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We spent the next hour devising a plan for how I could still participate in the preview despite my injured leg.

The solution: a video call. Even with Zoe assuring me everything was under control at Hat Trick , I couldn't shake the need to oversee the presentation myself, so I insisted on a live feed.

Caleb, ever helpful, offered his tablet on a stand for a clearer view and promised to provide any remote assistance I might need.

"You don't have to stay with me," I told him. "I know you have team stuff."

"Canceled," he said, not meeting my eyes as he adjusted my ice pack. "Captain's prerogative."

I knew that wasn't true—Caleb never skipped team obligations—but I didn't call him on it. Instead, I found myself unexpectedly touched by his choice to stay with me.

By evening, we had a system in place. Zoe had positioned her tablet on the kitchen counter at Hat Trick , angled to give me a clear view of the event. She would bring each dish to me for approval before service, and I could direct any last-minute adjustments.

"It feels so strange not being there," I admitted as we watched the restaurant fill with food critics, local chefs, and loyal customers from the livestream. "I hate not being in control."

"You're still in control," Caleb assured me, settling beside me on the couch. "Just remotely."

The preview was progressing smoothly until I noticed something alarming on screen. "Wait, what's happening with the juniper sauce? It looks like it's breaking!"

Zoe's harried face appeared in frame. "It is. The new line cook turned the heat up too high. We're trying to save it, but—"

"You need to lower the heat immediately and whisk in cold butter, a tablespoon at a time," I instructed, frustration mounting at being unable to fix it myself. "Make sure you—"

A familiar figure appeared behind Zoe, pushing into frame.

"Max?" I said incredulously. "What are you doing there?"

"Saving sauces and winning hearts," he replied with his trademark grin. "What temperature should this be at, Chef?"

To my astonishment, Max followed my directions perfectly, his hands steady as he whisked cold butter into the separating sauce. Within minutes, the emulsion was restored, silky and glossy as it should be.

"Since when do you know how to cook?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Max shrugged. "I watch a lot of Cooking shows on road trips. Also, Zoe called me." His eyes flicked to her with a softness I hadn't seen before.

"I did not call for your help specifically," Zoe protested, though her cheeks had flushed slightly. "But you insisted on coming over."

"Because I'm a gentleman," Max said solemnly. "And because your text said, and I quote, 'Riley's hurt. Preview tonight. Help.' "

Zoe rolled her eyes, but I didn't miss the smile she tried to hide as she turned back to the kitchen.

Beside me on the couch, Caleb chuckled. "Ten bucks says they're dating by the end of the season."

"No bet needed," I replied. "I give it a month, max."

The rest of the preview went smoothly, with Max proving surprisingly useful in the kitchen. By the time the last dessert was served, reviews were already coming in on social media—overwhelmingly positive, with particular praise for the innovative winter cocktail pairings Zoe had created.

I closed the tablet with a mix of relief and lingering frustration. "I should have been there."

"You were there," Caleb insisted. "Just not physically."

"It's not the same," I sighed. "But thank you for helping me set everything up."

"That's what—" He paused. "That's what I'm here for."

The unspoken word hung between us: husband. That's what husbands are for . Except he wasn't really my husband, not in the ways that mattered.

"Are you hungry?" Caleb asked, breaking the momentary tension. "I can make something. Nothing fancy, but I won't poison you."

I laughed despite myself. "You've been taking notes when I cook, haven't you?"

"Maybe." His smile was almost shy. "I pay attention to things that matter."

"Grilled cheese would be amazing, actually."

"That, I can definitely handle."

I watched as he moved around the kitchen, gathering ingredients with a confidence that hadn't been there when we first started our arrangement. He'd been paying attention, learning my methods and preferences. The thought was both comforting and unsettling.

We ate our sandwiches on the couch, watching the cooking competition show we'd both become addicted to, laughing at the judges' dramatic reactions and debating which contestant had the best technique.

When I shivered slightly—the pain medication making me more sensitive to the cold—Caleb casually draped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low near my ear.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. His body was warm and solid beside mine, and it felt disturbingly right to be tucked against him this way.

We stayed like that long after the show ended, talking about everything and nothing—his college hockey days, my first disastrous attempts at soufflé, the book we were both reading.

It was exactly the kind of evening that real couples share. Domestic. Comfortable. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with physical contact and everything to do with the quiet pleasure of being together.

Over the next week, as my ankle slowly healed, we fell into a new routine.

Caleb adjusted his morning schedule to help me before leaving for practice.

He stopped by Hat Trick during his lunch breaks to check on operations, bringing home samples of the day's specials for my approval.

In the evenings, we sat together on the couch, my injured leg often resting in his lap as we watched TV or discussed our days.

By the end of the week, Dr. Jenkins cleared me to move carefully with the walking boot.

I was in the kitchen, celebrating my partial freedom by attempting to bake cookies, when I realized I needed the specialty vanilla I kept on a high shelf.

Without thinking, I stretched up on my good foot, fingers straining toward the bottle.

The shift in weight made me wobble precariously. I was about to fall when strong hands suddenly gripped my waist, steadying me. I turned within the circle of Caleb's arms, my hands instinctively bracing against his chest. His heart pounded beneath my palm, a rapid rhythm that matched my own.

"You should have asked for help," he murmured, not releasing his hold.

We were inches apart, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. Neither of us moved. The air between us seemed charged with possibility.

"I'm not very good at asking for help," I whispered.

"I've noticed." His voice was rough, one hand sliding from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me imperceptibly closer.

"Caleb," I breathed, not sure if it was a question or a plea.

He answered anyway, closing the distance between us.

His lips touched mine, gentle at first, questioning.

When I didn't pull away, his kiss deepened, becoming something hungry and reverent all at once.

My hands slid up his chest to curl around his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss intensified, months of pretending and restraint dissolving into genuine need.

We stumbled backward until I felt the kitchen counter behind me. Caleb lifted me easily, setting me on the edge without breaking the kiss, positioning himself between my legs. His hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss further.

"We shouldn't," I gasped when we finally broke apart, though my body was saying the exact opposite.

"I know," he agreed, even as his lips traced a path down my neck that made coherent thought nearly impossible. "Contract clause 7.3: no physical intimacy."

"That was your idea," I reminded him, my fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath his shirt.

"Worst idea I've ever had," he murmured against my collarbone. "Can I submit a formal request to amend the contract?"

I laughed, the sound transforming into a soft moan as his hands slipped under my sweater. "I think we're already in breach of contract, Captain."

"Definitely a major penalty," he agreed, lifting me again. "Possibly a game misconduct."

I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me toward the bedroom, injury forgotten in the heat of the moment. "What's the appropriate disciplinary action?"

"I have some ideas."

The kiss that followed was instantaneous, sparked by the charged air between us as I turned in his arms, my hands braced against his solid chest. His face was inches from mine, his eyes dark with an emotion I couldn’t quite name but felt mirrored in my own accelerated heartbeat. Then he leaned in, and my lips met his.

There was no hesitation now, not from either of us, only a mutual surrender to what felt utterly, terrifyingly inevitable.

“Riley,” he murmured against my lips, his voice husky, and then he was lifting me.

I gasped, my arm instinctively going around his neck, mindful of my still-booted, throbbing ankle.

He carried me as if I weighed nothing, the short distance to the bed.

My lips were still fused to his, my heart hammering a wild rhythm against my ribs.

He laid me gently on the vast expanse of the king-sized bed, following me down, his weight a welcome, solid pressure.

His mouth never left mine, but his kisses trailed, painting fiery paths from my lips, down my jaw, to the sensitive skin of my neck, over my collarbone.

It was a delicious, mapping exploration that promised so much more.

“Caleb,” I whispered, my voice breathy when he finally lifted his head, his eyes blazing into mine. “My boot…”

A small smile touched his lips. “Right.” He was surprisingly gentle as he worked the straps and eased the bulky medical boot off my foot, then my sock. His fingers lingered for a moment on my ankle, his touch surprisingly tender. “Still sore?”