Page 6

I knelt on my kitchen floor, surrounded by puddles of water and spoiled food, trying to absorb the disaster with already-soaked towels.

The ancient refrigerator—the one I'd been nursing along for months to avoid the expense of replacing it—had finally died overnight, taking with it thousands of dollars in catering ingredients for a corporate lunch I was supposed to prepare today.

"No, no, no," I muttered, as if my desperation could somehow resurrect the dead appliance. The compressor had given out completely, transforming the interior into a lukewarm soup of ruined proteins and wilted produce.

The bell above the restaurant door jingled, and I heard Zoe's familiar footsteps crossing the dining room.

"Riley?" she called. "Why is it so quiet in here? Shouldn't you be prepping for the Hancock lunch?"

When I didn't answer, her pace quickened. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, took one look at me kneeling amid the disaster, and wordlessly grabbed more towels.

For several minutes, we worked in silence, mopping up the mess and sorting what little could be salvaged. Finally, when the floor was merely damp rather than flooded, Zoe sat back on her heels beside me.

"How bad?" she asked quietly.

"Everything's gone," I said, my voice hollow. "About three thousand in ingredients. Plus whatever a new commercial refrigerator costs, which we can't afford. And I had to call and cancel the Hancock lunch, so that's another two thousand in revenue we won't see."

Zoe winced. "Can we rent a refrigerated truck for today? Try to salvage the job?"

I shook my head. "Already tried. Nothing available on such short notice, and we can't prep in a truck anyway." I gestured to the dead refrigerator. "Besides, that was our last cushion. Without that money coming in..."

I didn't need to finish the sentence. Zoe had seen the books. She knew exactly how precarious our situation was.

"What are you going to do?" she asked simply.

I stared at the pile of ruined food, then at the stack of past-due notices on my desk visible through the office door.

For a week, I'd been dismissing Caleb's drunken marriage proposal as absurd, a product of late-night desperation and too many drinks.

But with each new financial disaster, the idea seemed less outlandish and more like my only remaining option.

"I think," I said slowly, "I need to make a phone call."

Zoe's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You mean to..."

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?" Her voice held no judgment, only concern.

"What choice do I have?" I asked, more rhetorically than anything. "Vincent Carelli and his 'special terms'? Selling equipment we need to function? Closing down entirely?"

Zoe was quiet for a moment, then gave a single nod. "For what it's worth, I think he's one of the good ones. As professional athletes go."

Coming from Zoe, this was practically a glowing endorsement. I pulled my phone from my pocket, surprised to find my hands steady as I scrolled to the number Caleb had given me after our drink at the hotel.

He answered on the second ring, as if he'd been waiting for my call. "Riley?"

"The refrigerator died," I said without preamble. "Everything's ruined, including the catering job that was supposed to pay this month's utilities."

There was a beat of silence, then: "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I need to know if you were serious," I continued, my voice surprisingly calm given the magnitude of what I was considering. "About your... proposal."

"I was," he said simply. "I still am."

I closed my eyes briefly. "Then I think we should talk about terms."

Something in his voice shifted, a mix of relief and anticipation. "Of course. Do you want to meet at my place? I can send a car."

"I can get there on my own," I said, not wanting to feel beholden before we'd even begun negotiating. "Just text me the address."

"Two o'clock?"

"Fine."

After we hung up, I stared at the phone in my hand, a strange sense of calm settling over me. I'd just taken the first step toward legally binding myself to a man I barely knew, all to save my failing restaurant.

Zoe broke the silence. "So, you're really doing this."

"I think I am," I said, looking up at her. "Is that crazy?"

She considered for a moment. "Maybe. But no crazier than betting your life savings on a restaurant in the first place." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Whatever you decide, I'm with you."

At precisely two o'clock, I stood in the marble lobby of Caleb's waterfront penthouse apartment, feeling entirely out of place in my food-stained jeans and Hat Trick t-shirt. After the refrigerator disaster, I'd barely had time to shower, let alone worry about making a good impression.

The security guard at the desk eyed me skeptically. "Can I help you, miss?"

"I'm here to see Caleb Matthews," I said, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "Riley Caldwell."

He checked a screen. "I don't see you on the approved visitor list."

"She's with me, Frank," Caleb's voice came from the side.

I turned to find him crossing the lobby, dressed casually in jeans and a simple gray henley that somehow looked designer despite its simplicity. He smiled at me, and despite my nervousness, I found myself smiling back.

"Thanks for coming," he said, leading me toward a private elevator. "Sorry about the security. I should have called down to add you to the list."

"It's fine," I assured him. "Probably good to know my potential future home has decent security."

The elevator opened directly into his penthouse, and I couldn't help the small gasp that escaped me.

The space was exactly what I'd expect from a highly-paid athlete—sleek, modern, and professionally decorated.

The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the Charles River that momentarily distracted me from my nervous tension.

"This is..." I searched for an appropriate word. "Something."

Caleb chuckled. "That's one way to put it. The team's housing coordinator set it up when I signed my contract extension. I basically just said 'I like something stylish' and came home to this."

Before I could respond, a striking woman in her forties emerged from what looked like a home office, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. Her dark hair was cut in a sharp bob, and she assessed me with shrewd eyes.

"You must be Riley," she said, extending a manicured hand. "Diane Reynolds, Caleb's agent."

I hadn't expected an audience and felt even more self-conscious as I shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Diane insisted on being here for this discussion," Caleb explained, looking slightly apologetic. "Given the legal implications."

"Smart," I acknowledged. "I should probably have brought a lawyer myself."

"You still can," Diane said promptly. "In fact, I'd recommend it before you sign anything. But I thought we could discuss the general terms first, to see if this arrangement would work for both of you."

Despite her polished exterior, there was something reassuringly straightforward about Diane that I appreciated. She wasn't treating this potential arrangement as scandalous or shocking—just another business deal to be negotiated.

"Have a seat," Caleb suggested, gesturing toward the dining table where various papers were already arranged.

As I moved to sit down, Diane studied me with open interest. "You're not what I expected," she said, her tone neutral.

"Sorry about the clothes," I said, suddenly self-conscious again. "We had a crisis at the restaurant, and I—"

"No, no," she interrupted, waving away my explanation. "I meant it as a compliment. You're genuine. Real." She glanced at Caleb. "She'll balance your public image perfectly. A hardworking small business owner with family hockey connections? Whitman will eat it up."

I resisted the urge to remind them both that I was in the room. "So I'm the right 'type' for this charade?"

Diane's lips quirked in what might have been appreciation for my directness. "Exactly. And that straightforwardness is an asset too. People can smell fakery a mile away, especially the media."

We moved to Caleb's dining table, where Diane had prepared what looked like extensive paperwork. As she began explaining the proposed arrangement, I found myself oddly detached, as if watching someone else's life unfold.

The terms were laid out clearly—I would receive enough money to cover Hat Trick 's debts plus operating capital for the next year, deposited in installments to avoid raising red flags with the IRS.

In exchange, I'd move into Caleb's penthouse apartment, attend all home games and key team functions, and generally play the role of devoted hockey wife.

The marriage would last exactly one year, followed by a quiet, amicable divorce.

As I reviewed the contract, the enormity of what I was considering finally hit me. I'd be legally binding myself to a near-stranger, constructing an elaborate lie that could damage both our reputations if discovered.

"I need a moment," I said, interrupting Diane's explanation of the social media strategy she'd developed. "Alone. With Caleb."

Diane nodded crisply. "Of course. I'll step out to make some calls."

Once she'd left, I turned to Caleb, the question that had been bothering me finally spilling out. "Why me? You could find any number of women willing to enter this kind of arrangement with you."

Caleb was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Because you see me as a customer who tips well, not as Caleb Matthews, hockey star," he said finally. "You didn't even recognize me that first night. Do you know how rare that is in my life?"

His candor surprised me.

"And," he continued, "you work harder than anyone I've ever met. You pour everything into your restaurant, just like I pour everything into hockey. I respect that. This kind of arrangement needs to be with someone I actually respect."

"So this is about mutual respect?" I asked, oddly touched by his assessment.