Page 10

I stood frozen in the doorway of the honeymoon suite, staring at the king-sized bed adorned with rose petals in the shape of a heart. Behind me, Caleb cursed under his breath at the hotel staff's romantic enthusiasm despite his specific request for a standard room.

The weekend getaway to Cape Cod—deemed necessary to maintain our newlywed narrative—had already been awkward, with forced smiles for staff who cooed over the "perfect couple." This room setup escalated the discomfort exponentially.

"I'll call the front desk," Caleb said, reaching for the phone. "This isn't what I reserved."

I stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Wait. Wouldn't it seem weird for newlyweds to complain about a romantic upgrade? We're supposed to be madly in love, remember?"

Caleb hesitated, his gaze returning to the petal-strewn bed. "You're right. But this is..."

"Extremely on the nose?" I suggested.

"I was going to say 'a bit much,' but yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I'd noticed he made when uncomfortable. "I can sleep on the couch." He nodded toward a small loveseat that would accommodate maybe two-thirds of his hockey player frame.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said with more confidence than I felt. "We're adults. It's a big bed. We can share it without making things weird."

Caleb looked doubtful but nodded. "If you're sure."

"Completely," I lied. "Now, are we going to stand in the doorway all night, or are we going to enjoy the 'complementary champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries' the concierge couldn't stop raving about?"

That earned a small smile. "Well, when you put it that way..."

We settled into an awkward routine, carefully maintaining physical distance as we unpacked.

I claimed the bathroom first, grateful for privacy to collect myself.

I changed into the least revealing pajamas I'd packed—cotton pants and a Boston College t-shirt—before emerging to find Caleb had constructed a barricade of pillows down the center of the bed.

The absurdity of the situation finally broke the tension, and I burst into laughter. "Is that your pillow Berlin Wall?"

Caleb grinned sheepishly, looking unfairly handsome in sweatpants and a worn Blizzard t-shirt. "I thought it might make you more comfortable."

"Because nothing says 'genuine newlyweds' like a pillow barricade," I teased, moving to my designated side of the bed.

"Hey, plenty of happily married couples sleep with pillow barriers," he countered, settling onto his side. "Snoring, blanket stealing, temperature preferences—all valid reasons for sleep segregation."

"Do you snore?" I asked, oddly curious.

"According to Max, only when I've been checked into the boards too many times in one game," Caleb replied. "You?"

"Zoe claims I talk in my sleep, but only about food. Apparently, I once gave a detailed dissertation on proper risotto technique at three in the morning."

Caleb laughed. "That's actually kind of adorable."

Despite the contract's clear "no intimacy" clause, the physical reality of sharing a bed created an unacknowledged tension. We lay rigidly on our respective sides, making stilted conversation about safe topics—tomorrow's whale watching excursion, restaurant recommendations from the concierge.

Eventually, exhaustion overcame awkwardness, and I drifted to sleep to the sound of Caleb's steady breathing.

I woke hours later to find the pillow wall collapsed and myself curled against Caleb's side, his arm wrapped around me. For a moment, still half-asleep, I enjoyed the warmth and solidity of him—until full consciousness hit and I realized our position.

We sprang apart simultaneously, both mumbling embarrassed apologies.

"Sorry, I must have—in my sleep—" I stammered, retreating to the edge of my side.

"No, it was probably me. I've been told I'm a heat-seeking missile when unconscious," Caleb said, equally flustered.

"It's fine. Natural, even. Bodies seek warmth during sleep," I said, forcing a clinical tone despite the flutter in my chest.

"Exactly. Just... biology." Caleb cleared his throat. "I'm going to grab a shower."

For the rest of the weekend, we maintained a careful distance in private while performing convincing affection in public for the cameras—holding hands on the whale watching boat, sharing bites of food at restaurants where we might be recognized, taking selfies for social media that suggested romantic bliss.

By Sunday evening, I was exhausted from the constant performance, but also disturbed by how natural some moments had felt.

When Caleb wrapped his jacket around my shoulders during a chilly sunset walk, his hands lingering briefly, I'd leaned into him without thinking.

These unguarded moments felt more dangerous than the orchestrated displays.

Back in Boston, I faced the daunting task of moving into Caleb's penthouse apartment. Zoe helped, offering running commentary on Caleb's sleek bachelor decor while carrying boxes from my small apartment above Hat Trick .

"I'm just saying," Zoe continued, setting down a box labeled 'Kitchen - Specialty Tools,' "everything is gray, black, or white. It's like living inside a hockey puck."

"It's minimalist," I defended, though I'd had similar thoughts before. The apartment was beautiful but sterile, lacking the personal touches that made a space feel lived-in.

"It's a decorator's idea of what a bachelor hockey star should live in," Zoe countered, running a finger along the pristine kitchen counter. "Does he actually cook in here? Everything looks untouched."

"Not really," I admitted. "He says he can make exactly three meals: scrambled eggs, protein shakes, and something he calls 'emergency pasta' that involves jarred sauce and pre-cooked chicken."

Zoe shuddered dramatically. "The horror."

"At least the kitchen is amazing," I said, admiring the professional-grade appliances I'd been mentally cataloging since I arrived. "That range alone probably cost more than all the equipment at Hat Trick combined."

"True," Zoe conceded. "Although... where exactly are you going to put all your stuff?" She gestured to the boxes of cookbooks, specialty ingredients, and kitchen tools I'd brought with me.

I'd been wondering the same thing. The kitchen, while beautiful, was organized for someone who rarely cooked. There was no spice rack, no cookbook shelf, minimal storage for the various gadgets I considered essential.

"We'll figure it out," I said with more confidence than I felt. "It's only for a year."

A year. The thought was simultaneously reassuring and depressing.

This elaborate charade had a defined endpoint—which was good.

But it also meant I was essentially putting my real life on hold for twelve months, living in a space that didn't feel like mine, with a man I was married to but not truly married to.

"Earth to Riley," Zoe's voice broke into my thoughts. "Where should we put these?" She held up the box containing my prized collection of vintage cookbooks.

Before I could answer, the elevator doors opened, and Caleb stepped into the apartment, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He looked tired but brightened when he saw us.

"Hey," he said, dropping his bag by the door. "How's the moving going?"

"Just trying to figure out where everything fits," I said, gesturing to the organized chaos of boxes.

Caleb's gaze fell on the cookbooks Zoe was still holding. "Those look important."

"Riley's cookbook collection," Zoe explained. "Some of them were her grandmother's."

Caleb considered for a moment, then nodded decisively. "They should go in the office. I've got bookshelves in there that are half empty." He led us down the hall to a room I hadn't explored yet, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves containing hockey reference books, biographies, and strategic manuals.

"I can clear these shelves," he offered, already beginning to consolidate his books to make room. "There's no reason they should be in boxes."

The simple kindness of the gesture— his sacrifice of personal space—caught me off guard. "Thank you," I said softly. "That's really thoughtful."

He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "It's your home too, for now. You should have your things around you."

After Zoe left, promising to open Hat Trick for lunch the next day, Caleb and I ordered takeout and ate at the kitchen island, both too tired to cook or go out.

"So," he said between bites of pad Thai , "what else do you need to make this place feel like yours? More shelf space? Different furniture? Just say the word."

"It's your apartment," I pointed out. "I don't want to change everything."

"It's our apartment for the next year," he corrected. "And honestly, the team’s housing coordinator chose most of it."

I looked around the sleek space, seeing it with new eyes. "It is a bit... impersonal," I admitted.

"Exactly. So if you want to add things, change things—go for it."

"Well," I said slowly, "I do have some framed vintage hockey posters that might look good in the hallway. And maybe a few more colorful throw pillows for the couch?"

Caleb grinned. "Now you're talking. Not too many pillows, though. Max already makes fun of me for having 'decorative towels' in the guest bathroom."

"The horror," I deadpanned, making him laugh.

Just as we were falling into a comfortable rhythm, Caleb dropped his sweaty practice gear in the middle of the living room floor, casually explaining that his cleaning service would deal with it tomorrow.

I stared at the damp pile, my neat-freak chef instincts screaming in protest. "You're just going to leave that there? Overnight?"

He looked genuinely confused. "The cleaners come in the morning."

"But it's... wet. And smelly. On the carpet."

"It'll dry," he said with the confidence of someone who'd clearly done this many times before.

I pressed my lips together, trying to remember that this was his space long before it was mine. But the thought of smelly hockey gear festering on the floor all night was more than I could bear.