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I left the bakery frustrated but not surprised by Sienna's reaction. In her position, I'd probably have had the same response, suspicion, anger at the invasion of privacy, and outright dismissal of such an outlandish proposal.

Leo was waiting in his car across the street, fiddling with his phone. He looked up eagerly as I slid into the passenger seat.

"Well? Is she in?"

"No," I said flatly. "She's not in. She thinks we're insane, and she's probably right."

Leo's face fell. "Damn. I really thought she'd go for it, given her financial situation."

"Maybe she has more integrity than we gave her credit for," I replied, staring out the window at the bakery's vintage sign. "Not everyone's willing to compromise their principles for money."

"Says the man who agreed to a fake marriage for an endorsement deal." Leo grinned, softening the jab. "Look, don't give up yet. She'll think about it. Once the initial shock wears off, she'll see it makes sense."

"I'm not sure I want her to," I admitted. "The whole thing is starting to feel wrong."

Leo shot me a disbelieving look. "You're backing out? After all my brilliant machinations?"

"I'm not backing out. I'm just saying maybe this isn't the right approach."

"Well, unless you develop a warm, fuzzy personality in the next three months, I don't see many alternatives," Leo pointed out as he pulled away from the curb. "Think about it, Jax. This could solve both your problems."

I remained silent for the drive to practice, my mind still on Sienna's expression when she'd realized how much we knew about her situation. The flash of vulnerability beneath her anger had affected me more than I wanted to admit.

On the ice, I channeled my frustration into aggressive play, driving hard into each drill with single-minded focus. By the end of practice, even Coach Miller seemed impressed.

"Whatever's got you fired up, keep it going," he commented as I skated past. "That's the kind of intensity we need for playoffs."

In the locker room, I was unlacing my skates when Marco, a newer forward with an attitude problem, plopped down beside me.

"So, you and the baker chick," he said with a smirk. "That video's everywhere. She's pretty hot for a nobody."

Something in his tone made my jaw clench. "Her name is Sienna."

"Whatever." He shrugged. "You hitting that, or what? Those curvy types are usually wild in—"

"Show some respect," I cut him off sharply. "She's a business owner, not some conquest for you to speculate about."

Marco's eyes widened at my unexpected defense. "Whoa, sorry. Didn't realize you had a thing for her."

"I don't," I said coldly. "I just don't appreciate your attitude."

Marco retreated to the other side of the locker room, muttering something under his breath. I ignored him, focused on changing quickly so I could leave.

"That was interesting," Finn commented, appearing beside me. "I don't think I've ever seen you defend a woman's honor before, Ice Man."

I shot him a warning look. "Don't start."

"No, I'm genuinely curious." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "What's going on with you and the baker? And don't say 'nothing' because you just nearly bit Marco's head off for mentioning her."

I glanced around to ensure no one was listening. "Not here. Outside."

Once we were in the parking lot, I filled Finn in on my visit to the bakery and Sienna's rejection.

"So you actually went through with it," he said, looking impressed. "Can't say I thought you would. And she shot you down?"

"Completely. Called the whole idea insane."

"It is insane," Finn agreed. "But sometimes insane works." He studied my face. "You're disappointed."

"No, I'm..." I trailed off, unsure how to describe what I was feeling. Disappointment didn't quite cover it. "I just thought it could work."

"You know," Finn said thoughtfully, "maybe your approach was wrong. You went in all business, all transaction. Women generally don't respond well to being treated like a contract negotiation."

"It is a contract negotiation," I pointed out.

"But it doesn't have to feel like one." Finn clapped my shoulder. "Try again. But this time, maybe show a little humanity. Remember, you're asking her to pretend to be in love with you. That requires at least a baseline of not actively disliking each other."

His words stayed with me through the afternoon.

That evening, I drove to Leo's apartment to regroup and revise our strategy. Unlike my meticulously organized home, Leo's place looked like a tornado had swept through it—takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, clothing draped over furniture, papers covering every surface.

"How do you live like this?" I asked, moving a pile of magazines to sit on the couch.

"Not everyone's a neat freak like you," Leo replied cheerfully, clearing space on the kitchen counter for the beer he'd just retrieved from the fridge. "Some of us have better things to do than organize our sock drawer by color."

"My socks are organized by material and thickness, not color," I corrected automatically.

Leo snorted. "Of course they are. Now, back to Operation Fake Wife."

As we discussed potential approaches, Leo's phone rang. He checked the screen and grimaced.

"Olivia," he said before answering. "Hey, what's up?"

I could hear Olivia's clipped tones through the speaker, though not her exact words. Leo's expression grew increasingly annoyed.

"I told you, he's busy that day... No, I can't reschedule... Because I'm his agent, and I make those decisions..." His voice rose. "Well, if you'd bothered to check with me before committing him to that charity thing..."

Their conversation continued in this vein for several minutes, tension evident in every exchange. By the time Leo hung up, his face was flushed with irritation.

"Trouble in paradise?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What? No. Just work stuff." He took a long pull of his beer. "Olivia thinks she can book you for appearances without consulting me first."

"You two seem to fight a lot for people who work together," I observed. "Something going on there I should know about?"

"Nothing worth discussing," Leo dismissed. "Now, about Sienna. I think we need to revise our offer—make it more appealing, less transactional."

We spent the next hour outlining a new approach: legal protections for Sienna, clear boundaries and expectations, and most importantly, respect for her business and independence throughout the arrangement.

"She needs to know this isn't just about you using her," Leo emphasized. "It's a partnership where you both benefit."

Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I found myself on my phone, scrolling through Grandma Rose's Bakehouse's social media posts. The photos were a stark contrast to my own carefully curated social media presence—candid shots of Sienna flour-dusted and laughing, close-ups of intricately decorated pastries, throwback images of her grandmother in the same kitchen decades earlier.

One post particularly caught my attention: Sienna explaining the history of her grandmother's apple pie recipe, passed down through generations, each woman adding her own touch while maintaining the family tradition. The passion in her words was palpable, her connection to her heritage evident in every line.

I suddenly understood more clearly why my financial offer alone hadn't been enough. This wasn't just about money for Sienna—it was about preserving something meaningful, something with heart and history.

I continued scrolling, the digital warmth of her bakery a stark contrast to my cold mansion. I imagined her here, bringing life to the sterile kitchen that I rarely used. I pictured her hands, dusted with flour, shaping dough on my immaculate countertops. The image was strangely appealing—her softness against the hard edges of my space.

I closed my eyes, letting the image of Sienna in my space, transforming it, warming it from the inside, settle in my mind as I drifted toward sleep.

My phone's ring jolted me awake early the next morning. Sienna’s number flashed on the screen.

"Hello?" I answered, voice rough with sleep.

"Jax? It's Sienna." Her voice sounded strained, like she'd been debating this call for hours. "I was wondering if we could meet to discuss your... proposal further."

I sat up immediately, fully alert. "Of course. When?"

"I close the bakery at 3:30 today. After that?"

"That works," I agreed, trying to keep my tone neutral despite the surge of satisfaction I felt. "Where would you like to meet?"

"Somewhere private," she said. "Where we won't be recognized or overheard."

"My place?" I suggested. "It's secure, away from prying eyes."

After a brief hesitation, she agreed. I texted her my address and ending the call with a promise to see her that afternoon.

I spent the morning in an uncharacteristic flurry of activity—not cleaning, exactly, since my house was always immaculate, but attempting to make the space seem less sterile, more lived-in. I moved a few things out of their perfect alignment, added some books to the coffee table, even considered buying flowers before deciding that might seem too calculated.

Why did it matter what she thought of my house? This was business. And yet, I found myself wanting Sienna to feel comfortable here, to see a glimpse of the person behind the Ice Man persona that everyone else encountered.

When my doorbell rang precisely at 4:00 PM, I realized I was actually nervous—a sensation I rarely experienced off the ice. I took a deep breath before opening the door to find Sienna standing on my doorstep, looking as uncomfortable as I felt.

"Hi," she said simply.

"Hi," I echoed, stepping back to let her in. "Come in."

As she entered, I saw her eyes widen, taking in the soaring ceilings, glass walls overlooking the water, and minimalist décor.

"Leo and Olivia are already here," I told her, leading the way to the living room. "They have some documents they want to discuss."

Sienna followed, her steps hesitant, as though she was already second-guessing her decision to come. I found myself hoping she wouldn't change her mind, and the realization surprised me. When had I become so invested in this plan working out?

Perhaps when I'd seen the fierce determination in her eyes as she defended her bakery. Or maybe when I'd recognized in her the same drive and passion I felt on the ice.