Page 17

I adjusted my tie for the third time, scrutinizing my reflection in the bedroom mirror. The annual team charity auction gala wasn't just another public appearance—it was the Boston Blizzard's premier social event of the season. As newly appointed captain, I'd be front and center all evening.

But that wasn't why my stomach was doing nervous flip-flops.

I checked my watch again. Riley had been getting ready in the guest bedroom we'd converted into her dressing room for nearly an hour.

We shared the master bedroom now—a practical decision after too many close calls with unexpected visitors—though we maintained our separate beds arrangement.

Still, the proximity had created an intimacy neither of us had anticipated.

The sound of a door opening pulled me from my thoughts. I turned, and for a moment, I couldn't speak.

Riley stood in the doorway wearing a formfitting burgundy dress that highlighted curves usually hidden beneath her chef's coat. She looked stunning and slightly uncomfortable, smoothing the unfamiliar fabric with nervous hands.

"Is it too much?" she asked, misinterpreting my silence. "Annabelle helped me pick it out. She said burgundy was 'my color,' whatever that means."

I finally found my voice. "You look incredible."

A flush crept up her cheeks. "Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself."

I offered my arm with exaggerated formality, bowing slightly. "Shall we, Mrs. Matthews?"

She laughed, relaxing as she took my arm. "Lead the way, Captain."

At the venue—an elegant downtown hotel ballroom—we separated temporarily.

Riley joined the other hockey wives arranging auction items while I greeted sponsors and management.

Throughout the evening, I found my gaze repeatedly drawn to her across the room.

She moved with confidence among the hockey wives and girlfriends, engaging in animated conversations, her laugh occasionally rising above the general din.

Several times, our eyes met briefly across the crowded space before one of us glanced away, as if caught doing something forbidden.

During dinner, Riley was seated beside me at the team's table, charming everyone with stories about her collaboration with the arena's food service to create a Hat Trick concession stand for home games.

"The real challenge," she was explaining to a player's wife, "was developing recipes that could be executed consistently without my direct oversight. We settled on three signature items that capture the Hat Trick spirit but can be prepared quickly by arena staff."

I listened with pride, admiring how seamlessly she'd adapted to my world while maintaining her own identity and passions.

Midway through the main course, the ballroom lights flickered and then went out completely. There were a few startled exclamations before emergency lights activated, casting the room in a dim glow.

In the momentary chaos, I instinctively reached for Riley's hand under the table. She gripped my fingers tightly, and neither of us let go when the lights flickered back partially, leaving the room in romantic half-light.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the host announced, "we're experiencing a minor power issue. The hotel assures us they're working on it, but in the meantime, let's continue our evening by candlelight."

Staff scurried to light candles at each table, creating an unexpected intimacy as conversations lowered to match the softer atmosphere.

"Well, this is... atmospheric," Riley murmured, still holding my hand beneath the tablecloth.

"Very romantic," I agreed, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. "Diane probably arranged the power outage for maximum publicity value."

Riley laughed. "I wouldn't put it past her. Your agent is terrifyingly competent."

"That's putting it mildly." I shifted in my chair to face her more directly. "Having fun?"

"Surprisingly, yes." She smiled. "The hockey wives are funny and smart and surprisingly normal."

"As opposed to the hockey players, who are unfunny, dumb, and abnormal?"

"I didn't say that," she protested, but her eyes were twinkling with amusement. "Although now that you mention it..."

I clutched my chest in mock offense. "Wounded by my own wife."

"You'll survive." She reached up to straighten my slightly askew tie, her fingers brushing against my collar in a casual intimacy. "Though your tie might not. How do you always manage to mess it up within an hour of putting it on?"

"It's a gift," I said, enjoying her closeness. "Some guys have slap shots; I have tie-mangling."

The auction began shortly after dinner concluded. Riley's cooking lesson package ignited an unexpected bidding war, eventually selling for an amount that made her gasp beside me.

"Ten thousand dollars? For cooking lessons with me?" she whispered incredulously.

"Told you experiences go over big," I whispered back, squeezing her hand. "People know quality when they see it."

I applauded loudly when she was acknowledged as the donor, feeling an irrational surge of pride at her success.

Later, as the formal portion of the evening transitioned to dancing, I found myself hesitating. Riley had never seen me dance, and there was a reason for that—namely, that I danced like someone having a mild seizure.

"You okay?" Riley asked, noticing my reluctance as couples began moving toward the dance floor.

"Full disclosure," I said, leaning close to her ear, "I'm a terrible dancer. Like, embarrassingly bad. Max has video evidence he threatens to release whenever he wants something from me."

She laughed. "What a coincidence. I'm awful too. We can be terrible together."

We made our way to the dance floor, and to my surprise, we moved together easily.

I pulled her closer than strictly necessary, inhaling the light floral scent of her perfume. With her heels, Riley's face was level with my collar, and I was acutely aware of her breath warming my skin.

When she looked up at me, something in her expression made my chest tighten. The moment stretched between us, filled with unspoken possibilities.

"Mind if I cut in?" Max appeared beside us, tapping my shoulder with exaggerated formality. "I'd like to dance with the captain's better half."

Riley smiled, stepping back. "Sure, as long as you promise not to step on my toes."

"My dear Riley," Max said, taking her hand, "I am a far superior dancer to your husband. Prepare to be amazed."

I reluctantly released her, watching as Max led her away, already making her laugh with whatever ridiculous thing he was saying.

"They seem to be getting along better," Diane observed, appearing beside me.

"Who?" I asked, still watching Riley.

"Max and Zoe," Diane clarified, nodding toward the bar where Zoe had just arrived to deliver something to Riley. Max immediately spotted her and changed direction mid-dance, steering Riley toward her friend. "Though that wasn't actually what I meant to discuss."

I tore my gaze away from the trio. "What's up?"

Diane studied me for a moment. "Are you two not acting anymore?"

The question caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"

"You and Riley." Diane's expression was unreadable. "This doesn't look like performance, Caleb."

I didn't respond, unsure what to say.

Diane sighed, patting my arm. "Just remember the contract has an expiration date. Hearts don't renegotiate as easily as paperwork."

Before I could formulate a response, she drifted away to speak with one of the team's sponsors, leaving me with her warning echoing in my head.

When photographers caught us leaving later that night, my hand rested naturally at the small of Riley's back. The resulting photos, which circulated on social media almost immediately, showed a couple completely in sync, smiling at a private joke—no acting required.

Back at the penthouse, Riley kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, instantly losing several inches of height. I found the transformation endearing—from elegant gala attendee back to my Riley.

My Riley. The thought came unbidden and unsettling.

"Nightcap?" I offered, already moving toward the bar cart.

"God, yes," she agreed, reaching up to remove her earrings. "My feet are killing me, but I'm too wired to sleep."

I poured us each a finger of good whiskey, and we moved to the balcony with our glasses, looking out over the city lights. It was a clear night, unusually warm for November, with just enough breeze to be pleasant.

The conversation flowed easily at first, humorously reviewing the evening's highlights—the board member who got into a bidding war with his own wife, Max's outrageous flirtation with a seventy-year-old donor, the host's hilariously bad dancing.

Eventually, we lapsed into comfortable silence, sipping our drinks and enjoying the view.

"We've gotten good at this," Riley said finally, her voice soft.

I looked over at her, studying her profile in the dim light. "At what?"

"This." She gestured vaguely between us. "The whole... married couple thing."

I carefully asked, "You mean the performance?"

Riley didn't answer immediately, swirling her whiskey thoughtfully. "Is it still a performance? Sometimes I can't tell anymore."

The question hung between us, dangerous and tempting. Before I could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal too much, Riley's phone chimed with a message.

She checked it quickly. "It's Zoe. There's an issue with tomorrow's early delivery." She drained the last of her whiskey. "I should get some sleep if I need to be at the restaurant by five."

"Right," I said, trying to hide my disappointment at the interrupted moment. "Early morning."

"Thanks for tonight," she said, pausing at the balcony door. "I had a really good time."

"Me too."

She hesitated, as if wanting to say more, then simply smiled. "Goodnight, Caleb."

"Goodnight."

I remained on the balcony long after she'd gone, replaying the evening in my mind and wondering exactly when the line between acting and reality had begun to disappear.

Diane's warning echoed in my thoughts: Hearts don't renegotiate as easily as paperwork. She was right, of course. The contract had been clear from the beginning—a temporary arrangement with mutual benefits and a definite end date.

We'd both gotten what we wanted. I had the captaincy. Riley's restaurant was thriving. There was no logical reason to complicate things with feelings neither of us had anticipated.

But as I finished my whiskey alone under the stars, logic seemed increasingly irrelevant to the situation I found myself in—falling for my own wife, with no idea if she felt the same way.