doesn't do impulsive." She dried her hands on a towel, her expression serious. "But seeing you together, I understand now. You balance him. Bring warmth to his structure, softness to his edges."

Guilt twisted in my stomach at her genuine happiness. "He's changed me too," I said quietly, the admission more honest than I'd intended. "Helped me be more confident in my decisions, more focused on the bakery's future."

Nancy squeezed my hand. "That's what partnership should be. Growth together."

Later that night, sharing Jax's bed, I lay rigid beside him. The day's performances and half-truths weighed heavily, along with Nancy's observations about her son's feelings—feelings I was increasingly uncertain were entirely feigned.

"You were good today," Jax whispered in the darkness, his voice startlingly close. "With my parents. Especially my dad."

"He's tough," I whispered back. "Very protective of you."

"Always has been. Everything I do reflects on him, in his mind." Jax's voice carried an old hurt. "Hockey especially."

"Because he never made it professionally?"

"He thinks I succeeded where he failed." The darkness seemed to make confession easier. "Sets impossible standards as a result."

"That's a heavy burden to carry."

"I'm used to it." His defeated tone broke my heart a little.

"You shouldn't have to be," I said softly. "No one should."

Silence stretched between us, comfortable rather than awkward. I found myself wanting to reach across the bed, to offer physical comfort along with words.

"Your mother told me you were an affectionate child," I said instead. "Before hockey."

He was quiet so long I thought he might not respond. "I was different then. Softer. Hockey changed that."

"The world needs softness too, you know. Not just the Ice Man."

"Maybe." His voice held uncertainty. "It's hard to know who I am sometimes, beneath the persona. It's been part of me so long."

The vulnerability in his admission made my throat tighten. "I see you, Jax. Beyond the Ice Man thing. I see you when you're gentle with Sprinkles, patient with Mr. Henderson, focused on getting a recipe exactly right."

More silence, then: "I see you too, Sienna. Your fears about the bakery, how much your grandmother's legacy means to you, the way you put everyone else's needs before your own."

His perception startled me. Had I been so transparent, or had he been paying closer attention than I realized? "I'm afraid of failing my grandma," I admitted, giving voice to my deepest fear. "Of being the one who loses what she built."

"You won't." The certainty in his voice was comforting. "You're too stubborn, too talented. The bakery isn't just surviving under you—it's evolving, growing."

His faith in me, expressed so simply, broke something open inside my chest. Tears pricked behind my eyelids.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Just the truth."

Eventually, his breathing deepened and evened out in sleep, while I remained awake, acutely aware of his presence just inches away.

In sleep, Jax's arm moved, draping over the pillow, his hand coming to rest near mine. I studied his hand in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains—strong, capable, with calluses from hockey sticks and small scars from old injuries. The hand that had held mine with increasing frequency, that had cupped my face before kissing me in the bakery, that now lay vulnerable in sleep.

I resisted the urge to intertwine our fingers, to bridge the final gap between us. Any feelings developing between us were temporary illusions created by proximity and performance. To believe otherwise was to set myself up for heartbreak.

Yet, I couldn't help wondering which would hurt more—acknowledging these growing feelings and risking rejection, or silently carrying them until our arrangement concluded, never knowing what might have been possible beyond the constraints of our contract.