Page 22

"No, the blue line is where offsides happen. The red line is for icing," I muttered to myself, frowning at the hockey rulebook I'd purchased. After two weeks of intense playoffs, I was determined to understand the sport that consumed so much of Jax's life.

The bakery had transformed into playoff central, with Kraken-themed desserts flying off the shelves. I'd created "Playoff Power Play Pastries" which were blue raspberry filled, "Penalty Kill Petit Fours" were decorated with tiny penalty boxes, and a "Conference Finals Cake" we were saving for when the team would advance to finals.

"Your hockey obsession is cutting into productivity," Chloe teased, catching me studying the rulebook between batches. "Though I can't argue with the sales. We've doubled our usual numbers this week."

"It's not an obsession," I protested. "I'm being supportive."

"Mmm-hmm. And the fact you've started yelling at the TV during games? Totally normal for someone who didn't know what a blue line was a month ago."

I couldn't deny it. What had started as performative interest had evolved into genuine investment. I found myself holding my breath when Jax blocked shots, cheering his assists as enthusiastically as goals, wincing when he took hits. I'd even downloaded an app that tracked his ice time and statistics.

"It's interesting," I defended weakly. "And complicated. Did you know there are like seventeen different penalty types?"

"Fascinating," Chloe deadpanned, sliding a tray of Kraken cookies into the display case. "Almost as fascinating as how you've started dressing nicer for home games when you're just watching from the couch."

I threw a dish towel at her, which she dodged easily. "I have not."

"The blue dress with the scoop neck you wore for Game 3? Totally a date night dress, not an 'alone on the couch' outfit."

She wasn't wrong, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. The way Jax's eyes had traced every curve of that dress before he left for the arena had ignited something within me—a dangerous warmth I had no business feeling.

Thankfully, the afternoon rush saved me from further interrogation. By closing time, I was exhausted but satisfied with the day's sales. All I wanted was a hot shower and maybe to catch the hockey highlights before bed.

Instead, I arrived home to find Jax waiting in the entryway, looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

"Don't take your coat off," he instructed. "We're going out."

"What? Where? I'm covered in flour and frosting and probably smell like yeast—"

"It's a surprise." His eyes held a boyish excitement I rarely saw. "Trust me?"

The question felt weighted with meaning beyond this moment. Did I trust him? This man who'd begun as a business arrangement and was rapidly becoming something far more complicated?

"Let me at least wash my face," I compromised.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to a beautiful lakeside home I didn't recognize. Jax led me to the door, which opened to reveal a distinguished-looking man in chef's whites.

"Mrs. Harrison, welcome. I'm Chef Laurent. Your husband has arranged a private cooking lesson this evening."

I turned to Jax in shock. "What?"

His smile was slightly uncertain now. "You mentioned wanting to expand beyond baking into more savory techniques. Laurent is executive chef at Le restaurant de Sophie ."

Le restaurant de Sophie . Only the most exclusive French restaurant in Seattle, with a three-month waiting list for reservations.

"How did you remember that?" I'd mentioned it exactly once, during a sleepy conversation weeks ago.

He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy. "I listen when you talk."

The simple statement shouldn't have made my heart flutter, but it did. Chef Laurent led us into a stunning kitchen that would make professional chefs weep with envy, explaining that the home belonged to a wealthy client who allowed him to use the space for private lessons.

For the next three hours, we learned to make classic French dishes—coq au vin, potato dauphinoise, chocolate soufflé. Jax surprised me by joining in rather than just watching, following Laurent's instructions with the same focused intensity he brought to hockey.

"No, no, like this," I laughed, guiding his hands as he struggled with the proper technique for folding egg whites into the soufflé mixture. "Gentle but confident. You're not checking an opponent into the boards."

"Cooking has too many rules," he grumbled, but I could see him fighting a smile.

"Says the man who plays a sport with seventeen different penalties."

"Nineteen, actually." His hands finished the fold perfectly. "You missed boarding and game misconduct in your count earlier."

"You heard that?"

"I listen when you talk," he repeated, his voice softer this time.

We worked side by side, our bodies occasionally brushing—his arm against mine as we chopped vegetables, his chest briefly pressing against my back as he reached around me for a utensil. Each fleeting contact sent little sparks across my skin.

Chef Laurent was an excellent teacher, but I found my attention repeatedly drawn to Jax—the concentration in his expression as he reduced a sauce, the way his forearms flexed when kneading dough, his uncharacteristic laugh when the soufflé collapsed spectacularly.

After Laurent departed, leaving us with the fruits of our labor and a kitchen to clean, we fell into an easy rhythm of washing, drying, and putting away. The domesticity of it felt dangerously comfortable.

"This was amazing," I said, passing him a clean pot. "Seriously, Jax. Best surprise ever."

"Good." He looked genuinely pleased. "I wanted to do something special. You've been working so hard at the bakery, with the playoff menu and the hospital charity gala prep..."

"Speaking of which, I've been researching French pastry techniques for the gala. I've always wanted to study in Paris, at the—"

"Patisserie Institute?" he finished.

I blinked in surprise. "Yes. How did you—"

"You have their brochure on your nightstand. I noticed it when I brought you breakfast last week." He dried his hands on a towel, eyes meeting mine. "We could go sometime. To Paris. You could take a course while I eat my way through all the foods you tell me I'm pronouncing wrong."

The casual suggestion of a future together—a future beyond our three-month contract—hung in the air between us. Neither of us acknowledged it directly, but it sat there, a tentative possibility neither of us was brave enough to grasp.

"I'd like that," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

The moment might have evolved into something more had the front door not chimed, followed by Leo's voice calling out.

"Hello? Are we interrupting the domestic bliss?"

Jax and I stepped apart—had we been standing that close?—as Leo entered the kitchen with Chloe trailing behind.

"Sorry to barge in," Leo continued, not looking remotely sorry. "But Chloe was helping with a delivery when Olivia called about the contract details, and since we were nearby..."

"It's fine," Jax assured him, though I detected a note of frustration in his voice.

I turned my attention to Chloe, surprised to find her looking unusually flustered. Her typical composed demeanor had been replaced by a slightly breathless quality, and was that a blush?

"Delivery went okay?" I asked her.

"Fine. Great. Mr. Henderson says hello." She busied herself examining our cooking results with unusual intensity. "Wow, fancy French food. Aren't you two cultured?"

The conversation shifted to practical matters—contract details for Jax, bakery business for me—but I couldn't help noticing a change in the dynamic between Leo and Chloe. Their usual antagonistic banter now carried an undercurrent of something else. Their gazes held a beat too long. They found excuses to stand closer than necessary. When Leo made a characteristically bad joke, Chloe's eye roll was accompanied by a barely suppressed smile.

Interesting.

After they left and as we returned home, the intimate atmosphere of earlier had dissipated. Jax retreated to review game footage, and I headed to our shared bathroom to prepare for bed. I found myself lingering there, applying face cream with deliberate slowness, hoping Jax might appear in the doorway as he sometimes did.

When he finally did, I pretended to be surprised, though I'd been listening for his footsteps.

"Good session with Chef Laurent tonight," he said, reaching for his toothbrush. "Though I think my soufflé technique needs work."

"You weren't bad for a beginner." I leaned against the counter, oddly reluctant to end our day. "Your knife skills are actually pretty good."

"Years of stick-handling translate well to chopping."

A comfortable silence fell between us as he brushed his teeth and I fidgeted with my hair, neither of us making any move to leave the shared space.

"Jax?" I finally broke the silence.

"Hmm?" He met my eyes in the mirror.

"Did you mean it? About Paris?"

He rinsed and set his toothbrush down before turning to face me directly. "I don't say things I don't mean, Sienna."

"But our arrangement..." I trailed off, unsure how to articulate the confusion swirling inside me.

"Is what it is," he finished, his expression unreadable.