Page 13

I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of my purple dress for the fifth time. I'd bought it on a whim two years ago for a friend's wedding and never found another occasion to wear it. Until tonight.

"It's just dinner," I muttered to my reflection. "A business dinner, essentially. Part of the arrangement."

So why had I spent forty-five minutes on my hair?

Zoe had left the restaurant early to help me get ready, bringing several pairs of heels from her own closet since mine were all either chef clogs or sneakers.

"Stop fidgeting," she said, applying a final coat of mascara to my lashes. "You look hot. Own it."

"I'm not trying to look hot," I protested.

Zoe raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Really? So you always curl your hair and wear your sexy purple dress for business meetings?"

"It's not a business meeting," I said defensively. "It's just a celebration."

"Uh-huh." Zoe capped the mascara. "A celebration with your fake husband who you definitely don't have actual feelings for."

I glared at her. "I don't have feelings. I have appreciation. He got what he wanted, I got what I wanted. We're just... maintaining appearances."

"Sure. And all that blushing you do when he comes into the restaurant is just... what? An allergic reaction?"

Before I could come up with a suitably cutting response, we heard the front door open.

"Riley?" Caleb called. "Are you ready? Reservation's in thirty minutes."

"Just finishing up," I called back, my pulse quickening for no good reason.

"Good luck," Zoe whispered with a wink. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That leaves a disturbing amount of options open," I whispered back as she slipped out of the bedroom.

I heard her greet Caleb casually, followed by their muffled conversation and laughter. Taking a deep breath, I smoothed my dress one final time and stepped out of the bedroom.

Caleb was standing in the living room of the penthouse, wearing a perfectly tailored dark blue suit that complimented his black eyes. He turned when he heard me, and something in his expression made my stomach flip. His eyes widened slightly, and he seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

"Wow," he finally said. "You look... incredible."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "Thank you. So do you. Very captainly."

He grinned, his momentary speechlessness forgotten. "Is 'captainly' a word?"

"It is now," I said, reaching for my small clutch purse. "I decree it as the captain's wife."

"The captain's wife," he repeated, offering me his arm with exaggerated gallantry. "I like the sound of that."

I took his arm, trying to ignore the warmth that spread through me at the contact. This was all part of the act, I reminded myself. The flirting, the compliments—just convincing window dressing for our arrangement.

The restaurant was as exclusive as rumors suggested—all soft lighting, hushed conversations, and servers who appeared and disappeared with ghostly efficiency.

Diane had not only secured us a reservation but arranged for us to be seated at what was clearly the best table in the house—visible enough to be seen by Boston's elite, but with enough privacy for conversation.

"This place is intimidating," I whispered to Caleb as we were led to our table. "I feel like I should have brought a translator for the menu."

"Scared, Chef?" he teased. "I thought you culinary school graduates knew all the fancy French terms."

"Cooking French food and deciphering a pretentious French menu are different skills," I retorted, settling into my chair as he held it for me.

The sommelier appeared to discuss wine options, speaking almost exclusively to Caleb despite my being the one with culinary training. I was about to say something when Caleb surprised me.

"My wife is the expert here," he said smoothly. "She's a chef with remarkable taste. I defer to her judgment completely."

The sommelier turned to me with new respect, and I shot Caleb a grateful smile as I selected a wine that wouldn't bankrupt even an NHL captain.

Once we were alone with our wine, Caleb leaned forward slightly. "So, Chef Riley, what exactly are we eating tonight? The menu descriptions are mostly adjectives with very few nouns I recognize."

I laughed. "From what I gathered, it's a twelve-course tasting menu featuring seasonal ingredients prepared with techniques so complicated they require their own scientific notation."

"Sounds filling," he deadpanned.

"Oh, definitely. Each course will be approximately three bites served on plates the size of car tires."

He chuckled, then raised his wine glass. "To the captaincy—and to the woman who made it possible."

"To the captain," I echoed, clinking my glass against his. "You earned it, Caleb."

The first few courses came and went in a parade of artfully arranged morsels. As predicted, they were beautiful, delicious, and utterly insufficient to satisfy a professional athlete's appetite. Caleb's running commentary on each dish kept me laughing.

"This one looks like something that washed up on the beach," he whispered as the server presented a seafood course decorated with foam.

"Be nice," I scolded, but I was smiling. "That foam probably took someone hours to perfect."

"I'm just saying, food shouldn't look like the aftermath of a dog with stomach issues."

I nearly choked on my wine.

As the meal progressed, our conversation shifted from the food to more personal topics.

"Tell me more about growing up with Coach Jim as a dad," Caleb said. "Was he as intense about parenting as he was about hockey?"

I smiled, thinking about my father. "Yes and no. He brought the same passion to everything—coaching, parenting, grilling burgers, fixing the roof. But he was fair. He never pushed me toward sports the way he did Danny."

"What did he think when you decided to become a chef?"

"He was confused at first," I admitted. "Cooking was just a life skill to him, not a career. But once he understood how much it meant to me, he became my biggest supporter. Used to drive four hours to taste-test my final projects at culinary school."

"That's amazing," Caleb said, his expression softening. "My dad would have considered that enabling."

"What was it like, having an NHL player for a father?" I asked.

Caleb took a sip of wine, considering. "Complicated. He was hardest on me because he knew the path, knew exactly what it would take. Every skate, every shot, every game—there was always feedback, always something to improve."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It was," he agreed. "But it also made me who I am. I wouldn't be wearing the 'C' without his pushing."

"Well, there's the whole 'unconditional love' thing most parents go for," I said lightly.

He laughed, but there was something sad in it. "Right. That."

I reached across the table impulsively, touching his hand. "Hey. For what it's worth, I think you turned out pretty great, aggressive hockey dad and all."

His eyes met mine. "Thanks, Riley."

By the time dessert arrived—a chocolate creation that was more architectural feat than food—the atmosphere between us had changed.

Each glance held longer. Each brush of hands seemed deliberate.

When Caleb reached across the table to wipe a smudge of chocolate from the corner of my mouth, his touch lingered, and the air between us felt charged with possibility.

I wasn't prepared for this—the way my heart raced when he looked at me, how I kept finding excuses to touch him. This wasn't part of our agreement. This wasn't supposed to happen.

When we finally left the restaurant, paparazzi waited outside—tipped off about the new captain's celebration dinner, no doubt. Caleb's arm went around me protectively as we navigated the cameras and questions, his body a solid wall between me and the intrusion.

In the car, I stared out the window, trying to make sense of the evening.

This arrangement was supposed to be clean, mutually beneficial without emotional complications.

Yet here I was, looking forward to returning home with him, to the comfortable routine we'd established, to the surprising ease of his company.

"You're quiet," Caleb observed as we drove. "Everything okay?"

"Just tired," I lied. "It's been a big day."

"A good day," he corrected, reaching over to take my hand again. "One of the best."

I looked down at our joined hands, his strong fingers entwined with mine. I should pull away. I didn't.

When we reached home, we rode the elevator to the penthouse in silence, standing closer than necessary. The doors opened directly into his—our—penthouse, and as they closed behind us, something in the air shifted.

For a long moment, we just stood there, a few feet apart. The scent of expensive cologne, his signature, mingled with the lingering perfume from my dress, a strange, intimate blend in the dimly lit foyer. My heart was a wild bird trapped in my ribs, beating a frantic rhythm against them.

He moved first. Two long strides and the space between us vanished.

His hands, usually so deft with a hockey stick, settled on my arms, gentle yet firm.

I felt the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of my dress, a spark that shot straight up to my core.

He drew me in, slowly, as if giving me a chance to pull away.

I didn’t. I was flush against his chest, the solid wall of him a sudden, overwhelming reality.

I could feel the frantic thrum of his heartbeat, or maybe it was mine.

“Riley,” he breathed, his voice rough, and my name on his lips was a caress.

My hands, of their own accord, flew up to his shoulders, gripping the expensive material of his suit. I needed an anchor. The world felt like it was tilting. “Caleb,” I whispered back, my voice barely there.

Then his mouth was on mine.