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Dinner was easier, with Ellen steering the conversation to safer topics and Danny providing enthusiastic buffer with his hockey chatter.

When Riley finally worked up the courage to announce our marriage officially, Ellen's squeal of delight and immediate wedding planning masked Jim's more reserved reaction.

"We're thinking something small," Riley explained quickly. "Just family and close friends. Soon, actually."

"How soon?" Ellen asked, already mentally redecorating the backyard for a reception.

"Three weeks," I supplied, placing my hand over Riley's on the table. "Before training camp starts."

Ellen's eyebrows shot up. "Three weeks? But that's hardly enough time to—"

"It's perfect," Riley interrupted. "Small, intimate, no fuss. We're not really traditional wedding people, Mom."

"Well," Ellen said, recovering quickly, "I suppose we can work with three weeks. Jim? Thoughts?"

Jim studied us over his glass of wine. "If this is what Riley wants, we support her. That's what family does." The pointed emphasis on "family" wasn't lost on me.

After dinner, while Ellen gave Riley what appeared to be an intense mother-daughter talk in the kitchen, Danny cornered me for more hockey discussion and selfies "to make my teammates lose their minds.

" When it was finally time to leave, the farewell was a mix of genuine warmth from Ellen and Danny, and cautious acceptance from Jim.

"Take care of her," Jim said quietly as we shook hands, the warning clear in his tone.

"I will," I promised, meaning it more than he could know.

On the drive back to Boston, Riley seemed withdrawn, staring out the passenger window at the passing scenery. When I asked if she was reconsidering our arrangement, she sighed.

"No, it's not that. I just hate lying to them. Mom's already talking about wedding colors and grandkids, and Dad..." She trailed off.

"Your dad sees more than he lets on," I completed her thought.

Riley winced. "I'm sorry. Dad's protective."

"Don't apologize. He's doing what fathers should do." I hesitated before adding, "My parents will be a different challenge altogether."

"How so?"

"My mother, Katherine, will be thrilled I'm settling down, but she'll scrutinize you for flaws and social compatibility with her country club friends.

My father will..." I paused, searching for the right words.

"Robert Matthews is a human lie detector.

He played pro himself, knows the business side of hockey.

If anyone's going to see through us, it's him. "

"Great," Riley muttered. "So between your father and mine, we're basically transparent."

"We just need to convince them long enough to get through the wedding," I reminded her. "After that, we can limit family interactions."

My phone rang through the car's Bluetooth—Whitman's name appearing on the dashboard display. I answered, putting on my media-trained voice.

"Mr. Whitman, good evening."

"Matthews! Heard the big news. Didn't know you were seeing anyone seriously, let alone headed to the altar." Whitman's tone was notably warmer than during our last conversation.

I glanced at Riley, who looked alarmed at being overheard. "News travels fast."

"It really is a small world. My wife's cousin plays bridge with your future mother-in-law. Ellen couldn't stop talking about her daughter landing Boston's most eligible bachelor." Whitman chuckled. "Smart move, son. A chef with hockey family connections—couldn't have chosen better myself."

The calculation in his tone made my skin crawl, but I forced a laugh. "Thank you, sir."

"Training camp starts soon. We should discuss the captaincy, make it official before the season begins. Bring your fiancée to dinner next week—Gloria would love to meet her."

After promising to check our schedule, I ended the call, catching Riley's stunned expression.

"Well," she said dryly, "that was subtle."

"Welcome to hockey politics," I replied. "At least we know the plan is working."

As we approached Boston, I found myself thinking about the upcoming weeks—introducing Riley to my considerably more difficult family, the small wedding we'd need to orchestrate, and the complex dance of convincing the world our arrangement was genuine.

"Ready for phase two?" I asked as we pulled up to her restaurant, where she'd be spending her last few nights before moving into my apartment. "Meeting the Matthews family will make your dad's interrogation look like a casual chat."

"Can't wait," she replied with mock enthusiasm, then hesitated before opening her door. "Thanks for today. You were... really good with my family."

"Easy when they're good people," I said honestly. "You're lucky to have them."

A week later, we found ourselves on the private dock extending into Boston Harbor, surrounded by a small wedding party of just family and close teammates. Max stood beside me as best man, periodically whispering completely unhelpful commentary.

"Remember when I said you should consider getting married to secure the captaincy, and you called me an idiot?" he murmured as we waited for the ceremony to begin. "I feel vindicated."

"You suggested Vegas with a puck bunny," I reminded him under my breath. "This is completely different."

"Is it though?" Max waggled his eyebrows. "You're still marrying someone you barely know for the captaincy."

"We should have included a best man silence clause in the contract," I muttered.

"Speaking of which, did your lawyer include an escape clause for when her father murders you in your sleep? Mr. Caldwell is still giving you the death stare." Max nodded subtly towards Jim Caldwell, who stood near the double doors, waiting to walk Riley down the aisle.

To my right, my family was seated. My mother beamed, radiating pure approval at me finally settling down.

My father watched with a slightly concerned expression, the kind that always told me he sensed something wasn't quite right beneath the surface.

Beside him sat Megan, the only one who found out the truth and had agreed to keep it a secret, offering a small, encouraging smile.

Whitman and his wife Gloria sat in the front row, looking like they'd already mentally prepared the press release about the captain's perfect wedding.

The music changed, and everyone turned as Riley appeared.

She was stunning in a simple white dress that hugged her curves before flowing out gently at the knees.

Her hair was partially up, soft tendrils framing her face.

I'd expected her to look beautiful—she always did—but the sight of her still caught me off guard.

Jim's expression was both proud and protective as he escorted her toward me. When they reached the altar, he placed Riley's hand in mine with a final warning look before taking his seat.

Riley's fingers trembled slightly in mine. We'd rehearsed this before—the appropriate amount of nervous excitement, the loving glances, the soft smiles. What I hadn't prepared for was the jolt of awareness that shot through me at this simple contact, or how right her hand felt in mine.

The officiant led us through standard vows. I found myself meaning some of the promises, particularly the parts about respect and partnership. When it was time to kiss the bride, I cupped Riley's face gently, intending a brief, chaste press of lips—enough to be convincing without overstepping.

But as I leaned in, something shifted. Her lips were soft beneath mine, yielding slightly. The kiss lingered, my thumb brushing across her cheek as if we'd done this a thousand times before. When we finally parted, Riley's eyes reflected my own surprise at the unexpected connection.

The small crowd applauded, and Max whispered, "Either you just put on the performance of a lifetime, or I need to revisit the terms of your arrangement."

At the reception, Riley and I moved through separate conversations while maintaining casual physical contact—her hand on my arm as she laughed at something my sister said, my palm resting at the small of her back as we accepted congratulations.

To my surprise, Riley fit against my side as if she belonged there, her hand finding mine at the perfect moments.

Our fabricated "how we met" story flowed naturally. The only truly difficult moment came when Whitman and Gloria cornered us to offer congratulations.

"Mrs. Matthews," Whitman said, testing the new title on Riley with obvious approval. "Gloria's been telling me how impressed she was with your catering at the charity event."

I felt Riley tense beside me. "Thank you. It was an honor to be included."

"Caleb tells me your restaurant has been struggling with the construction," Gloria said, her socialite's smile never wavering. "Such a shame. But I'm sure with Caleb's support, things will turn around."

"Caleb has been incredibly supportive," Riley agreed, casting me a look of genuine warmth that made my chest tighten unexpectedly. "Not just financially. He believes in what I'm building."

"You two are perfectly matched," Gloria declared, patting my arm approvingly. "A business-minded athlete and a creative culinary talent. Each bringing different strengths to the table."

As they moved away to mingle with other guests, I leaned close to Riley's ear. "You're remarkably good at this."

"Culinary school teaches you to perform under pressure," she replied with a small smile. "Though I don't recall 'Convincing Fake Marriage 101' in the curriculum."

Later, as we danced our first dance as husband and wife, I was conscious of the cameras capturing every moment, of eyes watching our every move. I pulled Riley closer than strictly necessary, inhaling the light citrus scent of her hair.

"Mrs. Matthews," I murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. "I think we've convinced our audience."

Riley's smile didn't quite reach her eyes as she nodded. "I think we have. Your mother has already asked about grandchildren."

"One step at a time," I chuckled, spinning her gently. "Let's survive the honeymoon first."

As the evening ended, we prepared to leave for a brief honeymoon—a weekend away deemed necessary for appearances.

Stepping into the waiting car amid a shower of rose petals and well-wishes, I caught a last glimpse of our families: Ellen wiping away happy tears, Danny giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up, my mother looking triumphant, my father thoughtful, and Jim Caldwell watching us with an expression that reminded me this wasn't just a business transaction.

The theoretical arrangement we'd discussed over contracts and bourbon was now a legal reality.

Riley Caldwell was now Riley Matthews, at least on paper.

As the car pulled away, her hand still in mine, I wondered if we'd created a convincing beginning to our story—and what the middle chapters would hold before we reached our predetermined end.