Page 6

Bree

She air-kisses both my cheeks, her attention never wavering from him. "And this must be the hockey player we've heard absolutely nothing about."

Her perfume hits like a chemical weapon. I resist the urge to calculate its toxicity levels.

"Ken Branch." He takes her manicured hand with just the right amount of deference. "Thank you for having me."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine." Melissa practically purrs. "I simply adore hockey players. So... physical."

Dad appears behind her, his silver hair perfect as always. "Branch? The rookie who's been lighting up the scoreboard with my son?"

"Yes, sir." Ken's smile is perfect—confident but not cocky. "Though Ashton makes me look good."

"Nonsense. That goal against Pittsburgh? Pure genius."

And they're off, diving into hockey talk that might as well be Klingon. I watch, fascinated despite myself, as Ken works the room. He's... good at this. Too good. Every gesture calculated, every response measured.

Like he knows exactly how to play to his audience.

"Drink?" Melissa offers, already signaling the staff. "We have an excellent Bordeaux—"

"Just water for now," Ken says. "Game tomorrow."

Dad's approval radiates like nuclear fusion. "Discipline. I like that."

Melissa leans in, her voice syrupy-sweet. "Speaking of discipline," she purrs, "you must tell us how you met Brianna. She's been so... secretive."

What does discipline have to do with how we met? Only in Melissa’s head, I guess.

Ken smiles, slow and lethal, and rests a hand on the small of my back. The touch sends electricity up my spine, damn it. "It was a few years ago. I was working in the entertainment industry—just a temporary detour—and she was looking for a very specific kind of... service."

I nearly spit out my wine.

"Not exactly the kind I was offering. But the attraction? Instantaneous. We ended up talking—art, dance, music, life. And though it didn’t go anywhere then... well, some impressions are hard to forget. When we ran into each other again, all those feelings she left me with came back—stronger."

My stomach drops .

"She has that effect," Dad says proudly. "Takes after her mother—brilliant and beautiful."

"And balanced," Melissa adds with a sharp smile. "Right, dear?"

Before I can respond, Ken squeezes my waist. "Actually, what impressed me most was her passion for her work. The way she lights up talking about her projects... it's incredible."

Damn, he's good.

"Projects?" Dad's eyes narrow slightly. "You mean the water treatment initiative?"

"Among others." Ken's thumb traces circles on my back. "Though I have to admit, most of it goes over my head. I just know she's making a difference."

The perfect answer. Supportive but not threatening. Admiring but not overwhelming.

Who is this man?

"Dinner is served," the butler announces, saving me from my spiraling thoughts.

Ken pulls out my chair. Of course he does.

"So, Kenneth," Dad starts. "Tell me about your plans. After hockey, I mean."

"Investments, mostly." Ken's voice is casual, but I catch the tension in his shoulders. "Real estate, some tech startups. I believe in diversifying."

More approval radiates from Dad. I want to scream.

"And family?" Melissa probes, leaning forward to showcase her assets. "Surely a handsome man like you wants children?"

Ashton interjects, grinning. "Ken actually loves children, Dad. Let me tell you about his Thursday afternoons…"

Ken shoots him a warning look. "Ash—"

"He spends them at Children's Hospital," Ashton continues, ignoring Ken's discomfort. "He runs this street hockey program in the cancer ward. The nurses say he's the only one who can get Tommy to take his meds."

Something twists in my chest as Ken stares at his plate.

"The kids just need a distraction," he mutters. "It's nothing special."

"Tommy's eight. Terminal. Hadn’t smiled in weeks—until Ken showed up with a plastic hockey stick."

I study Ken's profile, seeing something new there. Something real.

"To your question, ma’am. Yeah, we definitely want children—someday." Ken's hand finds mine under the table. "When the time is right. When we're both ready."

The 'we' hits like a chemical burn.

“Aww,” Melissa says. “Call me Melissa. I’m not that old.”

“Of course not. Melissa it is then.”

“Well, if we’re doing that then call me Ashton,” dad says.

“Thank you Ashton. Does that mean I’ll need to start calling my friend ‘Little Ashton’?”

Dad seems to enjoy the joke.

“Hey!,” says my brother. But my father ignores him. Good thing these two control their locker room banter in front of dad.

"And you're... comfortable with Brianna's career?" Dad asks carefully.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Perfect innocence in Ken's tone. "Her drive, her brilliance... she makes me proud every day, Ashton."

Wine definitely goes down the wrong pipe this time. Ken pats my back, concerned boyfriend mode activated.

"You okay, baby?"

"Fine," I wheeze. "Just... went down wrong."

"Like that time in the lab?" He grins. "When you got so excited about that breakthrough you inhaled your coffee?"

He's making it up, but it sounds real. Sounds like something I'd do.

How does he know me so well already?

"Our Brianna does get... intense about her work," Melissa says, somehow making it sound like a character flaw.

"That's what I admire about her." Ken's voice is soft. "Her intensity, precisely. She doesn't do anything halfway."

Dad's watching us, something shifting in his expression. "No," he says slowly. "She never has."

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of perfect responses and casual touches. Ken navigates every potential landmine with surgical precision. Hockey stories for Dad. Investment talk for Melissa. And for me... these little moments of recognition that feel almost real.

"Coffee in the study?" Dad suggests after dessert.

"Actually," Ken checks his watch, "I should head out. Early practice tomorrow."

"Of course, of course." Dad stands, genuinely disappointed.

As Dad and Ken exchange some final chatter about the Devils' upcoming season, I whisper to Ashton, "Your friend's a better actor than I expected."

"Actor?"

"He had Dad eating out of his hand. The perfect mix of ambition and humility. Talking about investments and family like some kind of—"

"Those aren't acts, Bree." Ashton's voice is quiet. "Ken does invest in real estate. And tech startups. And yeah, he spends every Thursday at that hospital. But that’s not why I picked him. I picked him because he's not going to try anything I wouldn’t like."

Something twists in my chest. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're looking for reasons not to trust him. And I get it—your track record with men sucks. But Ken’s different."

"Different how?"

"He's not stupid enough to actually fall for my sister."

The words hit like acid. "Wow, Ashton."

"Bree—"

My dad’s voice cuts in. "So, Ken, we'll see you at the anniversary trip? You know, the executive retreat?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Thank you for having me." Ken turns to me. "Walk me out?"

Outside, the night air hits like clarity. We're alone—except for the two silhouettes clearly visible in the bay window, peeking behind the curtains. And Ashton, lurking by the front steps.

"They're watching," Ken murmurs, his voice low and wicked.

"All of them."

He steps into my space, heat rolling off him. His fingers graze my cheek, then trail down to my jaw—slow, deliberate, possessive.

"Then let's give them what they came for, Princess."

His mouth crashes onto mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s not polite.

It’s the kind of kiss that demands attention—makes people whisper, makes women jealous, makes men wonder.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me as his tongue teases mine—confident, coaxing. Too confident.

I shouldn’t respond. But I do.

My fingers curl into his blazer, gripping tight while the ground tilts beneath me.

The kiss is nothing like our first time. That was all heat and hunger. This… this is a performance. A show for our audience.

But my body doesn’t buy it.

It only knows his taste. His heat.

The way his mouth feels like that memory—the one I’ve touched myself to more times than I’ll ever admit.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are slightly parted, eyes hooded and dark. “See you tomorrow, Princess.”

I’m left thinking that the worst part isn't that he's good at pretending. The worst part is that I'm starting to wonder if he's pretending at all.

I watch him as he heads to his Camaro, my lips still tingling.

In my car, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. Ken's voice echoes in my head: Not all of us had trust funds, Princess.

My phone buzzes.

Dad : He's a good man, Brianna. Don't push this one away.

I close my eyes, remembering the way Ken defended my work. How he touched me like he meant it. How he looked at me when no one was watching—like he saw right through me.

Maybe that's what terrifies me most.

Another buzz.

Ken : You were right. This was a terrible idea.

Me: Second worst.

Ken: Get some sleep, Princess. Tomorrow's another show.