Page 23

I stood at Hat Trick’s kitchen window, watching fat snowflakes drift lazily from a slate-gray sky.

Boston in December felt like a holiday postcard—streets lined with twinkling lights, wreaths adorning every lamppost, and the air perpetually scented with pine and cinnamon.

My left foot, finally healed, mirrored the restaurant’s resurgence: After our winter-menu preview’s resounding success, tonight’s reservations were sold out, and the lunch rush was moments away as holiday shoppers flocked inside to escape the bitter cold.

But my thoughts weren't on the impending service or even the winter menu I'd finally perfected.

Instead, I kept replaying moments from the past weeks with Caleb—the way his eyes sought mine across a room, the late-night conversations that extended until we were both fighting sleep just to keep talking.

Something had shifted between us since that night in the kitchen.

We'd crossed a line drawn in our carefully constructed contract, and neither of us seemed interested in stepping back behind it.

Yet we also hadn't discussed what it meant, both of us circling the subject with the caution of skaters testing thin ice.

The holiday season only complicated matters further. Christmas was approaching, and we hadn't discussed plans. Would we visit families separately? or together?

"Earth to Riley," Zoe's voice broke through my reverie. "The potatoes aren't going to prep themselves, and you've been staring out that window for ten minutes."

I turned from the snowfall to find my sous chef and best friend regarding me with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Sorry. Just thinking about the dinner service."

"Uh-huh." Zoe's skepticism was evident as she expertly diced an onion without looking down. "And does the dinner service have broad shoulders and a killer slap shot?"

Heat rose in my cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please." She rolled her eyes. "You've had the same dopey expression every time you zone out lately. I call it your 'thinking about Caleb' face."

"I do not have a—" The restaurant's front door chimed, cutting me off. "That's probably the delivery from Riverbank Farms. Can you check it?"

Zoe wiped her hands on a towel. "Saved by the bell. This conversation isn't over, Matthews."

The surname still gave me a small jolt every time I heard it. It shouldn't have; we'd been "married" for weeks now. But lately, it had started to feel less like a legal formality and more like... something else. Something real.

I shook off the thought and returned to prep, losing myself in the familiar rhythm of chopping, seasoning, and organizing.

The methodical work cleared my head, as it always did.

By the time I'd finished prepping the day's special—a braised short rib with winter root vegetables that had become a customer favorite—I was fully focused on the restaurant again.

The door chimed once more. "Got it!" I called, assuming Zoe was still dealing with the delivery.

I wiped my hands and pushed through the swinging doors to the dining room, stopping short at the sight before me.

Instead of our usual produce supplier, Caleb stood just inside the entrance, snowflakes melting in his dark hair and clinging to the shoulders of his charcoal wool coat.

He carried multiple shopping bags, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold.

"Hey," he said, looking shy as he stomped snow from his boots. "Surprise."

"What are you doing here?" I asked, unable to keep the pleasure from my voice. "I thought you had the day off for Christmas shopping."

He lifted the bags slightly. "I did. But I thought you might want lunch." He produced a white paper bag from inside his coat. "Bánh mì from that Vietnamese place you like."

The thoughtful gesture made my chest tighten. "You came all the way across town in a snowstorm to bring me lunch?"

"I was in the neighborhood," he said, then grinned at my skeptical look. "Okay, I wasn't. But I also need your expert opinion on something." He patted one of the shopping bags.

Zoe emerged from the back, eyebrows rising at the sight of Caleb. "Well, well. If it isn't Captain Charming, making deliveries that definitely aren't on our order sheet."

"Nice to see you too, Zoe," Caleb replied, unfazed by her teasing. "How's Max?"

Zoe's eyes narrowed. "How would I know? It's not like I keep tabs on your goalie."

"Interesting, because he mentioned you had dinner together last night."

I stifled a laugh at Zoe's momentary speechlessness. She recovered quickly, grabbing her coat from behind the counter. "I'll handle final prep, Riley. You two take your time." The look she gave me clearly communicated that I'd be providing full details later.

Once Zoe had disappeared into the kitchen, Caleb set the bags down at a corner table. "Is this okay? I know you're busy."

"It's perfect. We don't open for another hour." I slid into the chair opposite him. "Seriously, though, what brings you here on your day off?"

He unwrapped the sandwiches, sliding one toward me. "Can't a man bring his wife lunch without an interrogation?"

The casual use of " wife " sent a flutter through me.

"He can," I said, unwrapping my sandwich. "But this particular man usually has a tv remote in his hand on his rare days off, not shopping bags."

Caleb took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm evolving."

"Into what? A considerate husband?" I teased.

"Something like that." His eyes held mine for a moment before he reached for one of the shopping bags. "Actually, I need your help with this."

He produced a small velvet box from his pocket and slid it across the table. "I need a second opinion."

I stared at the box, momentarily speechless. A ridiculous thought flashed through my mind—that this was some kind of proposal, which made no sense considering we were already technically married. Heart hammering inexplicably, I opened the box.

Inside lay a pair of earrings—elegant diamonds in a platinum setting, tasteful and understated but clearly expensive.

"They're beautiful," I said, relief and an unexpected twinge of disappointment mingling in my chest. "Who are they for?"

"Megan," he explained. "My sister mentioned wanting something 'adult and sophisticated' now that she's finished grad school. Do you think she'll like them?"

I examined the earrings more carefully. "They're perfect—classic but not boring. She'll love them."

Caleb's relief was palpable. "Thank god. I've been to six different jewelry stores, and they all start to look the same after a while." He reclaimed the box, tucking it carefully into his coat pocket. "Jewelry shopping is definitely outside my comfort zone."

"You did good," I assured him. "Really good."

We ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the muted Christmas music playing over the restaurant speakers and the occasional scrape of a chair as one of the servers set up for lunch service.

"So," Caleb said finally, "I realized we haven't really talked about Christmas."

"No, we haven't."

"The team has a three-day break," he explained.

"We have to be back for practice on the 26th, but we're free from the 23rd through Christmas.

" He hesitated, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

"We usually do Christmas Eve at my parents' place in Minnesota, then Christmas Day with the team families who don't travel home. "

He didn't explicitly ask if I wanted to join these festivities, but the question hovered between us nonetheless. I found myself genuinely wanting to experience a Matthews family Christmas, while simultaneously wondering if that desire crossed some invisible line in our arrangement.

Before I could respond, the restaurant door opened again, admitting a blast of cold air and a figure that made my stomach drop—Vincent.

He paused just inside the door, clearly surprised to see Caleb. His usual smooth confidence faltered slightly before he adjusted his expensive wool coat and approached our table.

"Riley," he greeted me with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The place looks great. Quite a turnaround from the last time we spoke."

Caleb went rigid beside me, his easy demeanor replaced by an instant guard. "Vincent. What do you want?"

"Just in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by." His gaze flicked between Caleb and me. "I've been hearing good things about Riley’s collaboration with the arena's food service. Quite the coup for a small operation like this."

Something in his tone made my shoulders tense. "We've been fortunate."

"Indeed." Vincent nodded, his expression calculating. "It's amazing what the right... partnership can accomplish, isn't it?"

The implication in his words was clear enough that I felt Caleb's fist tighten beside me.

"Was there something specific you wanted, Vincent?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

"Just to congratulate you," he said smoothly. "It's not every day a struggling restaurateur manages such a dramatic reversal of fortune. Almost like magic—or an angel investor." His gaze settled meaningfully on Caleb. "Though I never would have predicted this particular... investment strategy."

Caleb stood slowly, drawing himself to his full height. At six-foot-two, he towered over Vincent's slight frame. "I think you were just leaving," he said, his voice quiet but carrying an unmistakable edge.

Vincent didn't immediately back down, but something in Caleb's expression must have convinced him this wasn't a battle worth fighting—yet. He nodded curtly. "Of course. I have other appointments. Riley, always a pleasure. Mr. Matthews... interesting to finally meet you."

The pointed use of Caleb's name felt like a cold pinprick. When Vincent finally left, the easy warmth of our lunch vanished, leaving a sudden, stark silence.

"He never knows when to quit, does he?" Caleb's voice was low, directed more at the closed door than at me.