Pucking Daddy

An Enemies to Lovers Single Dad Sports Romance

Ellen Young

Copyright © 2026 by Ellen Young

All rights reserved.

In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.

Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

Introduction

I pucked a stranger—now I’m the fake wife to hockey’s grumpiest coach.

Jaxon Halberg rules the Metro Raptors with icy discipline and massive shoulders.

I just knew him as the one-night stand who showed me exactly how he handles his stick.

Taking a nanny job felt like a safe play.

Until I walk into my new boss’s penthouse and find him glaring at me.

I’m ready to write him off as a grumpy nightmare.

Then I see him kneel beside his daughter, voice soft, hands gentle.

When his custody battle heats up, Jaxon drafts me for a new game:

A massive rock on my finger, and a marriage contract to prove he's a family man.

Now our chemistry is back at fever pitch.

One look from him has me craving overtime between the sheets.

I fall for him—fast, hard, and without a helmet.

But his ex isn’t done playing dirty.

And if I can't block her final move?

I’ll lose the man I love and the little girl who stole my heart.

Contents

1. ZARA

2. JAXON

3. ZARA

4. JAXON

5. ZARA

6. JAXON

7. ZARA

8. JAXON

9. ZARA

10. JAXON

11. ZARA

12. JAXON

13. ZARA

14. JAXON

15. ZARA

16. JAXON

17. ZARA

18. JAXON

19. ZARA

20. JAXON

21. ZARA

22. JAXON

23. ZARA

24. JAXON

25. ZARA

26. JAXON

27. ZARA

28. JAXON

29. ZARA

30. JAXON

Epilogue - ZARA

Sneak Peek

1

ZARA

A New Boldness

The neon sign above Mickey's Bar flickers twice before settling into its usual warm glow, casting amber light across the rain-slicked sidewalk.

I push through the heavy wooden door and let the wall of noise hit me—laughter, clinking glasses, some country song I half-recognize bleeding from the jukebox in the corner.

It’s my last night in town. Tomorrow, everything changes.

I shoulder past a group of guys in flannel shirts arguing about something sports-related and slip onto one of the empty stools at the bar.

The leather is cracked, sticky in places I don't want to think about, and absolutely perfect. This place has been my refuge for three years—cheap beer, cheaper therapy from whoever sits next to me, and a bartender named Dolly who never asks questions but always listens.

"The usual?" Dolly appears with a knowing smile, already reaching for the tap.

"Make it two. I'm celebrating."

"Or mourning?"

"Both." I pull out my phone and check my email for the fourteenth time today. Still there. Still real.

Confirmation: Nanny placement effective Monday. Client name will be disclosed upon arrival.

The agency's confidentiality policies border on paranoid, but they pay triple the going rate for high-profile families.

Whatever billionaire's kid I'll be wrangling, I can handle it.

I survived the Hendersons’ five-year-old terror twins. I outlasted the Palmers’ mother-in-law who criticized my every breath. I’ve taken every well-paying job without complaint, and this new one is just another step toward my goal.

My fingers find my necklace—a small silver heart my little brother Danny gave me when I left home at eighteen.

Ten years ago. A decade of being the responsible one, the steady one. The one who shows up.

Dolly slides my beer across the bar.

I lift it in a silent toast to the television mounted in the corner, where men in jerseys are slamming each other into walls on ice.

Hockey. The sport makes no sense to me—why would anyone voluntarily strap knives to their feet and chase a rubber disc?

But the Metro Raptors logo in the corner of the screen catches my attention. That is where I am headed. Same city, anyway.

"That seat taken?"

The voice comes from my left—low, rough around the edges, like he's been yelling all day or hasn't slept enough. I turn.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s tall. That’s my first coherent thought, though “tall” doesn’t quite cover it.

Built like someone designed him to make bar stools look small, and a few years older than me. Brown hair pushed back from a face that belongs on a magazine cover—if the magazine is about brooding intensity and jawlines sharp enough to cut glass.

His eyes find mine, and something in my chest stutters.

"It's all yours," I manage.

He sits. The space between us suddenly feels charged, like the air before a storm. He smells like cedar and something sharper—stress, maybe. Exhaustion. I recognize it because I wear it myself often enough.

"Rough night?" I ask, nodding toward the whiskey Dolly places in front of him.

"You could say that." He doesn't elaborate, just wraps long fingers around the glass and stares at the amber liquid like it holds answers.

On screen, the hockey game shifts to a replay. A player in a Raptors jersey scores, and the announcer's voice pitches up with excitement. "Morrison with the game-winner! Jake Morrison cements the victory—"

The stranger’s attention snaps to the TV. A muscle flickers in his jaw, his expression otherwise unreadable.

“You a fan?” I ask.

“Something like that.” He takes a drink, then sets the glass down. “You?”

“Honestly? I can barely tell which direction they’re supposed to skate. Also, isn’t everyone missing half their teeth?”

A quiet laugh slips out of him.

Before he can answer, I press on. “Anyway, I prefer my men fully dentally equipped.”

His gaze drops to my mouth.

Slow. Deliberate.

My pulse stutters.

“Good to know,” he murmurs.

Oh.

I try to play it cool, like his tone doesn’t land low in my belly.

I gesture at the screen with my beer. “Why is that guy sitting alone in a little glass box? Is that a time-out? Do grown men get time-outs?”

The ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Penalty box. He cross-checked someone."

"Cross-checking sounds violent."

“It is.” He turns to face me fully, and God, his eyes are intense. Not just blue—they’re focused in a way that makes me want to shift under it. Or lean closer. Or both.

“You’re really not a hockey fan.”

“I’m really not. I’m more of a ‘watch people bake stressful cakes on television’ kind of girl.” I extend my hand. “Zara.”

He hesitates for just a beat before taking it.

His palm is warm, calloused, rough in a way that absolutely does not belong to a man who looks this put-together. My skin prickles at the contact, like my body clocked him as dangerous before my brain could catch up.

“Jax.”

“Just Jax?”

“Just Jax,” he affirms.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jax.” I grin at him. There’s no harm in a little flirting, right? It’s my last night here anyway. I’ll never see this man again.

“Likewise, Zara,” he says.

There’s something in his voice—low, almost amused, like he knows exactly what I’m doing and is choosing not to call me on it.

I take another drink, hyperaware of his presence beside me. "So, Jax-just-Jax. What brings you to this particular dive bar on this particular Tuesday night?"

“Needed a drink,” he says.

I raise a brow. “Groundbreaking.”

His mouth twitches.

Okay. So he does have facial expressions.

"I needed to get out of my head," he elaborates.

"That bad?"

He exhales slowly. "Life's about to get complicated."

"Join the club." I clink my glass against his without permission. "I'm moving tomorrow. New city. New job. New everything."

“What about you?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay light. “What do you do when you’re not… drinking in bars?”

His eyes hold mine for a beat too long.

“I work,” he says simply.

“Wow. Another mystery solved.”

That almost-smile again. Smaller this time. More private.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“You answer like you’re being interrogated.”

“Maybe I am.”

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “Trust me, if I were interrogating you, you’d know.”

His gaze drops to my lips again.

Heat blooms low in my stomach, fast and unwelcome and… okay, not unwelcome.

Not even a little.

Who is this man?

His attention shifts to his phone when it buzzes.

I watch his face harden as he reads whatever is on the screen—jaw tight, that intensity sharpening into something almost angry.

He types a quick response and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

“Everything okay?”

“Custody hearing,” he says, voice flat, like the words cost him something. He looks almost surprised he said it. “Sorry. You don’t need my—”

“No, don’t apologize,” I cut in, turning on my stool to face him. “That sounds brutal.”

"It is." He drags a hand through his hair, messing up the careful sweep of it. "Can't afford chaos at home. Not now. Not with everything else."

The weariness in his voice tugs at something in my chest. I know that exhaustion—the bone-deep kind that comes from holding too much together for too long.

"For what it's worth," I say, "anyone fighting that hard for their kid is probably exactly the kind of parent who should win."

He looks at me then. Really looks, like he is seeing me for the first time. The bar noise fades around us, and I feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

"You don't know me."

"No. But I spent the last ten years taking care of other people's children. I know the difference between parents who show up and parents who don't." I hold his gaze. "You look like someone who shows up."

The silence stretches between us. The song on the jukebox changes—something slower, more intimate. His knee brushes against mine under the bar, and neither of us moves away.

“Why are you being nice to me?” he asks.

“Severe case of optimism. No known cure,” I say lightly. “It’s kind of my thing.”

That almost-smile tugs at his mouth again. “Sunshine.”

"Guilty."

“I could use some of that.”

His voice is quieter now. Rougher.

Something in my chest tightens, just a little. I don’t know why, but it feels like he really means it.

I should probably make a joke. Deflect. Keep it light.

Instead, I hold his gaze.

“Careful,” I say softly. “I come with a lot of pep talks and baked goods metaphors.”

His mouth curves, slow and deliberate. “I can handle baked goods.”

“I don’t know,” I tease. “You seem more like a… whiskey and bad decisions kind of guy.”

He leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine this time. Not accidental. Not even pretending to be.

“Maybe I’m trying to make a better one tonight.”

My breath catches.

Okay.

Okay, we’ve crossed into something else. He’s definitely flirting. And between his attention and the fact that I’m moving tomorrow, I feel bolder than I should.

I glance down at my drink, then back at him. “And I’m part of that plan?”

His eyes drop to my lips again, like he can’t help it.

“Maybe.”

Heat spreads through me, quick and reckless.

This is insane. I don’t usually act like this.

I came to Mickey’s to relax, have a drink. Maybe talk to one of the regulars one last time. Say my goodbyes.

I didn’t plan to meet a handsome stranger with intense eyes, a quiet voice, and hands that feel like they could ruin me in the best way.

And yet… somehow, he brings this new boldness out in me.

“Maybe’s not very convincing,” I murmur.

His fingers tap once against the bar, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“Then let me be clearer.”

The air between us shifts again. Tightens.

I swallow. “Please do.”

For a second, he just looks at me. Really looks. Like he’s weighing something. Deciding.

Then his gaze flicks past me, toward the hallway by the bathrooms. Dimmer there. Quieter.

When his eyes come back to mine, there’s a decision in them now.

“Walk with me.”

Not a question.

My heart kicks, and I don’t think I’m capable of rational thought, because I slide off the barstool like I’ve been waiting for him to ask.

“Lead the way, Jax-just-Jax.”

His hand finds the small of my back as we move through the crowd.

The contact sends a jolt straight through me.

God.

The hallway is narrow, dim, a little quieter than the bar. The muffled bass of the music pulses through the walls, steady and low, like a heartbeat.

There’s no one else here.

I turn to face him, leaning back lightly against the wall, crossing my arms just enough to keep myself from doing something stupid.

Like grabbing his shirt and pulling him in.

“So,” I say, tilting my head. “This is where you bring all your mysterious bar conversations?”

His lips twitch. “First time.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Believe me or don’t.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He steps closer.

I can hear my own breathing. Feel my pulse everywhere. And I mean everywhere.

He takes another step, closing the distance until there’s barely any space left between us.

His hand lifts, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to.

I don’t.

His knuckles brush lightly along my jaw, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch is gentle. Careful. Completely at odds with everything else about him.

It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t understand.

His thumb grazes just beneath my ear, lingering.

The touch is barely there, just the lightest brush of skin against skin, but it sends a slow, electric ripple down my spine. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat, like my body forgets what it’s supposed to do next.

We don’t speak, and I feel frozen in place. Not because I don’t want this, but because I want it too much.

My eyes flick up to his, and that’s a mistake.

They’re even darker now. Focused. Like he’s watching every tiny reaction, clocking everything about me.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I’ve never been this turned on in my life, and he’s barely even touched me.

What kind of magic is this?

My thoughts scatter, useless and disjointed.

This is insane.

I just met him.

I’m leaving tomorrow.

I should not be standing in a dim hallway letting a stranger undo me with one touch.

And yet—I don’t move.

His thumb shifts, just a fraction, tracing the smallest arc beneath my ear, and my stomach drops low, heat pooling in a way that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to grab onto something.

“Breathe, Zara,” he murmurs. It’s barely more than a whisper.

Oh.

Right.

Breathing.

At his quiet command, my body listens before my brain catches up. I pull in a shaky breath, and it feels like it scrapes all the way down, like I’m suddenly aware of every inch of myself at once.

His gaze tracks my breathing, taking in everything.

A lopsided grin tugs at his mouth, slow and knowing, like he just witnessed something he liked.

“Good girl.”

The words land low in my chest—and then lower.

Heat rushes through me, sharp and immediate, and before I can overthink it—before I can talk myself out of this—I slide my hand up his chest, curling my fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

His grin fades and his eyes darken, focus snapping back to me like I just crossed some invisible line.

Then his hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, firm and warm, his fingers threading just slightly into my hair.

My pulse spikes.

“Last chance,” he murmurs.

My lips part. “For what?”

“To step back.”

I don’t even hesitate. “Not interested.”

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth is on mine in an instant

His hand tightens at my neck, tilting my head just enough, deepening the angle as I gasp softly against his lips. My grip on his shirt tightens, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

God.

This is—

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

He kisses like he’s in control of everything, slow and deliberate for exactly half a second—

and then it shifts.

Something breaks loose.

The kiss deepens, turns hungrier, more urgent, like whatever restraint he had is gone now, replaced with something raw and impossible to ignore.

My back presses into the wall behind me, but I barely register it.

All I feel is him.

2

JAXON

Reckless Hookup

This was not the plan.

Not even close.

I came here for one drink. Maybe two. Just enough to take the edge off after sitting across from my lawyer for three hours, going over worst-case scenarios like they were inevitable.

Custody schedules. Character assessments. Stability.

You need to look solid, Jaxon. Predictable. Controlled.

Yeah. That’s going well.

I was supposed to have a drink, clear my head, go back to the hotel, and catch a flight to New York in the morning. Back to Lily. And a new job. I need my head clear for this.

My gaze drifts to Zara beside me.

She’s not what I expected to find in a place like this.

She’s a force of nature, all energy and light. I can’t look away from her.

Her hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the low amber light, and her eyes—God, her eyes—are sharp and curious, like she takes everything in and turns it into something brighter.

She smiles easily. Talks easily.

Feels like sunlight in a room I’ve kept dark for too long.

And when she looks at me…God, I can’t help myself.

I want her. Now.

It’s been too long since I’ve had someone under me. Usually, I’m taking care of myself in the dark or under a spray of hot water.

It’s a cheap substitute, and my body knows it. My cock pulses, a hard, rhythmic reminder of exactly how long it’s been.

My gaze flicks past her, toward the hallway near the bathrooms.

And I make my decision.

At my obvious proposition, she doesn’t even blink.

She doesn’t seem to have a problem following a random stranger into a dim hallway. “Lead the way, Jax-just-Jax.”

I can’t resist placing a hand at the small of her back as we move through the crowd.

Her warmth seeps through the thin fabric of her shirt, and I have to fight the instinct to pull her closer, to keep her right there.

Instead, I guide her through the bodies, through the noise, into the hallway.

She looks up at me with those big green eyes, and I’m barely able to follow our conversation because I’m too busy taking her in.

She’s beautiful. There’s a strength to her, something toned beneath the softness. Her smile is devastating, all bright teeth and easy confidence.

I have to touch her. Now.

My knuckles brush along her jaw, soft, deliberate, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Her skin is soft. The kind of soft you don’t expect until you feel it.

All the while, I watch her. Track every reaction.

She’s turned on. I know she is. I see it in the way she looks up at me, the quick flick of her tongue over her lips, the hitch in her breath.

Fuck.

“Breathe, Zara,” I murmur, my voice rough.

She pulls in a long, shaky breath at my reminder, and I like it—watching her come undone like this.

A crooked grin tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.

“Good girl.” The words slip out, low and instinctive.

Heat flashes across her face at that, her body reacting fast, sharp, immediate. Her hand slides up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt, pulling me closer.

Whatever restraint I had left snaps clean in half. My grin fades.

My hand moves from her jaw to the back of her neck, firmer now, my fingers threading slightly into her hair.

Her pulse jumps beneath my touch.

“Last chance,” I murmur.

Her lips part. “For what?”

“To step back.”

“Not interested.”

Yeah.

That’s what I thought.

In an instant my mouth is on hers.

The kiss is sharp and hungry, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this alive.

I want to devour her. I want to memorize the taste of her, the way she tastes like cherry lip gloss and pure, unadulterated defiance.

I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers, and she meets me halfway with a desperation that mirrors my own.

Her fingers are frantic now, knotting in my hair, pulling me closer as if she’s trying to crawl inside my skin.

I groan into her mouth, the sound vibrating through both of our chests. It’s a low, primal noise I don't recognize as my own, but I don't care.

I break away for a split second—just enough to trail my lips down the line of her throat. I find that sensitive spot right below her ear and bite down, soft enough to tease, hard enough to leave a mark.

"Jax," she gasps, her head tossing back against the wall. The sound of my name on her lips, breathless and broken, is the final nail in the coffin.

"You're not going anywhere," I growl against her lips, my grip on her waist tightening.

"I don’t want to," she whispers back, her eyes dark with a hunger that matches my own.

Damn, she’s undoing me.

The need to bury myself in her is a physical ache, sharp and demanding.

My eyes cut to the side, catching the glint of a heavy metal door a few feet down—a maintenance closet, propped open just a crack with a stray wooden wedge.

"In here," I rasp.

I don't wait for an answer. I hook my arm around her waist and usher her through the gap, my body shielding hers until the door heavy-thuds shut behind us.

The air in the small room is warm, smelling of floor wax and industrial hum, but the darkness is absolute. It’s perfect.

I find her in the shadows, pinning her against the cool surface of a metal shelving unit. The rattle of the shelves only fuels the fire.

"Jax," she breathes, her hands finding my face, pulling me down.

"I've got you," I mutter, my hands roaming down her curves, tracing the line of her hips before hooking under her thighs.

She jumps, wrapping her legs around my waist instinctively, locking me in.

I groan, the friction of her against my fly sending a jolt of pure adrenaline through my system.

I hike her up higher, my back hitting the opposite wall for leverage, and start raining kisses along her jaw, her collarbone, anywhere I can reach.

Her head falls back, a soft, broken moan vibrating through the small space. "Please," she whispers, her fingers digging into my shoulders.

She’s desperate, and I’m right there with her. I need to forget the hearing and the stakes, but I’m going to have my fun first.

"Please what, Zara?" I tease, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble.

I let one hand slide between us, fumbling with the button of my jeans while my other hand stays firmly planted on her hip, holding her right where I want her.

I want to hear her say it.

"Touch me. Actually touch me."

That’s all the permission I need. I shove her dress the rest of the way up.

My fingers are frantic and clumsy, the need for her overriding every bit of logic I have left.

She shivers as my fingers hook into the edge of her lace underwear.

I slide my fingers beneath.

She’s slick, hot, and completely ready for me. When my thumb finds her clit, she bucks against my hand, a sharp gasp escaping her.

"That's it." I pull back just enough to see her face in the shadows. Her eyes are blown wide, dark and hazy. "Show me what you need."

"I want you inside of me."

Fuck yes. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.

I reach down, undoing my belt one-handed—the metallic clink echoing like a gunshot in the small room.

She reaches down to help, her fingers fumbling with my zipper, and then her palm is wrapping around me.

I hiss a breath through my teeth, my eyes slamming shut. "Zara—"

"I know what I want," she whispers.

She strokes me once, a firm, possessive move that nearly sends me over the edge right then. I’m thick and aching in her grip.

I fumble for my wallet, shaking a condom out with practiced efficiency.

Once I’m set, I hook my hands under her thighs, hoisting her higher against the equipment.

I don't even bother taking her underwear off; I just shove the lace aside.

I push into her in one long, heavy stroke.

She gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her whole body tensing around me. I freeze, my forehead resting against her temple, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Maybe this is too much for her? She’s tight. Very tight. And I know I’m big.

"Okay?" I grit out, my muscles jumping with the effort of staying still.

"Move. Move."

I obey.

I start slow, testing the depth, finding the perfect angle that makes her head knock back against the metal.

She doesn't seem to care; she’s chasing the friction, her heels digging into my back.

"Harder," she demands, her voice a low command.

I snap my hips forward, the pace turning primal.

The sound of skin hitting skin fills the room, drowned out only by her moans and my own ragged breath.

I lean in, pressing my forehead to hers, watching her. I want to see her when it happens.

"You feel incredible," I growl, the words raw. "I can't—I need—"

"Yes. Whatever you need. Yes."

I slide my hand between our bodies, my thumb finding her. The reaction is instantaneous. She’s coiling tight, her breath coming in short, sharp hitches.

"That's it, Zara," I growl, picking up the pace, my own control fraying into nothing. "Go for it. Give it all to me."

She shatters. I feel the ripples of her orgasm clenching around me, and it’s the final push I need.

I let out a guttural groan, my whole body shuddering as I follow her over the ledge, pouring everything I have into her.

We stay like that for a few seconds—minutes, maybe. I can’t tell.

I realize I’m shaking and slowly set her back down on her feet.

I feel a strange pang of loss the moment the contact breaks.

“That was…” she starts, trailing off.

“Yeah.” I turn away, pulling myself together, disposing of the condom and straightening my clothes.

When I turn back, I reach out, helping her smooth down her dress. I’ve got myself back under control, the last of the tremor fading from my body.

“Yeah,” I say again, quieter this time. “It was.”

We stand there in the dim, industrial light. We’re strangers, but for twenty minutes, we were exactly what the other needed.

"I should go," she says. "Early morning."

"The move," I remember.

"The move."

I nod. I want to say something more, but what? Stay? If you’re ever in New York, let’s have a drink sometime? No. That’s not what this is.

"Good luck with your custody hearing," she says, her voice soft.

The mention of my kid hits me like a physical weight, bringing the real world crashing back into the room. "Good luck with your new life."

We walk out of the bar separately. I watch her head toward the street, her silhouette disappearing into the night air.

I head back to my hotel, my mind already shifting to my new job as head coach for the Raptors. Coach Petrov has officially retired. No one thought it would ever happen, but it did. And now this is my shot.

Still, it’s a shame I’m never going to see her again.

There was something about her that lingers, something beyond the wild, reckless hookup we just shared.

But it’s probably better this way.

We’ll never see each other again.

3

ZARA

The New Boss

New York swallows me whole the moment I step off the train.

Not in a bad way—more like being pulled into something alive, something with a pulse that matches the nervous thrum in my chest.

People move around me in a choreographed rush, nobody making eye contact, everybody knowing exactly where they belong. I clutch my carry-on strap and let the current push me toward the exit, my rolling suitcase bumping against my heels.

Outside, the noise hits differently.

Car horns layer over construction drills, a busker's saxophone weaving through it all like a thread trying to stitch chaos into melody.

I stand on the sidewalk for a full thirty seconds, just breathing it in. The air tastes like exhaust and hot pretzels and possibility.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Danny:

You there yet? Don't get kidnapped.

I smile at my brother’s text despite the ache that tugs beneath my ribs. Type back quickly.

Me:

Just arrived. No kidnapping yet. Will keep you posted.

Danny:

Cool. Miss you already.

I shove the phone away before the homesickness can sink its teeth in. I'll call him later. Tonight. After I've settled in and can pretend I'm not terrified out of my mind about this new chapter.

The address burned into my memory leads me twelve blocks north, past coffee shops with chalkboard menus and boutiques displaying clothes that cost more than my monthly rent back home.

Each step takes me further from everything familiar, closer to the gleaming high-rise that will become my new reality.

When I finally stand at the entrance, I have to tilt my head back to see the top. Glass and steel reach toward a cloudless sky, the kind of building that whispers money in every polished surface.

A doorman in a charcoal uniform nods as I approach, and I catch my reflection in the revolving door—wild curls escaping my bun, cheeks flushed from walking, eyes wide like a kid at Christmas.

Get it together, Winslow.

Inside, the lobby hushes everything.

Marble floors, modern art on the walls, a security desk manned by a guy who looks like he moonlights as a linebacker.

I approach with my best professional smile.

"Zara Winslow. I'm the new nanny for the Halberg residence."

The linebacker checks his screen, makes a call, hands me a visitor badge. "Thirty-second floor. They're expecting you."

The elevator ride feels eternal.

I watch the numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me from polished brass doors. Somewhere around floor twenty, my fingers find the silver heart pendant at my throat—Danny's gift from years ago, back when everything fell apart and he was the only good thing left. I rub the worn metal like a talisman.

You've done this before. You're good at this. You belong here.

The doors open to a private vestibule. One apartment per floor. Of course.

I knock, and the door swings open almost immediately. A woman in her fifties stands there—gray hair pulled back severely, crisp white blouse, eyes that assess me in a single sweep.

"You must be Miss Winslow." Not a question. "I'm Mrs. Henriksen, the housekeeper. Come in."

The apartment stretches out behind her like something from a magazine spread.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, late afternoon light spilling across hardwood floors and leather furniture.

But what catches my attention are the touches of chaos—a pink backpack tossed on an armchair, drawings taped to the refrigerator visible through a kitchen archway, a pair of tiny sneakers abandoned by the couch.

This is a home. Underneath all the polish, somebody actually lives here.

"Your room is down the hall," Mrs. Henriksen says, already walking. "Mr. Halberg is at practice. He'll return for dinner. Until then, I'll show you around and introduce you to Lily."

Lily. The little girl I’d been hired to care for. Six years old, according to the agency file. I’m not sure if her mother is in the picture—there wasn’t anything about that in the file.

A burst of giggling erupts from somewhere deeper in the apartment, and something warm unclenches in my chest.

Kids are my territory. Kids I understand.

Mrs. Henriksen leads me through a living area, past a dining room with a table that can seat twelve, into a kitchen that gleams with professional-grade appliances.

And there, standing on a step stool at the marble island, is a small tornado of blonde curls and flour-dusted cheeks.

"Lily," Mrs. Henriksen says, and the tornado spins around.

Blue eyes. A gap-toothed grin. Chocolate chips smeared across her chin.

"Are you my new nanny?" she demands.

I crouch to her level, ignoring the flour now drifting onto my jeans. "I'm Zara. And you must be the famous Lily I've heard so much about."

"I'm not famous." She considers this. "Yet."

I bite back a laugh. "Fair point. What are we making?"

"Cookies." She holds up a wooden spoon like a scepter. "Mrs. H said I could if I didn't make a mess, but..." She glances at the flour explosion surrounding her. "Oops?"

Mrs. Henriksen sighs, but I catch the softness in it. "I'll leave you two to finish. Zara, I'll show you your room after."

The moment she leaves, Lily grabs my hand and tugs me toward the step stool. "You have to help. The chocolate chips keep falling on the floor and I'm not supposed to eat floor chips but they taste the same."

"Solid logic." I roll up my sleeves. "Okay, chef. What's the plan?"

For the next hour, Lily and I cover ourselves in dough, negotiate the appropriate ratio of chocolate chips to cookie (her answer: more), and construct what she insists are "art cookies" rather than the misshapen blobs they actually are.

She tells me about her favorite cartoon (something with singing dragons), her best friend at school (Maria, who has a hamster named Sir Fluffington), and the very important fact that her dad is the boss of a whole hockey team.

"He yells at them but in a nice way," she explains, licking batter from her fingers. "And they listen because he's really tall."

"Is that how it works?"

"Yep. Tall people are in charge. That's the rules."

I file this information away under Lily Logic and slide the first tray into the oven.

By the time Mrs. Henriksen returns, the kitchen looks like a bakery has exploded, but we have three dozen cookies cooling on racks and Lily is perched on the counter eating a broken one.

"You've made yourself at home," Mrs. Henriksen observes. Her tone is neutral, but her eyes linger on Lily's chocolate-smeared smile.

"We worked very hard," Lily announces. "Zara's good at cookies. Better even than Daddy."

"Your father can’t bake, sweetheart."

"Exactly."

I help clean while Mrs. Henriksen keeps an eye on Lily during her afternoon quiet time, and then she gives me the promised tour.

My room is simple but comfortable—a queen bed, a dresser, a window overlooking a side street. Private bathroom. More space than my old studio apartment back home.

“Mr. Halberg keeps late hours during the season. He just started with a new team,” she tells me. “There will be practices, games, and travel. You’ll be Lily’s primary caregiver when he’s away. Weekends vary. Any questions?”

A hundred. A thousand. What about Lily’s mom? But it’s too early to ask, so I shake my head.

“I think I’ve got it for now.”

She nods curtly and leaves me to unpack.

I sit on the bed for a long moment, staring at my suitcase.

Through the wall, I can hear Lily singing something off-key, probably to those dragons she loves. The sound anchors me. Reminds me why I am here.

Ten years of other people's children. Other people's homes. Temporary families that never quite stick, no matter how much I love them or how hard I try to plant roots.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this city, this job, this little girl with chocolate chip negotiations—maybe this could finally be the place where I stop running and start staying.

I touch the necklace again. Danny is counting on me to build something here. I am counting on me.

The knock on my door startles me out of my thoughts.

"Miss Winslow?" Mrs. Henriksen's voice comes through the wood. "There's someone here to see you."

I open the door to find a man standing in the hallway—late twenties, easy grin, athletic build beneath a Metro Raptors polo. His name tag reads NATE.

“You must be the new nanny.” He extends a hand. “Nate Rollins. Assistant coach. We just started with a new team, but I’ve worked with him for ages. I handle the things Jaxon doesn’t have time for, which lately is everything.”

"Zara Winslow." I shake his hand, smiling at him. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Lily talks about you already. I come by to check on the munchkin and coordinate tomorrow's schedule with whoever's handling her."

He glances past me toward the kitchen. "Are those cookies?"

"Fresh out of the oven."

His eyes light up. "You're my new favorite person."

We move to the kitchen, where Nate demolishes four cookies in quick succession while filling me in on the household rhythms.

Jaxon Halberg runs a tight ship.

Practice at seven, home by dinner when possible, travel for away games at least twice a month.

Lily has school during the week, activities on Saturdays, and a standing playdate with Maria every other Sunday.

“He’s intense,” Nate admits between bites. “About work, about Lily, about everything. Don’t take it personally if he’s short with you. He’s under a lot of stress right now.”

Well, lucky me. Another rich boss who treats his staff like garbage and probably has zero interest in spending quality time with his daughter.

"I won't," I say nonetheless. "Short doesn't bother me. I've handled worse."

Nate studies me for a moment, then nods. "Yeah. I think you'll do just fine here."

He leaves with a promise to coordinate schedules via text and a sixth cookie wrapped in a napkin.

I stand at the counter afterward, staring at the Raptors schedule pinned to the refrigerator with a glitter-crusted magnet Lily has clearly made herself.

There’s a game circled in red a couple of weeks away. Media day. Whatever that means in hockey world.

The afternoon melts into evening.

I help Lily with a puzzle, supervise her dinner while Mrs. Henriksen takes a well-deserved break, and read her three chapters of a book about a princess who tames dragons instead of needing princes to save her.

By the time I tuck her in, she is already halfway asleep, blonde curls spread across her pillow like a halo.

"Zara?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

“I’m glad you came.” She yawns, her eyes fluttering shut. “Daddy works a lot… and sometimes he forgets to be fun.”

My chest tightens, but I smile softly, brushing her hair back. “Well, we’ll have to remind him a little, won’t we?”

I leave her door cracked open, light from the hallway spilling in, and make my way back toward the kitchen.

Mrs. Henriksen has already gone home. The apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of the city below.

I am putting the last of the dishes away when I hear the front door open.

Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. The sound of a bag dropping onto hardwood.

This must be my new boss, Jaxon Halberg.

And then he walks into the kitchen.

Oh God. This can’t be real. This can’t be my life.

Because I recognize him.

Not long ago, I kissed this man. More than that, I slept with him.

The tall, handsome man with brown hair and blue eyes—

It’s him.

Jax.

Just Jax.

4

JAXON

Unexpected Reunion

Control.

That’s the word I keep coming back to, over and over, like if I repeat it enough, it’ll settle into my bones and stay there.

Maybe if I have control on the ice, in the meeting room, at home—maybe then I can control what happens in the courtroom, too.

I know the logic is flawed, but I can’t stop myself.

I’ve always been a bit of a control freak, but right now it’s on another level.

And today has been… a test.

I lean back in the driver’s seat at a red light, fingers tapping once against the steering wheel, my mind replaying the last few hours in sharp, dissected fragments.

Today was my first practice with the Metro Raptors.

New team. New system. New expectations.

They’re good.

Just as good as I’d hoped—fast, aggressive, and skilled enough to make up for a few minor mistakes.

They had a great coach in Petrov. Now they have to get used to me. Trust that I know what I’m doing—even if I do things differently.

I’ve been on the ice myself long enough to know how players think, how a locker room breathes. And I’ve spent the last few years behind the bench, learning how to lead instead of just execute.

I’ve done this before. Taken on a new team and made them mine.

I can do it again.

I have to.

Because this isn’t just another job.

This is the Metro Raptors.

Media attention. Ownership pressure. Fans who expect results yesterday.

The light turns green. I press the gas a little harder than necessary.

Good. Let them doubt me. I work better when I have something to prove.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I glance down just long enough to see my lawyer’s name.

I don’t pick it up. I already know what’s in that message.

Another reminder. Another warning dressed up as advice.

Stability matters, Jaxon. Routine. Structure. A consistent home environment.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.

That’s what this is all about.

Not the job. Not the team. Not even the reputation.

Lily. Everything leads back to her.

Six years old, and already too aware. Too observant. She notices when I’m distracted, when I come home late, when I get stuck in my own head.

The memory hits me out of nowhere—her sitting at the kitchen counter this morning, swinging her legs, telling me something about a dragon that sings.

I tighten my grip on the wheel.

I’m doing this for her.

Every late night. Every decision. Every piece of control I force into place.

It’s for her.

***

By the time I pull into the garage, exhaustion has settled deep, the kind that doesn’t shake off easily.

I grab my bag and head for the elevator, already shrugging out of my jacket and rolling up my sleeves.

The building is quiet and polished. Exactly how I like things.

The elevator doors slide shut, and for a second, there’s nothing but the faint hum of machinery and my own reflection staring back at me.

I look tired.

I feel worse.

And that’s when she slips into my head.

Zara.

I don’t even try to stop it.

It hits fast—her smile, sharp and easy. The way she’d looked at me like she saw straight through everything I was trying to keep in place.

The way she’d reacted to me.

God.

My jaw tightens.

But it was just this one night. I’m never gonna see her again and that’s a good thing. I don’t have room for anything more in my life.

It’s just Lily and me. And that’s what counts.

***

The apartment is quiet when I step inside.

Lily must already be asleep.

The new nanny did her job well, then. I don’t like Lily staying up too late. She’s six. She needs her sleep.

I drop my bag by the door and roll my shoulders as I head toward the kitchen.

It smells… incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything this good.

Sweet. Warm. Chocolatey.

Whatever it is, I want it.

My feet pick up pace, drawn toward whatever magic is waiting for me.

I step into the kitchen—

And stop.

A woman stands at the counter. It must be the new nanny, because it sure as hell isn’t Mrs. Henriksen.

Her back is to me. Her hair is pulled up, but not neatly—loose strands falling along the back of her neck. Curly. Auburn.

A shade I’ve only seen once before.

For a second, my brain doesn’t catch up.

Doesn’t connect the image in front of me with reality.

Because there’s no version of this that makes sense.

Not here. In my kitchen.

The woman turns and the world snaps into place.

It’s Zara.

The woman from last night. The one I kissed like I’d lost my mind. The one I did not expect to ever see again.

Every muscle in my body goes tight.

Her eyes go wide, breath catching like she’s just been hit with the same realization.

“Oh God.”

Yeah.

That about covers it.

“What are you doing here?” The question comes out sharp, not exactly friendly. But in my defense, the last thing I need is her in my carefully controlled world.

Her expression shifts fast—shock, then something steadier, like she’s bracing herself. “I think I work here.”

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.

“No,” I say. I know I’m being harsh, but who can blame me?

She lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “Yeah. I’m having that same reaction in my head right now.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Good. At least I’m not the only one horrified by this situation.

“You’re the nanny?” I ask, each word clipped.

She nods. “Zara Winslow. Hired through the agency. Started today.”

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard. “This has to be a joke.”

“I wish it was.”

I look at her again, really look this time.

Same eyes. Same mouth. Same pull in my chest that I shut down immediately.

Absolutely not.

“This doesn’t work,” I say flatly.

Her chin lifts slightly. “What doesn’t?”

“This.” I gesture between us. “You. Here.”

Her expression doesn’t crack.

If anything, she straightens a little, shoulders back, like she’s bracing for impact instead of backing down.

“Right,” she says calmly. “Well, that’s inconvenient.”

My jaw tightens. “Inconvenient?”

“Yes.” She folds her arms. “Because I just moved my entire life here for this job.”

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. “That was before—”

“Before what?” she cuts in, one brow arching. “Before two consenting adults made a decision neither of them regretted five minutes later?”

I stare at her.

She doesn’t flinch.

“That’s not the point,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend.

“Then what is the point?” she fires back. “Because from where I’m standing, the only thing that’s changed is that now we know each other.”

My laugh is short. Humorless. “That’s exactly the problem.”

“No,” she says, stepping closer. Not into my space—but close enough that I feel it. “It’s only a problem if you decide it is.”

I shake my head. “You’re my employee.”

“And you’re my boss,” she shoots back. “Congratulations, we’ve both grasped the basics.”

Jesus.

“Zara—”

“No.” Her voice stays calm, but there’s steel underneath it now. “You don’t get to just decide this ‘doesn’t work’ and send me packing like it’s no big deal.”

“I’m not—”

“I relocated for this,” she continues, her words precise, controlled. “I signed a contract. I turned down two other placements. And I am very good at what I do.”

She sounds confident. And I need that—someone who knows what they’re doing when it comes to my daughter.

Someone who can give Lily stability and security, especially right now. She’s probably already attached to Zara. She’s like that. And I don’t want to take that away just as it’s beginning.

“I’ve spent ten years taking care of children,” she goes on. “Difficult children. Complicated families. High-pressure situations. I don’t flinch, I don’t quit, and I don’t make things messy.”

Her gaze locks on mine.

“What happened last night,” she says quietly, “doesn’t affect my ability to do this job.”

I study her.

All I see is honesty. And resolve.

“You’re asking me to ignore it,” I say.

“I’m asking you to be an adult,” she corrects. “We can both be adults about this. Professional.”

I glance toward the hallway, in the direction where Lily is asleep in her room. The whole reason any of this matters.

“No chaos,” I mutter.

“What?”

“I said,” I look back at her, “I can’t afford chaos right now.”

Something in her expression softens. Just a fraction.

“You won’t get that from me,” she says. “You don’t have to worry about me coming on to you, behaving inappropriately, or ending up in your bed one day.”

I huff out a quiet breath, weighing it.

This is a terrible idea.

Every instinct I have says this is complicated. Risky. Messy in ways I don’t have time for.

But—she’s right. I can’t just fire her over this.

Not when Lily already likes her.

Not when I need stability.

Not when she’s standing here looking me dead in the eye, promising she won’t make this harder than it already is.

I nod once. “Fine.”

Her shoulders lower slightly. Not relief exactly—but something close.

“Fine,” she echoes.

“We keep this professional.”

“Strictly.”

“No blurred lines.”

“None.”

“No more… situations.”

Her mouth almost curves at that, but she catches it in time. “None.”

Another beat of silence.

Then—

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” she agrees.

We stand there for a second longer than necessary.

Then she straightens, smoothing her hands over her jeans like she’s resetting herself.

“Great,” she says lightly. “So… would you like a cookie?”

God, yes. My mouth is already watering. I glance at the tray. The chocolate chip cookies look as good as they smell—golden edges, soft centers, packed with chocolate.

“Yes, thank you,” I mutter, reaching for one and taking a bite.

I chew slowly, my brow tightening just a fraction.

“That good?” she asks, watching me a little too closely.

I swallow. “It’s a cookie,” I say, aiming for nonchalance.

She folds her arms, unimpressed. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s—” I pause, like I’m choosing my words carefully. “—acceptable.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re lying.”

I take another bite. “Fine. It’s good,” I admit.

“So, is that what you and Lily did today? Bake cookies?”

“We had a good day,” Zara says. “I think we’re already becoming fast friends. We made cookies. She told me about her friend Maria and a hamster with a very important name.”

Sir Fluffington.

Something in my chest loosens before I can stop it.

“She also made me meet all her stuffed animals. There are… a lot of them.”

“There are,” I confirm.

“For bedtime, I read her three chapters of her book. I’m a fan of early bedtimes for kids. They still need their rest, you know?”

Huh. A flicker of grudging respect settles in.

“Thank you,” I say. The words feel almost unfamiliar in my mouth.

Her expression softens just slightly. “You’re welcome.”

Silence settles between us again. The space between us isn’t neutral. It’s charged.

Her eyes flick to my mouth for half a second.

Fuck.

I step back immediately. Distance. I need distance.

“Get some rest,” I say. “We start early.”

“Yeah,” she replies quietly. “You too.”

I push away from the counter and head down the hallway to Lily’s door.

I open it quietly and slip inside, tiptoeing to her bed.

She’s sprawled across the mattress in that way kids do, one arm flung above her head, the other curled around her stuffed rabbit. The nightlight casts a soft glow over her face, her lashes resting against her cheeks, her breathing slow and even.

For a moment, I just stand there, watching her.

This—this is what matters.

Her.

I move closer, quieter now, like I might somehow wake her if I’m not careful, even though she sleeps like a rock most nights.

Sitting down on the edge of her bed, I brush a strand of hair off her forehead.

“Hey, bug,” I murmur softly, even though she won’t hear it.

Her brow twitches slightly, but she doesn’t wake.

I lean down and press a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a second longer.

There’s always this moment.

Right here.

Where everything else fades.

The pressure. The expectations. The constant fight to keep things together.

It all narrows down to this small, steady breath beneath my hand.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper.

My gaze lingers on her face, taking in every detail like I haven’t memorized it a thousand times already.

I straighten slowly, adjusting her blanket gently, tucking it around her shoulders.

“Sleep tight,” I murmur.

Then I stand, step out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click.

5

ZARA

Who Does He Think He Is?

The next morning, I wake up at 5 AM. Can't sleep anyway.

The guest bedroom Mrs. Henriksen has shown me is lovely—high thread count sheets, blackout curtains, the kind of mattress that probably costs more than my last car—but my brain refuses to shut off.

Jaxon Halberg. Jax from the bar. The Metro Raptors' new head coach.

My boss.

The man whose hands I can still feel on my hips if I think about it for more than three seconds.

The man who was very clearly not thrilled to see me here—and made sure I knew it.

I press my palms against my eyes and groan into the darkness. This is fine. Totally fine.

Plenty of people sleep with strangers who then turn out to be their employers. Happens all the time. Completely normal.

God, I am such an idiot.

But I need this job. More importantly, Danny needs it. So there’s nothing to do but suck it up and put on my big-girl pants.

By the time Lily bounds into the kitchen at seven-thirty, I’ve already made pancakes, prepped her school lunch, and consumed enough coffee to power a small city.

The little girl's face lights up when she sees the stack of chocolate chip pancakes arranged into a smiley face.

"You made me happy breakfast!" She scrambles onto her chair, still in her dragon pajamas.

"I did. But we have to eat fast, okay? We need to leave in forty-five minutes.”

"Daddy already left." Lily stabs a pancake with her fork. "He leaves super early on practice days."

"I know." I keep my voice light, casual. Like I haven't spent half the night replaying that tense moment in the kitchen when Jaxon and I stood three feet apart, both of us clearly remembering things neither of us could acknowledge. "That's why I'm here, remember? To help out."

"I'm glad you're here." Lily grins at me with chocolate smeared on her chin. "You're way more fun than Mrs. Henriksen. She doesn't make happy pancakes."

Something warm unfurls in my chest. Kids. They have this way of cutting through all the complicated adult nonsense and making everything simple again.

"Well, Mrs. Henriksen has other talents. She keeps this place running like a well-oiled machine."

"What's a well-oiled machine?"

"Something that works really smoothly."

"Like Daddy's team?"

I pause with my coffee mug halfway to my lips. "I don't know much about hockey, actually."

Lily's eyes go wide. "You don't know about hockey?"

"Nope."

"But it's the best sport ever!" She launches into an explanation that involves a lot of hand gestures and sound effects, and I find myself smiling despite the anxious knot that has taken up permanent residence in my stomach.

After I get Lily ready—pigtails secured, backpack checked for homework—we head out together, and I drop her off at school before making my way back to the apartment, trying to figure out what exactly my job looks like here.

Mrs. Henriksen handles the cleaning and most of the cooking, and she’ll still support with childcare as needed. My contract specifies childcare, school pickup, activity coordination, and “household management as needed.”

Whatever that means in a household run by a single dad who also happens to coach professional hockey.

I am reorganizing Lily's art supplies when my phone buzzes. Danny's face pops up on the screen.

"Tell me everything," he says the second I answer. "You've been there since yesterday and I've only gotten like three texts."

"I've been busy." I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, sorting crayons by color. "The job is... intense."

"Intense how? Rich people intense or actually difficult intense?"

Both. Neither. I don't know how to explain that the real intensity has nothing to do with the job itself.

"The little girl is great," I say instead. "Lily. She's six, really smart, obsessed with dragons and hockey."

"And the dad? You said he’s a famous hockey coach guy?"

My hand tightens around a purple crayon. "He's fine. Professional. We haven't talked much. I only saw him last night."

I leave out the part where we definitely did more than just talk two nights ago. My stomach clenches.

Danny and I don't keep secrets from each other—we've been through too much for that. But how am I supposed to tell my baby brother that I slept with my boss before he became my boss?

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?" Danny's voice softens. "I know you wanted this fresh start, Z. But if it's not working out—"

"It's working out." I make myself smile, hoping he can hear it. "I promise. This is exactly what I need."

After we hang up, I finish organizing and then tackle the kitchen. Meal planning for the week. A grocery list that accounts for Lily's preferences and what I assume are Jaxon's nutritional needs as a former athlete.

I am elbow-deep in recipe research when the front door opens.

My whole body goes rigid.

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Confident. The kind of walk that belongs to someone who owns every room he enters.

Jaxon appears in the kitchen doorway.

He looks different from last night—sharper somehow.

A team polo stretches across his shoulders, his light brown hair still damp from what I assume is a post-practice shower. That jaw could cut glass. Those shoulders could block a doorway—both of which I know from personal experience.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. Professional. Be professional.

"Hey," he says.

“Hi.” I set down my phone. “Lily got to school fine. I packed her lunch and made sure she has her permission slip for the field trip next week.”

We stand there. Two people who were practically naked together two days ago, now navigating the world’s most awkward employer-employee dynamic.

“Good.” Jaxon runs a hand through his hair. “Did you speak to her tutor about the adjustment plan?”

I can tell he expects a yes. Something quick so he can move on.

But I have no idea what he’s talking about.

I pause. “…No?”

The word hangs there a second too long.

He looks at me sharply. “No?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I say carefully, setting the papers down. “I haven’t even been given the tutor’s contact yet.”

A beat. Something shifts in his expression, his brows pulling together.

“That should’ve been handled,” he says, clipped. Like I’ve personally let him down.

My spine straightens slightly. “By me?”

“Yes.” His tone is even more annoyed now. “I need you to stay ahead of things like this.”

I blink at him. “Jaxon, I’ve been here for less than forty-eight hours.”

“That doesn’t change the timeline,” he replies.

Okay. What an ass. Who does he think he is?

I inhale slowly, keeping my voice even. You need this job, I remind myself. “Then maybe I need the timeline. Because right now, I don’t even know what the adjustment plan is.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s the updated academic schedule her tutor is coordinating with the school. We discussed this with the agency.”

“No,” I say, firmer now. “You discussed that with the agency. I got a general placement brief and a start date.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“I don’t have access to your emails,” I add. “Or your conversations. Or whatever you assume I already know.”

Silence stretches.

Then—

“I don’t have time to train someone from scratch,” he says, voice rising.

I stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“I need someone who anticipates,” he continues, like he didn’t just cross a line. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

Heat flares in my chest.

“Anticipates what, exactly?” I shoot back. “Information you haven’t given me?”

“That’s not—”

“No, let’s be really clear,” I cut in, stepping closer. “You asked me about a tutor I don’t have contact details for, about a plan I haven’t seen, based on a timeline I was never told existed.”

His expression hardens. “This is important.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” I fire back. “I’m saying you don’t get to hold me accountable for something I was never included in.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, but I’m on a roll now. “I can’t do my job blind,” I snap. I can’t even believe the audacity of this man.

“You want me to show up for Lily? Then you actually have to give me the information I need.”

His eyes narrow, something sharp flashing there. “I hired you to take care of my daughter, not question how I run my life.”

“And I’m trying to do exactly that. But I’ve been here exactly one day,” I say, incredulous. “One day.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but I cut him off before he can. I don’t even care that he’s my boss right now. He’s being unfair, and I’m not letting him treat me like this.

“Figure out what you actually expect from me,” I say, grabbing my phone from the counter. “And maybe—just maybe—tell me next time.”

I turn before he can respond.

“Zara—”

I don’t stop.

The sound of my footsteps echoes just a little too loudly as I disappear down the hall, leaving him standing there in the kitchen.

***

By the time I pick Lily up from school, I’ve replayed that argument at least fifty times.

Each version gets worse.

Each version ends with me unemployed and back on a train home, explaining to Danny how I managed to blow up my “fresh start” in under forty-eight hours.

Cool. Love that for me.

“Zara!”

Lily barrels into me the second she spots me at the school gate, backpack bouncing, pigtails slightly crooked.

The sight of her knocks the edge off everything.

I crouch down just in time to catch her. “Hey, you.”

“You’re here!” she says like it’s a surprise.

“I told you I would be.”

“I know, but sometimes grown-ups say things and then they forget.” She says it matter-of-factly, not accusing. Just… used to it.

Something tight pulls in my chest.

“Well,” I say, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, “I don’t forget.”

She studies me for a second, like she’s deciding whether to believe that.

Then she nods. “Okay.”

Trust. Given just like that. God.

“Ready to go?” I ask, standing and taking her hand.

“Can we stop for a snack?”

“Always.”

We walk a couple of blocks to a small café on the corner. It’s warm inside, smells like sugar and coffee, and Lily immediately presses her nose to the glass display.

“Can I have that one?” she asks, pointing to a cupcake covered in an alarming amount of pink frosting.

I grin. “That one looks like it might cause a sugar explosion.”

“I like explosions.”

“I figured.”

We settle at a small table by the window, Lily swinging her legs under the chair as she carefully peels the wrapper off her cupcake.

I watch her for a moment, letting the quiet settle between us.

This part? This is easy.

“Tell me something about you,” I say.

She looks up, frosting already on her cheek. “Like what?”

“Anything. Favorite color, favorite animal, biggest secret.”

“My favorite color is purple. My favorite animal is a dragon. And my biggest secret is…” She leans forward, lowering her voice. “I don’t like math.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

She beams, then takes a huge bite of her cupcake.

“What about you?” she asks around the frosting. “What’s your favorite?”

“Hmm.” I pretend to think. “Favorite color… probably green. Favorite animal… definitely not a dragon.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why not?”

“They seem like a lot of responsibility.”

She considers that. “That’s true. You’d have to feed them a lot.”

“Exactly.”

“And they might burn your house down.”

“Yes.”

She nods solemnly, like we’ve reached a very important agreement.

“What about your biggest secret?” she asks.

I hesitate for half a second. Because the truth is—I have a pretty big one right now.

Instead, I smile lightly. “I still sleep with a nightlight sometimes.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s not even embarrassing,” she says. “I do that too.”

“See? We’re the same.”

She grins, clearly delighted by that.

We finish our snack, and by the time we head back outside, the afternoon sun is softer, the air cooler.

“Can we go to the park?” Lily asks, slipping her hand into mine.

“Sure.”

The park is only a few minutes away, and Lily runs ahead the second we reach it, heading straight for the climbing structure.

I settle onto a nearby bench, watching as she scrambles up the ladder with complete confidence.

“Watch me!” she calls.

“I’m watching!”

She reaches the top, throws her arms out like she’s just conquered a mountain. “I’m the dragon queen!”

I laugh. “Of course you are.”

She slides down, then runs back over to me, breathless. “Did you see?”

“I did. Very impressive.”

“I’m the best climber in my class.”

“I believe it.”

She plops down next to me, leaning her head briefly against my arm before popping back up again.

“Can you push me on the swings?”

“Absolutely.”

I follow her over, giving her a gentle push as she kicks her legs forward.

And as I stand there, pushing her gently, watching her laugh—

Everything else fades.

The argument. The tension. Jaxon. All of it.

Because right now, it’s just this.

A little girl who gives her trust so easily, who wants nothing more than to soar into the sky.

And standing here in the late afternoon light, I realize something that settles deep in my bones—

No matter how complicated things get with her father…

I’m not going anywhere.

6

JAXON

Favorite Daddy

My mood has been off all damn day, and it shows.

The whistle cuts through the rink, sharp enough to slice bone.

“Again.”

My voice carries over the scrape of blades and the dull crash of bodies against the boards. The drill resets in seconds. No wasted movement. No talking back. No one on this ice is stupid enough to mistake my tone for a suggestion.

Good.

Because I’m not in the mood to repeat myself today.

The Metro Raptors spread across the ice in formation, jerseys dark with sweat from the last forty minutes of hard skating. Cold air bites at the exposed skin of my face, but the rest of me runs hot. The arena always smells the same at practice. Ice. Rubber. Steel. Sweat. Effort.

“Puck movement needs to be cleaner,” I bark. “I don’t want pretty. I want fast. Again.”

Hayes corrals the puck and sends it down low. Morrison cuts across the slot a fraction too late, forcing the pass wide. It glances off a stick, bounces wrong, and the whole sequence falls apart.

I blow the whistle once.

Everything stops.

That’s one thing I’ll give them. This team knows how to listen when it counts.

I step closer to the boards, arms folded. “What was that?”

Nobody answers immediately.

Jake Morrison glides backward, expression carefully blank in the way veteran players get when they know they screwed up but aren’t interested in putting on a show about it.

“Well?” I ask.

Morrison shrugs once. “Timing.”

“Timing,” I repeat flatly. “Interesting. I was under the impression you all owned watches.”

That earns a few restrained smirks from the younger guys. Morrison’s mouth twitches, but he says nothing.

Good choice.

I point at him with two fingers. “You’re the captain. If you’re half a second late, everyone else is dead in the water. Again.”

Morrison nods once.

On the far side of the ice, Connor Hayes shifts his weight impatiently, bouncing on his skates like he wants the puck back already. Young. Fast. Talented as hell. Also too cocky by half when he’s feeling himself.

Which means he needs to be managed.

I blow the whistle again and the drill restarts.

The next ten minutes are relentless. Quick transition work. Retrievals under pressure. Reset. Go again. The sound of skates carving into the ice turns into its own rhythm, punctuated by my whistle and the occasional thud of bodies hitting the boards.

When I finally blow it dead and send them for water, the guys cluster near the bench, shoulders heaving, steam rising off them in the cold.

“Media wants ten minutes with you after,” my assistant coach, Nate, says as he steps up beside me. “They’re doing the whole new era, fresh leadership thing.”

My mouth flattens. “Of course they are.”

The media side of this job is my least favorite part. I despise it. It’s all presentation and optics instead of results.

Come to think of it, everything is optics lately.

Nate tips his head. “You heading home after?”

“Yes. Today I actually get to spend some quality time with Lily again.”

He smiles. “Give that girl a big hug from her uncle Nate, okay?”

“Will do.”

Then Nate adds, almost too casually, “Lily settling in okay with the new nanny?”

There it is.

I keep my expression neutral. “She likes her.”

“Good.”

Not good. Or maybe too good. That’s the problem.

Two weeks. Zara’s only been living with us for two weeks, and already—

If Lily were indifferent, this would be simpler. If Zara had walked in and been bland, forgettable, purely competent, I could’ve slotted her into the role and moved on.

Instead, she walked into my house looking like trouble in civilian clothes and then had the nerve to stand in my kitchen and tell me exactly where I was being unfair.

And since that argument, we’ve barely spoken.

She probably thinks I’m the grumpiest man on earth. I keep things short. Professional. Distant. It’s easier that way. I don’t want her in my space more than necessary. Don’t want the way she looks at me, like she sees right through everything I’m trying to keep locked down.

Because the truth is, she makes me feel… off. Like I’m getting things wrong. Like I’m not as in control as I should be. And I don’t like that.

Doesn’t help that the last two weeks with the Raptors have been insane. Back-to-back games, media, pressure from management. I’ve barely been home long enough to notice anything beyond whether Lily’s asleep and the lights are off.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe once things settle down, this will too.

“She’s been here barely two weeks and already pushing back,” I mutter.

Nate glances sideways. “That a complaint?”

Yes.

No.

I don’t answer quickly enough, and that’s answer enough.

His brows lift. “Huh.”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

He grins without much warmth. “All I was going to say is maybe someone not folding every time you snap at them isn’t the worst thing.”

I turn my head and pin him with a look.

Nate holds up a hand. “There it is. There’s the face. Definitely not saying anything else.”

Good.

Because I don’t need commentary on Zara Winslow from him.

I definitely don’t need anyone noticing the fact that the woman currently taking care of my daughter is the same woman I had against a wall not that long ago.

I rub a hand over my jaw.

“She was right,” I say before I can stop myself.

Nate goes still beside me.

And because I’ve already opened that door, the rest comes out with it, low and edged with irritation. “We had a fight. I expected something she couldn’t have known. I was being unfair.”

Nate says nothing.

“That doesn’t mean I have time for this,” I add.

For her.

For the way she stands there with those eyes locked on mine, making me feel like the unreasonable one in my own damn kitchen.

For the way my body still remembers exactly how she felt in my hands.

Nate clears his throat. “Sounds rough.”

I shoot him a look. “Your insight is invaluable.”

He grins. “Happy to help.”

I push off the boards before I say something I’ll regret and blow the whistle for them to line up again.

Practice ends ninety minutes later with enough fatigue in their legs that nobody chirps on the way off the ice. That alone tells me it was a good session.

***

The drive home is quiet in the way only New York traffic can be quiet.

Not silent. Never silent. There’s always the low hum of engines, the occasional impatient horn, the blur of pedestrians moving along sidewalks like the whole city is late for something.

But inside the car, with both hands locked on the steering wheel and the afternoon light cutting across the dashboard, it feels like the first real pocket of stillness I’ve had all day.

I stop at a light and close my eyes for one second.

And there she is again.

Zara in the bar, eyes bright over the rim of her drink.

Zara in the hallway, breath catching when I touched her.

Zara in my kitchen, furious and beautiful and so unimpressed by my attitude it should’ve been insulting.

Zara in my house.

That’s the part that keeps snagging.

Not the sex. Not the memory of it, even if that memory is way too easy to access.

The house.

Lily.

The way those two things are now connected.

I scrub both hands over my face.

This woman is driving me insane.

***

The second I step into the duplex penthouse, the whole shape of the day shifts.

“Daddy!” Lily’s voice comes flying at me before I even see her.

Then she’s there, running full speed down the hallway with all the wild energy of a six-year-old who has absolutely no concern for personal safety or braking distance.

I barely get my bag off my shoulder before she throws herself at me.

I catch her automatically, lifting her against my chest in one smooth motion.

“Hey, bug,” I say, and something in me eases without permission.

Her arms lock around my neck. “You’re home early.”

“Looks that way.”

She smells like shampoo and outside air and whatever snack she had after school. Her cheek is warm where it presses against my shoulder. I kiss the top of her hair and hold her a little tighter.

This. This is the reset.

No matter what kind of day I’ve had, what fire I’ve been putting out, what pressure is building somewhere in the back of my skull, Lily in my arms has a way of cutting straight through it.

I keep her perched on my hip as I move farther into the apartment.

Lily pulls back enough to look at me. “Guess what?”

“That depends,” I say. “Is it about dragons?”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

“I made a dragon castle.” She points dramatically toward the living room. “Out of blocks. And Zara said it had excellent structural integrity.”

A corner of my mouth almost moves.

“Did she.”

“Yep. That means it’s really good.”

“I’m familiar with the term.”

She gasps. “Can I show you?”

“In a minute.”

I shift her slightly and head toward the living room, my gaze flicking briefly toward the kitchen without fully turning my head.

No sign of Zara.

I lower Lily to the couch and sit beside her, one arm stretched along the back. She climbs into my side automatically, all skinny arms and warm weight and complete trust.

“How was school?” I ask.

“Good. I did my reading and I got a sticker and I didn’t even get in trouble for talking.”

“High bar.”

“I know.”

She says it so solemnly I have to look away for a second to hide the smile that threatens.

“You have homework?”

“Already done.”

Lily goes quiet beside me. The shift is subtle—the kind that would be easy to miss if I didn’t know her.

Her fingers start playing with the hem of my sleeve.

“What is it?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear it, “Mommy was supposed to call today.”

The words land like a blade slipped carefully between ribs.

I don’t let it show.

At least I hope I don’t.

I turn toward her fully. “Yeah?”

She nods, still focused on my sleeve instead of me. “After school.”

I lean forward and lift her onto my lap, settling her sideways so I can see her face.

It breaks my heart to see the disappointment there.

“I’m sorry, bug.”

Her mouth wobbles for just a second before she presses it flat again. “Maybe she forgot.”

There are a hundred responses I could give to that, and most of them would be honest in ways a six-year-old doesn’t deserve.

Your mother is unreliable.

Your mother keeps making promises she can’t keep.

Your mother loves you but she is drowning in her own life and sometimes I want to shake her until she understands that none of this gets to land on you.

None of that makes it past my teeth.

Instead I brush a hand over Lily’s hair and keep my voice low and steady. “Maybe she had a hard day.”

Lily finally looks up at me. “A hard day like when I cry because math is mean?”

I huff out a breath that might almost be a laugh. “Something like that.”

She leans against my chest. “Did I do something bad?”

Oh, shit.

Anger flashes hot and ugly—at her mother, at anything that made my daughter feel this way. But I don’t let it show.

I tip Lily’s chin up gently until she has to look at me.

“No,” I say, firm enough that she hears it. “Absolutely not. This has nothing to do with you.”

She searches my face, checking for cracks.

Kids always know.

Even when they don’t have the words for it, they know when an adult is feeding them something too polished to be true.

So I make sure what I give her is the truth.

“Your mom loves you,” I say. “I love you. That part never changes.”

“Then why didn’t she call?”

Because loving someone and being good at loving them are not always the same thing.

Because adults are complicated and selfish and broken in ways kids should never have to pay for.

I swallow all of that and go with the only version she can carry.

“Sometimes grown-ups have a lot going on,” I say. “More than they know what to do with. Sometimes they mess things up, even when they don’t want to.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “That’s dumb.”

A short laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Yeah. It is.”

She seems pleased that I agree.

I kiss her forehead, let my lips rest there for an extra beat. “But none of that is because of you. Do you hear me?”

She nods.

“Say it back.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “It’s not because of me.”

“Again.”

“It’s not because of me.”

“Good.”

I hold her close and feel her relax by degrees, little by little.

Underneath the calm I’m giving her, my own thoughts run darker.

This is exactly what I mean when I say I need stability.

A house where calls happen when they’re supposed to happen. Where pickup is on time. Where bedtimes are normal and lunches get packed and one adult’s chaos doesn’t become a child’s job to absorb.

“You’re my favorite daddy,” she murmurs against my shoulder.

I snort softly. “I’d be offended if I had competition.”

“You don’t.”

“Glad we cleared that up.”

She giggles, and the sound loosens something in my chest that had gone hard.

I press another kiss to her forehead. “Want to show me what you built?”

“Yes.” She starts to scramble down, then pauses. “Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re having a hard day too?”

The question catches me off guard hard enough that I go still.

Kids know. Always.

I brush a thumb over her cheek. “A little.”

She considers that with the grave seriousness only children can manage. Then she leans in and kisses my jaw.

“There,” she says. “Better.”

Something hot and fierce moves through my chest.

“Yeah,” I say roughly. “Better.”

And when I glance up, I realize we’re not alone anymore.

Zara stands in the doorway, quiet and still, one hand resting lightly against the frame.

I don’t know how long she’s been there or what she’s heard, but the way she watches us—silent, unreadable—makes something in my chest tighten.

7

ZARA

More Than Meets the Eye

Idon’t move.

I don’t think I can.

I’m just standing there in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame, watching something I don’t think I was ever meant to see.

Jaxon sits on the couch with Lily curled into him, her small body tucked against his like that’s the most natural place in the world. One of his hands is in her hair, slow, steady strokes, like he’s grounding her. Like he’s grounding himself.

His voice is low. Gentle. Patient in a way that feels completely at odds with the man who treated me so harshly. There’s no sign of his clipped control or impossible expectations.

He’s warm. Kind. Soft in a way I didn’t expect.

And that thought… unsettles me more than anything else.

He’s a really good dad.

The realization lands quietly, but it sticks.

They’re in their own little world, Lily giggling while Jaxon huffs out a quiet laugh.

I’m not part of it. And why does that sting so much?

For a second—just one—I let myself imagine what it would be like if the version I got from him was the one he shows Lily.

If he were… mine.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I shove the thought down fast.

To me, he’s just my boss. He’ll be grumpy most days, snap at me, treat me like the employee I am.

And that’s how it should be. Right?

I should leave. Before he notices me.

But just as I shift my weight, his head lifts slightly and our eyes meet.

For a split second, everything stills with neither of us looking away.

Then I force myself to step back.

“I’ll get dinner started,” I say lightly, like I haven’t just been standing here watching something deeply personal unfold. Like my chest doesn’t feel tight in a way I don’t want to examine.

His gaze lingers on me for a second longer.

Then he nods once. “Thanks.”

I retreat into the kitchen, grateful for a moment to myself before what I expect will be an awkward dinner with the three of us.

Lily and Jaxon stay behind, soaking up their time together while I cook. Lily’s frequent giggles drift down the hall, bright and unrestrained. I can’t help but smile every time I hear her laugh.

Dinner turns out less awkward than I expected. Mostly thanks to Lily, who carries the conversation. Jaxon is polite, even warm at times, complimenting the pasta and helping clear the table afterward.

Since he’s home for the night, I have the evening off. He takes Lily to bed, and she’s asleep in no time.

I’m in my room, trying to wind down.

But my thoughts won’t settle. I try reading. Then a movie. Nothing sticks. My mind keeps circling, restless.

I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, wide awake.

The way he looked at Lily.

The way he held her.

The way he said her name.

A slow exhale leaves me.

Why can’t he just be the asshole I thought he was?

But I was wrong. There’s more to this man than meets the eye.

I roll onto my side, dragging the blanket up with me like it might somehow ground me.

It doesn’t.

Because the second my mind quiets even a little, my body betrays me.

And in my head, I hear his voice.

Low.

Rough.

“Zara.”

Heat curls low in my stomach before I can stop it.

“Seriously?” I mutter into the darkness.

I shove the pillow over my head.

This is ridiculous.

I am not doing this.

I am not lying here thinking about my boss like some hormonal teenager.

I have self-control.

I have standards.

I—

My breath catches.

Because apparently, my body did not get that memo.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to redirect, to think about literally anything else.

Grocery lists.

Schedules.

Lily’s homework.

But nothing sticks. Every thought dissolves the moment it forms, drowned out by the memory of us at the bar. Jaxon’s eyes on me. Jaxon fucking me senseless.

I groan, hurling the pillow aside.

My hand rests on my stomach, fingers splayed across the thin cotton of my sleep shirt.

My skin feels too warm, too sensitive. Like every nerve ending is standing at attention, waiting for something.

I shift against the sheets, the fabric catching against my nipples. They're hard, aching, and I realize I've been lying here for twenty minutes fighting a losing battle.

My fingers creep down my stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of my waistband.

I bite my lip, imagining his lips there instead. His breath hot against my neck. His stubble scraping against my collarbone.

My pulse quickens as I slip my hand under the elastic of my panties, my fingers brushing against the dampness already gathering between my thighs.

I'm wet. Embarrassingly wet. The kind of wet that comes from hours of suppressed wanting and inappropriate thoughts.

I close my eyes tighter, pretending it's his touch.

His fingers sliding between my legs, firm and purposeful. I can almost feel the calluses on his palms, the strength in his hands as he parts my folds and finds the spot that makes me shiver.

I let out a soft moan, my hips tilting up to meet my hand as I press harder, circling my clit in slow, tight strokes.

The pleasure builds gradually, spreading outward like ripples in still water.

In my mind, Jaxon is above me. His eyes bore into mine, that serious expression he wears focused entirely on me.

His weight pressing me into the mattress. His mouth claiming mine with a hunger that matches my own.

My fingers move faster now, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

I slide one finger inside myself, then two, feeling the tight heat grip them. I thrust shallowly, my palm grinding against my clit with each movement.

I imagine Jaxon watching me. Standing at the foot of my bed with his arms crossed, his eyes dark and hungry. His voice commanding me to touch myself for him.

"Show me," he'd say. "Show me how you like it."

I obey, my fingers curling inside, finding that spot that makes my back arch off the mattress. My thumb works my clit in frantic circles, the wet sounds of my arousal filling the quiet room.

I picture the way he’d look at me.

Not with the polite distance he kept today as my employer, but with something raw and unfiltered. The way his jaw would tighten. The way his chest would rise and fall with barely restrained need.

My thighs clench, my body tightening like a coil ready to snap. The pleasure is building too fast now, cresting like a wave, and I'm helpless to stop it.

My fingers plunge deeper, harder. My hips buck against my hand. The wet, obscene sounds of my fucking myself fill the room, mixing with my ragged breathing and the soft moans I can't contain.

"Fuck," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

I'm close. So close. The tension coils tighter and tighter, my muscles trembling, my skin on fire.

And then—

I come, my body arching off the bed, a strangled cry torn from my throat.

The orgasm crashes through me in waves, pulsing around my fingers, radiating outward until I'm left shaking and gasping in its aftermath.

And when it’s over, when the tension finally loosens just enough for me to breathe again—

I stare up at the ceiling and let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

“Great,” I murmur.

Because that did absolutely nothing to fix the actual problem.

***

The next morning, I brace myself before walking into the kitchen.

According to his schedule, he’ll be home.

Jaxon stands at the counter, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other braced against the edge like he’s been there a while.

His hair is slightly mussed, like he didn’t bother fixing it. His T-shirt clings to his shoulders in a way that should be illegal this early in the morning.

He looks… dangerously good.

“Morning,” he says.

It shouldn’t do anything to me.

It’s just a word. Two syllables. And yet—

My stomach tightens like it’s bracing for impact.

“Morning,” I return.

I move to the other side of the kitchen, putting space between us, reaching for the coffee maker like I haven’t spent half the night thinking about him.

“Lily’s already at school?” I ask, because small talk is safe. Neutral. Necessary.

“Yeah. She told me to tell you hi.”

I smile at that. His daughter really is something special. “Thanks.”

He sets his mug down. “We should probably talk.”

I inhale slowly, bracing myself. “Okay,” I say, turning to face him.

I expect criticism. A continuation of our argument the other day. Instead—

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling like this is harder than he wants it to be.

“I was out of line about the tutor thing.”

The words land somewhere between surprising and… disarming.

I blink. “You were?”

His mouth tightens slightly, but he nods. “I expected you to handle something you didn’t have the information for. And I regret how I handled it.”

“Okay,” I say evenly. “That’s good to hear. I appreciate that.”

“My communication was subpar, and I shouldn’t have come at you like that,” he adds.

There’s effort in it. I can see it. This isn’t easy for him.

But he owns it so completely that something in my chest loosens just a fraction.

“I’m not here to make your life harder,” I say. “I’m here to make it easier. But I need access. Information. Clear expectations.”

“You’ll have it,” he says.

And for some reason, I believe him.

“You should probably know,” he goes on, “or—actually, I mentioned it when we first met. I’m in the middle of a custody battle.”

I’ve wondered about that. And from what I overheard yesterday, things with Lily’s mom aren’t easy.

“That’s why everything has to be… tight right now,” he continues. “Schedules. Structure. Consistency. It all gets looked at.”

“They’re evaluating your home environment?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re worried about how it looks.”

“I know I can give my daughter what she needs. But historically, the courts haven’t been favorable to dads getting sole custody, and I’m worried about losing her,” he says. “It’s… a lot.”

I swallow, my chest tightening.

He exhales. “Her mom is going through a tough time. I don’t want to go into too much detail, but you’ll probably figure it out sooner or later anyway.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needs the movement to get the words out.

“She’s not… a bad person,” he says, and I hear the effort in that. The careful choice. “That’s the thing. If she were, this would be easier.”

“What is she like?” I ask gently.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “Depends on the day.”

That says enough.

“She can be…” He searches for the word. “Incredible. When she’s on, she’s really on. Funny, warm. The kind of person everyone gravitates toward. Lily used to adore her.”

“That’s the version most people see,” he adds. “That’s the version she shows when it matters.”

“And the other version?” I ask.

His jaw tightens. “Unpredictable.”

I stay quiet, letting him continue.

“She cancels on Lily. Last minute. Or she shows up late, like it’s no big deal. Makes plans she doesn’t follow through on.” His voice stays controlled, but there’s something underneath it now. Frustration.

“One day she’s the perfect mom. The next she’s… distracted. Short-tempered. Gone in her own head.” He pauses, something harder settling into his expression. “She’s even lashed out at Lily a few times. There’s no excuse for that.”

My chest tightens.

“I don’t want to take her mom away from her,” he goes on, quieter now. “But I want sole custody until she’s in a better place. And I’m fighting for that.”

“Okay, but if she’s that unreliable, shouldn’t it be easier to get sole custody?”

He exhales slowly. “Like I said, the courts don’t like giving sole custody to a single dad. Also…”

I tilt my head. “Also what?”

“She’s smart. Socially. She knows what to say, how to act—especially when people are watching. In court, in front of evaluators…” His mouth flattens. “She’ll come across as a loving, devoted mother who just wants more time with her daughter.”

I nod.

His gaze holds mine.

“Lily is my whole world,” he says, quieter now. “And right now, everything I do is being measured against whether I’m ‘stable enough’ to keep her.”

I hate that word.

Stable.

Like love isn’t enough. Like showing up every day doesn’t count unless it fits into some neat little box someone else approves of.

“That’s… a lot,” I say softly.

And I get it. I do. More than I want to.

I’ve seen families fall apart over less.

I’ve seen kids caught in the middle of battles they never asked for.

And I saw the way Lily looked at him yesterday. The way she trusts him.

“You’re doing a good job,” I add quietly.

His eyes flick to mine.

“Lily is proof of that,” I go on. “She’s grounded. She feels safe. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Silence.

Then—

“Thanks,” he says.

Rougher than before.

Like the word got caught on the way out.

I nod once.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” I add. “That’s literally why I’m here.”

His gaze holds mine.

“And I meant what I said the other day,” I continue. “I’m good at what I do. I’ll give her structure. Routine. Stability. I’ll show up.”

My voice softens just slightly. “I already care about her.”

Something in his expression changes again.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward.

It’s… something else.

Something that stretches, but doesn’t snap.

We’re not standing on opposite sides anymore.

We’re…aligned.

Aligned.

I become very aware of the space between us.

Of how little there is.

My pulse ticks up.

I can feel the heat of him, catch the now-familiar scent of his aftershave.

All his attention is on me, and God—yes. This is what I wanted. For him to look at me like that.

I feel seen. Wanted. Just like that.

He gives me something no one ever has—not with pretty words or grand gestures, but with a single look.

His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, like he’s done once before.

“Zara,” he murmurs.

I know what’s coming.

His fingers brush along my jaw, tilting my chin up.

Then his mouth meets mine: slow, warm, and consuming.

His tongue brushes against mine, and I melt into it, a soft sigh slipping out.

And then—

His phone rings.

8

JAXON

Mutually Beneficial

Her lips are even softer than I remember.

That’s the first thought that hits me, sharp and immediate, cutting through everything else.

This kiss is not rushed. Not desperate like the first time. This is slower. Intentional. The kind of kiss that lingers, that builds instead of explodes.

Her hand fists in my shirt, grounding herself. Or maybe grounding me.

I don’t know.

All I know is that I don’t want to stop.

I should.

God, I should.

She’s my employee. She lives in my house.

This is already a complication I can’t afford.

And yet—

My hand is still at her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her ear, holding her there as I deepen the kiss just slightly. Testing. Waiting for her to pull back.

She doesn’t. She leans in.

Soft breath, quiet sound, and something in my chest tightens in a way I don’t have time to unpack.

We haven’t done much, but I’m already hard, aching in my pants. I don’t know what it is about her, but she gets to me in a way no one ever has.

Hell, I don’t want to stop. I want to take my time with her, peel her out of those clothes, get her into my bed and make her say my name.

Just as I’m about to act on it, my phone rings.

The sound is sharp, jarring. Completely out of place.

Reality crashes back in hard and unforgiving.

I pull back.

The space between us feels wrong immediately. Too cold. Too empty.

Her breath is uneven. Mine probably is too.

We just look at each other for a second.

The phone keeps ringing.

“Sorry,” I mutter, already stepping back.

She nods, but her eyes don’t leave mine right away.

I turn away, dragging a hand through my hair as I pull my phone from my pocket.

It’s my lawyer. There’s no one I want to talk to less—she rarely brings good news—but I don’t have a choice.

I swipe to answer, forcing my voice back into something controlled.

“Halberg.”

“Jaxon, we need to talk.”

The tone is enough to put my entire body on alert.

“What happened?”

I step further into the kitchen, turning slightly away from Zara without fully leaving the room. I don’t look at her. I can’t.

Not right now.

“There’s been a development,” Rebecca says. “Her legal team filed a supplemental argument this morning.”

My jaw tightens. “About what?”

“A shift in strategy.”

I pace once, slow, controlled. “Meaning?”

“They’re leaning into a maternal stability argument.”

I go still. “What does that mean in plain English?” I ask.

A pause. Then—

“They’re going to argue that Lily, as a young girl, needs her mother as her primary caregiver. That emotional development, identity formation, all of it is better supported in a maternal household.”

My grip tightens around the phone.

“They’re pushing for sole custody?” I ask.

“They’re positioning for it,” she says. “At minimum, primary physical custody with you having limited visitation.”

A cold, steady anger settles in my chest.

“That’s not happening,” I say flatly.

“I understand,” she replies. “But we need to be realistic about how courts weigh these arguments.”

I start pacing again.

“They don’t get to use gender as a deciding factor,” I snap.

“They don’t say it’s about gender,” Rebecca says carefully. “They say it’s about emotional needs, developmental support, and the best interests of the child.”

Same thing. Different packaging.

“They’ll present her as a loving, engaged mother who simply wants more time with her daughter,” she continues. “And unless we counter that effectively, it’s a compelling narrative.”

My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.

“She’s inconsistent,” I say. “She cancels. She disappears. She—”

“We know that,” Rebecca cuts in. “The question is whether we can prove it in a way that outweighs the emotional argument they’re building.”

Silence.

I drag a hand over my face. “What do we need?” I ask finally.

There’s a pause on the other end.

Then: “Let me ask you something first.”

I don’t like that tone.

“What?”

“Are you currently in a serious relationship?”

I have no idea where she’s going with this.

“No,” I say immediately.

But my mind betrays me for a split second—back to the kiss that happened just moments ago.

“No,” I repeat, slower this time.

“Is there someone who could become permanent?” she asks.

I let out a short, humorless breath. “That’s not exactly something I can just—”

“Jaxon,” she interrupts. “Listen to me.”

I stop pacing.

“A stable, two-parent household image significantly strengthens your case,” she says. “Especially against a maternal argument. It shifts the narrative from ‘single father with demanding career’ to ‘structured family environment.’”

I stare at nothing.

“Are you telling me I need to start dating for court optics?” I ask.

“I’m telling you that perception matters,” my lawyer says. “And right now, their side is going to lean hard into the idea that Lily lacks a consistent maternal presence in your home.”

My teeth grind.

“I have a nanny,” I say.

“A nanny is not the same as a partner,” she replies. “And it won’t be treated as such.”

Of course it won’t.

“Someone living there permanently,” Rebecca continues, “in a committed relationship with you—that changes things.”

I don’t say anything.

“Marriage carries the most weight,” she adds.

I huff out a breath. “It’s not like I can put an ad in the paper—looking for a wife.”

“I’m not suggesting you fabricate something,” she says. “But if there is someone—if there’s potential—this would be the time to take that next step.”

My gaze shifts.

Zara stands on the far side of the kitchen, hands resting lightly on the counter, her posture deceptively relaxed.

But I know she’s listening.

Her eyes flick to mine. Then away.

“I’m not bringing instability into my daughter’s life,” I say, quieter now. “That’s the whole point.”

“And I agree,” she says. “But understand this—if they win the narrative, they don’t need better facts.”

Silence stretches.

“Think about it,” she says. “We’ll talk again later.”

The call ends.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady something that’s starting to spiral.

I could lose her.

They’re building a case.

They’re shaping a narrative.

And suddenly, everything I do feels… insufficient.

Not enough.

I drag a hand through my hair again, pacing once more.

Schedules. Structure. Consistency.

I’ve built everything around that.

And it still might not be enough.

My chest tightens.

Across the room, Zara shifts slightly.

I glance at her.

And everything slows.

Because she’s standing there in my kitchen.

Already part of this space. Already part of Lily’s day.

Already—stable.

The thought slips in before I can stop it.

Lily likes her. And that’s not a small thing.

And Zara—

She’s incredible with Lily. I can already tell she cares about her. She stepped into the role like she’s been here for months.

It already feels like she belongs here.

I exhale slowly.

This is crazy. No—this is completely insane.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

And I don’t know that I have any other options.

My lawyer made it clear I don’t.

My brains spins through scenarios in record time.

What if this could really work? What if this is exactly what I need? What could help me keep my daughter safe?

I shake my head slightly, like I can physically dislodge the idea.

“Everything okay?” Zara asks.

Her voice is careful. Measured.

I look at her.

At the way she’s standing there, composed but alert. At the way her eyes search mine, not pushing, not demanding—just… present.

Reliable and steady.

They were the exact words my lawyer used.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my daughter,” I say quietly. The words come out before I can filter them.

Her expression softens slightly.

“I figured,” she says. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“There might be,” I cut in.

Okay, slow down, I tell myself. Think this through. I have to present it carefully, in a way that won’t scare Zara off or make her think I’ve completely lost it.

And it has to be mutually beneficial.

Her brows pull together slightly. “Okay…”

I don’t say anything else. Because I don’t have it fully formed yet.

Just the outline. The shape of something that feels reckless and controlled at the same time.

My mind replays the call.

“A stable, two-parent household…”

“Marriage carries the most weight.”

My gaze flicks back to her.

She’s still watching me. Waiting.

Like she’s been from the moment she walked into this house.

And suddenly—I can’t unsee it.

The way she fits here.

The way Lily already looks at her.

The way everything feels just a fraction more… balanced with her in it.

This is insane.

It might actually work.

The thought lands, solid and terrifying.

I stare at her for a long second.

Not as my employee.

Not as the woman I slept with.

But as something else entirely.

A solution.

And God help me—

I think I just found a plan.

9

ZARA

Marry the Nanny

The kiss, and the phone call right after, have rattled me.

After Jaxon took the call, clearly with his lawyer, he disappeared into his office and later left for whatever he has going on at the rink.

Luckily, the rest of the day blurs into activity, and I barely have time to think.

I pick Lily up from school, take her to the park, help her with homework, make dinner. Jaxon texts around six that he will be late—meetings running over—and I tell him not to worry, I have everything covered.

Which I do. This is what I am good at.

Lily is already in bed by the time Jaxon comes home. I have left a plate of pasta warming in the oven for him, along with a list I made of Lily's schedule for the week.

"You didn't have to do that," he says, finding me in the living room with a book.

"I wanted to." I tuck a bookmark between the pages. "She's a great kid. Makes my job easy."

He lowers himself onto the opposite end of the couch, and I watch him take a breath. Let it out slowly.

“As you know, my lawyer called today,” he says after another steady inhale. “It was about the custody battle.”

“I gathered.”

“She suggested…” He stops, then starts again. “She said it would help if I appeared more settled. Personally.”

I wait, not sure where this is going.

“My ex-wife’s lawyers are going to argue that Lily needs a maternal presence at home.” His hands are clasped between his knees, knuckles white. “They’re not entirely wrong. But saying she’d be better off with her mother is complete bullshit.”

“Anyone who spends five minutes with you two can see the connection you have.”

"The court doesn't spend five minutes with us. They look at schedules and depositions and whatever narrative my ex decides to spin."

His voice goes bitter. "She leaves me. She has an affair, she walks out, she barely wants visitation for the first two years. But now she's engaged to some investment banker, and suddenly she wants to play mother of the year."

My chest aches for him. For Lily. For this whole mess that has nothing to do with what is best for a six-year-old girl and everything to do with adult egos and legal maneuvering.

"What do you need?" I ask quietly.

Jaxon looks at me then. Really looks, the way he did that night at Mickey's bar—like he is trying to figure me out and not quite succeeding.

"I need—" He breaks off, shaking his head. "You’ll say it’s insane and you’ll be right. Forget I said anything."

"Jaxon."

He stands abruptly, pacing to the window. The city sprawls beneath us, all glittering lights and distant traffic. When he turns back, his expression has hardened into something like resolve.

"My lawyer thinks I need to get married."

The words land like stones in still water.

"I'm sorry," I say carefully. "Did you just say—"

"A marriage of convenience. Someone who can testify to my character, who has an established relationship with Lily, who the court would see as a stable maternal presence."

He laughs, the sound harsh. "It's insane. I know it's insane. But my lawyer ran the numbers, and cases with two-parent households get favorable outcomes nearly seventy percent more often than single parent cases, and I can't—" His voice cracks. "I can't lose her, Zara."

I sit there, frozen, my brain scrambling to process what he’s actually suggesting.

“What…” My voice shakes, and I force it steady. “What are you saying?”

“I want us to get married.”

My mouth falls open. This is ludicrous. This man—this picture of control—is suggesting marriage between us.

“Is this a joke?” I ask, because I don’t know what else to say.

He crosses the room in three strides, stopping just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“I’m dead serious. I’d do anything for my daughter. I need to show the court there’s a maternal figure in my household. I’m not dating anyone, and I’m not about to bring some random woman into our lives right now. But you’re already here. Lily already loves you. It would be… ideal.”

I stare at him. “Ideal?”

I shake my head, disbelief washing over me. “What do you mean, ideal? Aren’t you forgetting something? Like the part where you’re supposed to love the person you marry? Till death do us part and all that?” I let out a sharp breath. “I’m not marrying you just because I happen to be here.”

Gee. I always imagined a proposal would be a little more romantic.

“Oh—and I would, of course, compensate you.”

I blink. “Wow. Thanks. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not supposed to make it better.”

“Oh, good,” I say dryly. “Because it doesn’t.”

“I’m not talking about a real marriage,” he says, slipping back into that controlled, strategic tone. “It would be legal, yes, but temporary. Structured. There would be an agreement.”

“An agreement,” I repeat, incredulous.

A short laugh escapes me, because it’s that or completely lose my mind.

“You want to marry me,” I say slowly, enunciating every word like maybe that will make it sound less insane, “for legal optics.”

“Yes.”

“Because your lawyer told you it would look good.”

“Yes.”

“And your solution was—what? Turn to your nanny and go, ‘Hey, you’ll do?’”

His eyes flash. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s basically what you said.”

“No,” he counters, stepping closer again. “What I said was that you’re already part of this household. Lily trusts you. She feels safe with you. That matters.”

My chest tightens for a second at that. Annoying.

I ignore it.

“That does not mean I should marry you,” I shoot back.

“I’m not asking you to fall in love with me,” he says.

“Good, because that would be a hard no.” The audacity of this man. As if I’d just fall at his feet.

Something flickers in his expression, gone as quickly as it came.

“You once said you’d do anything for her,” he continues. “For Lily.”

“Jaxon,” I cut in, stepping back, needing space. “That’s unfair. Let’s just… pause for a second. I need to understand how your brain went from custody battle to marry the nanny in what feels like five minutes.”

“It wasn’t five minutes.”

“Feels like it.”

His mouth presses into a thin line.

“As I said, my lawyer raised the idea,” he says. “Not you specifically. Just… a partner. A stable household. Marriage carries weight.”

“And your brain went—perfect, I’ll just pick the closest available woman?”

“My brain went,” he says, sharper now, “that I’m running out of options.”

And now I see it—real fear, right there beneath the surface.

“I could lose her,” he adds, quieter. “Do you understand that?”

I do.

God help me, I do.

“But this is completely insane.”

“Maybe,” he admits.

I blink. “You… agree this is insane?”

“Yes.”

“…Okay, now I’m even more concerned.”

A ghost of something almost like amusement flickers in his eyes.

“I know how this sounds,” he says. “I do. But it’s not about us. It’s about creating the best possible situation for Lily. And like I said, it could mean complete financial security for you.”

My mind races through objections. This is crazy. Inappropriate. The kind of thing that happens in movies, not real life.

But it could also wipe out Danny’s student debt in one go.

When I left home at eighteen and left him behind in that mess, I promised he could be whatever he wanted. Study whatever he wanted. That he wouldn’t have to worry about money.

I couldn’t really go back on my word when all he wanted was to pursue his Bachelor of Architecture.

“I’m asking you to help me keep my daughter. In return, I’ll make sure you have everything you need to build the life you want.”

And then I think about Lily.

The way she looked at me when I made her happy pancakes. The way this job already feels like the best thing that’s happened to me in years—complications and all.

"I need to think about it," I hear myself say.

Jaxon nods slowly. "Take whatever time you need."

He steps back, giving me space to breathe. "I should let you get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."

He is halfway to the door when I speak.

"Jaxon?"

He turns.

"If I agree to this—and I'm not saying I am—there would need to be rules. Boundaries. We can't just..." I gesture vaguely at the air between us, hoping he understands what I can't say out loud.

"Boundaries," he repeats. "Right. Of course."

But his eyes drop to my mouth again, just for a second.

Fuck.

"Goodnight, Zara."

"Goodnight."

I stay seated. After staring into nothing for a while, I pull out my phone and text Danny.

Me:

What’s left on the student loans?

Danny:

I’ve told you before—this isn’t yours to handle.

Me:

Danny…

Danny:

160,000 $

I stare at the number. One hundred sixty thousand dollars. I’ve barely made a dent in it so far.

Danny:

You still there?

I don’t answer.

Danny:

Don’t do anything stupid, okay?

I sit in the dark living room for a long time after that, staring at the city lights, trying to figure out how my life turned into something this complicated.

A marriage of convenience. To my boss. To the man I’ve already slept with once and can’t seem to stop thinking about.

What could possibly go wrong?

***

I don’t think I slept.

Not really.

There were moments where I must’ve drifted off—because at some point the sky went from black to that pale gray-blue that signals morning—but my brain never actually shut down.

It just… looped. Over and over.

I want us to get married.

I groan into my pillow and drag it over my head like that might muffle the memory.

It doesn’t.

Because my brain, traitor that it is, replays everything in vivid detail.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

“This is insane,” I mutter.

Objectively insane.

So why am I even considering it?

I throw the covers back and sit up, because lying here clearly isn’t helping.

If I’m not going to sleep, I might as well do something productive.

I start the morning routine, getting everything ready for Lily. Jaxon has early practice today, so he’s already gone.

After Lily leaves for school, I spend the morning researching a dinosaur craft project I want to do with her and tackling a few chores around the house.

Keeping myself busy helps.

Still, I’m grateful when it’s finally time to pick her up from school.

Kids spill out of the school building in waves of noise and color, backpacks bouncing, voices overlapping.

“Zara!”

Lily spots me instantly and runs toward me like I’m the most important person here.

Something warm blooms in my chest before I can stop it.

I crouch down just in time to catch her as she throws her arms around my neck.

“Hey, dragon queen,” I say, hugging her tight.

“I was the best reader today,” she announces immediately.

“I believe it.”

“And I didn’t forget my math this time.”

“A truly impressive achievement.”

She beams at me, completely pleased with herself, and takes my hand as we start walking.

“Did you have a good day?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm.” She swings our joined hands between us. “Did you?”

I hesitate for half a second.

“Busy,” I say finally.

“That means yes or no?”

I smile slightly. “That means complicated.”

She considers that like it’s a serious concept.

“Daddy says complicated a lot,” she informs me.

Hmm.

We walk a little farther in comfortable silence before she glances up at me again.

“Are you gonna stay?” she asks suddenly.

The question hits me sideways.

“Stay?”

“Yeah. Here.” She gestures vaguely. “With us.”

My chest tightens.

“I… I work here, sweetheart,” I say carefully. “So yes, I’m staying.”

“But like… staying staying.”

Oh.

Oh.

I swallow.

“Why are you asking?” I say gently.

She shrugs, kicking a small stone along the sidewalk.

“I just like you,” she says simply. “And Daddy—”

She stops.

“What about Daddy?” I prompt.

She looks up at me, her expression unusually serious.

“He needs someone,” she says.

My breath catches.

“Someone?” I repeat.

“Yeah.” She nods like this is obvious. “He’s always working or thinking or doing serious face.” She scrunches her nose to demonstrate, and I almost laugh despite the way my chest feels like it’s caving in.

“He doesn’t laugh that much,” she continues. “But he did yesterday.”

My heart skips.

“And that’s good,” she adds firmly. “Because people should laugh.”

“They should,” I agree softly.

She nods, satisfied, then squeezes my hand.

“You should stay,” she says again. “So someone loves him.”

My steps falter.

Just for a second.

“Sweetheart,” I start, but I don’t know what I’m about to say.

Because what do you say to that?

She looks up at me, completely earnest.

“He loves me,” she says. “But he needs someone to love him too.”

Something inside me cracks open a little.

God.

Kids.

They don’t filter. They don’t overthink. They just… say things.

“I think your dad is doing okay,” I manage.

She gives me a look that is far too knowing for a six-year-old.

“He could be better.”

We walk the rest of the way home, her chatter shifting back to school and dragons and snacks and everything else that makes up her world.

But her words stay with me.

He needs someone.

You should stay.

So someone loves him.

By the time we reach the building, my chest feels tight in a completely different way than it did this morning.

Lily immediately drags me into the living room to show me something she apparently forgot to mention.

We talk, we laugh, we work on a puzzle together. We snack on apple slices with peanut butter.

And then, finally, I hear the sound I’ve been waiting for—heavy footsteps in the hallway.

Lily perks up instantly. “Daddy!”

She jumps off the couch and runs toward him. I follow more slowly, my heart suddenly beating a little too fast.

He steps into the apartment just as she launches herself at him.

He catches her easily, lifting her like it’s second nature.

“Hey, bug,” he murmurs.

His eyes meet mine over her shoulder.

Questioning. Waiting.

And this time I don’t look away.

Because I already know what I’m going to say.

10

JAXON

Boundaries

Coming home to Lily and Zara already there feels… nice.

Lily runs straight to me, throwing her arms around my waist. God, I love this kid.

But am I imagining it, or is there something in Zara’s gaze that goes beyond polite acknowledgment?

During dinner, Lily chatters nonstop, bouncing between stories about school, her reading sticker, and an extremely detailed explanation of a dragon hierarchy I’m apparently expected to fully understand.

I nod at the right moments. Ask questions. Play along.

And the whole time, I’m acutely aware of Zara across the table, listening to Lily like nothing else exists. Her smile is easy. Genuine.

This—this is something we’ve never really had before.

A family dinner.

“You’re not listening,” Lily accuses, narrowing her eyes at me.

I blink. “I am.”

“What did I just say?”

I open my mouth. Pause.

Zara hides a smile behind her glass. Traitor.

“Something about dragons?” I try.

Lily gasps. “That was ten minutes ago!”

“I stand corrected,” I say solemnly.

Zara laughs softly, and something in my chest shifts.

“Zara gets it,” Lily continues, turning to her. “Right?”

“I absolutely do,” Zara says, nodding seriously. “The fire dragon outranks the ice dragon—unless it’s a full moon.”

Lily beams. “See? She listens.”

“I feel attacked,” I mutter.

Zara’s mouth curves slightly.

And I’m starting to realize this dinner is making my idea seem a whole lot less insane.

“Daddy, can we have dessert?” Lily cuts in, interrupting my thoughts.

I glance at Zara.

She lifts a brow. “Don’t look at me. You’re the authority figure.”

I sigh. “Fine. Small portion.”

“Yes!” Lily pumps her fist.

Zara gets up to grab the plates, moving around the kitchen like she’s done this a hundred times before.

***

After dinner, Lily insists on a story. Then another. Then one more because “the dragon isn’t finished yet.”

By the time she finally settles, she’s half-asleep already, her small hand clutching mine.

I brush her hair back gently.

“You good, bug?” I murmur.

“Mhm,” she mumbles.

I press a kiss to her forehead.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I stay there a second longer than necessary.

Then I ease out of the room, pulling the door shut quietly behind me.

Zara is in the living room when I come back.

She’s curled slightly into the corner of the couch, a book in her hands—but she’s not reading.

Her gaze lifts when I step in.

There it is again.

That look she gave me when I came home.

My pulse ticks up.

“Are you ready to talk some more?” I ask carefully.

She nods immediately, setting the book aside.

“Yeah,” she says. “I am.”

I stay standing for a second, then move to sit across from her.

“About my proposition…” I begin.

“Yes?” she prompts.

“Have you thought about it more?”

“I have. And there are a few things I want to clarify first. You mentioned financial compensation. What exactly would that entail?”

“The arrangement would be generous,” I say, my voice steady again. Controlled. “We’d define a timeline. Once things settle, we’d end it cleanly. No complications.”

“If we do this—and I’m not saying we are—there would also need to be rules. Boundaries. We can’t just…” She gestures vaguely between us, like the words won’t come out right if she actually says them.

Right.

“Boundaries,” I repeat. “Of course.”

My gaze betrays me and drops to her mouth, just for a second.

Fuck.

Because the second I look, I remember.

The taste of her. The little sounds she made. Her lean body wrapped around me.

I drag my focus back up to her eyes, forcing my expression into something controlled. Neutral. Like I didn’t just think about pinning her against the nearest wall.

“Rules make sense,” I add, my voice steadier now. “This only works if we’re clear about what it is—and what it isn’t.”

Even as I say it, I’m not entirely sure I believe that line myself.

“The only reason we’re doing this is Lily,” Zara says quietly. “So we have to make sure she doesn’t get hurt in the long run. What I want is to still be part of her life when all of this is over. Give her real consistency. Not just short-term, but long-term.”

For a second, I just look at her.

Because she says it like it’s a condition. Like she’s asking for permission.

And that doesn’t sit right with me at all. She’d be the one doing me a favor.

“I really appreciate you saying that,” I say. “And that’s what I want for her, too. The compensation would include an arrangement for after the divorce—for you to still be present in our lives.”

Her brows draw together slightly. “Jax, that isn’t necess—”

“It is absolutely necessary,” I cut in, my voice steady. “This has to be worth your time and effort. I’ll make sure it is.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you,” she says finally, a little reluctantly. “Then what about Lily? How much do we tell her?”

I exhale slowly. I’ve thought about that a lot.

“Enough to make it feel real,” I say. “Not enough to confuse her.”

Zara nods slowly.

“She’s smart,” she says. “She’ll pick up on things.”

“I know.”

“And I won’t lie to her,” she adds.

“Neither will I.”

“What about my nanny duties? I’d want to keep taking care of Lily, of course.”

I lean back slightly, considering it, then shake my head. “Yes, Lily would be your main focus. But I don’t want your role in this household to stay that of an employee.”

Her brows lift. “Even under these new circumstances, it would still be my job.”

“Right,” I admit. “But it shouldn’t feel like you’re on the clock. Or like your compensation depends in any way on how well you’re doing a job. What you’re being compensated for is marrying me, living with Lily and me during that time, divorcing amicably, and staying in our lives after. It’s not tied to anything else.”

She studies me carefully. “So what about the day-to-day?”

“You and I share the responsibility for Lily,” I say. “And we have Mrs. Henriksen to support us. She’ll keep handling things when we’re busy—helping with Lily, the apartment, meals, whatever we need. And if it becomes too much, we bring in more help.”

“More help?” she echoes.

“I’m serious,” I say. “Additional support. Cleaning, errands—anything that takes pressure off. I don’t want you stretched thin. This isn’t meant to add to your workload. It’ll be different. And better compensated.”

Silence settles again, but it’s no longer tense.

“You trust me?” she asks suddenly.

The question catches me off guard. But the answer doesn’t. “Yes.”

Her gaze holds mine. “Why?”

“Because you’ve earned it,” I say simply.

Something in her expression shifts.

Softens.

“And you?” I ask. “Do you trust me?”

She hesitates.

“I think I do.”

Not a yes. But not a no. And somehow, that feels more real.

“There’s another aspect to this you might not have considered.” I shift slightly, uncomfortable. This is the part I like least.

She tenses, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “Oh?”

“With my job comes a certain level of media attention and scrutiny. That’s just how it is. And for this to hold up in court, our relationship needs to be visible. Verifiable.”

Zara doesn’t look happy about it. Not even a little.

It’s sinking in now—this wouldn’t just be a signature on paper. Not some private agreement behind closed doors.

This would be public.

Her arms fold loosely over her middle, like she’s holding herself together.

“Media,” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

Her lips press together. “So this wouldn’t just be… us knowing.”

“No,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It has to hold up under scrutiny. Reporters. Photos. Questions. If it looks staged, it won’t help.”

“If it looks fake,” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

“Actually, tomorrow’s media day,” I add, because there’s no easy way to soften this. “If you’re still considering it… it would help if you came to the game. Maybe without Lily this first time. Just to show presence.”

Zara exhales slowly.

“Right,” she says.

But she doesn’t sound convinced.

Shit.

I push a hand through my hair, already feeling like I’ve overplayed my hand. “Look, I know that’s a lot. I just—”

“Stop,” she says quietly.

I stop.

“This is complicated. Messy. Completely outside anything I ever planned for my life.”

“I know.”

“And the media thing?” She huffs out a small, humorless laugh. “I hate that part. I really hate that part.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I figured.”

Her gaze lifts to mine. And then it stays there. Long enough that something in my chest starts to tighten.

“But,” she adds.

One word.

Everything in me locks onto it.

“But,” she repeats, slower now, like she’s testing it. “There’s also a six-year-old girl in the middle of all of this.”

My throat goes dry.

“And she deserves stability,” Zara continues. “She deserves someone who shows up. Someone who doesn’t cancel on her or make promises they don’t keep.”

I don’t interrupt.

“And you,” she says, softer now, “are already doing everything you can to give her that.”

Something in my chest pulls tight.

Zara’s voice steadies. “I see that. I saw it yesterday. I saw it today. I see it every day.”

Her words ring honest and true.

“So,” she says, drawing in a breath, like she’s about to jump off something high and irreversible, “if the question is whether I’d help you create that stability—”

My pulse pounds.

“I will.”

11

ZARA

Boundaries Obliterated

It’s game day, and it’s media day—but before we deal with any of that, we have something else to do.

And I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous about a conversation in my life.

Jaxon stands next to me in the living room, arms crossed, looking like he’s about to walk into a press conference instead of talk to a six-year-old.

“Your pacing is making me nervous,” I murmur.

He exhales, but there’s no real bite to it. “You’re not exactly calm either.”

Rude.

I smooth my sweaty hands over my jeans. “I’m perfectly calm.”

Before we can argue further, we hear the telltale thud of small feet running down the hallway.

Lily has been busy with Mrs. Henriksen, working on some secret dragon craft project in her room.

“Hey!” Lily calls, skidding into the room. “Can we watch something? Or—” she spots us both just standing there, “—why are you… standing?”

Jaxon and I exchange a look.

Here we go.

“Hey, bug,” he says, his voice shifting instantly, softer. “Come sit with us for a second, okay?”

She squints at him. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” we both say at the same time.

She narrows her eyes. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

I almost laugh.

“No trouble,” I reassure her. “We just want to talk to you about something.”

“Okay…” she says slowly, dragging out the word as she climbs onto the couch. “Is this about vegetables?”

“No,” Jaxon says.

“Good,” she mutters.

I sit beside her, Jaxon taking the other side, and suddenly this feels way too serious.

Lily looks between us. “You’re being weird.”

“Thank you for that feedback,” I say.

Jaxon clears his throat. “We just wanted to tell you about something that’s going to change a little bit.”

Her eyes widen immediately. “What kind of change?”

Jaxon glances at me, and I glance back.

Say it, I mouth.

He exhales.

“So,” he starts, then pauses. “Zara isn’t going to be your nanny anymore.”

Lily blinks.

Then—“What?” she says.

My stomach flips.

“But…” she frowns, looking at me. “Then who’s going to pick me up? And make pancakes? And—” she looks back at Jaxon, alarmed now, “—you can’t make pancakes!”

“I can make pancakes,” he protests weakly.

“You can’t—”

“Hey,” I cut in gently, touching her arm. “Hey. I’m still going to be here.”

She looks at me, confused. “But you just said you’re not my nanny.”

“I’m not,” I say. “But I’m still going to be part of your life. Every day.”

She frowns harder. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Jaxon leans forward slightly. “It will once we tell you the rest.”

“There’s more?” she asks.

“There’s more,” I confirm.

She crosses her arms. “Okay. I’m listening.”

Jaxon glances at me again. I nod.

“We’ve decided,” he says slowly, “that we’re going to get married.”

Silence follows.

Lily stares at him. Then at me. Then back at him.

“…What?” she says.

I let out a small breath. “We’re getting married.”

Her eyes widen.

“Wait… that means…” she trails off, thinking very hard.

Then she gasps.

“Does that mean Zara is my mom now?”

I choke. Actually choke.

Jaxon makes a strangled sound beside me.

“Okay,” I say quickly. “No. No, that’s not what that means.”

She frowns. “But married people are moms and dads.”

“Sometimes,” I say carefully. “But you already have a mom.”

“Oh,” she says.

“She’s someone who’s part of our family,” Jaxon adds, stepping in. “In a different way.”

Lily considers that. “So… like extra?” she asks.

I smile a little. “Yeah. Like extra.”

She nods slowly. “Okay. I like extra.”

Relief loosens something in my chest.

Then she looks at me again. “You’re still going to pick me up from school?”

“Yes.”

“And make pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“And help me with homework?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Lily says, satisfied.

Then—“Can I still call you Zara?” she asks.

My heart squeezes.

“Of course,” I say softly.

“Okay,” she says again.

And just like that, she’s off again, heading to spend the day with Mrs. Henriksen while Jaxon and I get ready.

***

The Metro Raptors arena is a cathedral of noise.

Mrs. Henriksen is at home with Lily, keeping her occupied while I’m here. That way, I can focus on my role for tonight and be fully present.

I’ve never been to a professional hockey game before—never had reason to—and the sheer scale of it hits me like a physical force.

Eighteen thousand fans pack into seats that climb toward the rafters, their energy vibrating through the concrete beneath my feet. The ice gleams under brutal lights, pristine and waiting.

"Zara?"

I startle at the sound of my name.

A woman in a crisp blazer approaches, tablet clutched like a shield, smile tight enough to crack. "I'm Simone Reed, team PR. We should discuss tonight's protocol."

Right. Protocol. Because nothing about this situation is remotely normal.

"Of course."

Simone guides me toward the family suite—a glassed-in box overlooking center ice—while rattling off instructions.

Don't engage with media. Stay visible but not attention-seeking. No photos with other team families that could be misconstrued.

And absolutely, under no circumstances, sit anywhere near Jaxon's ex-wife, who apparently has a habit of showing up to games she has no business attending.

"Wait." I stop walking. "She's here?"

"Section 112. With her fiancé." Simone's expression stays neutral, but her tone says everything. "Best to pretend you haven't noticed."

Pretend. Right. Because that's what this whole thing is—pretend. A carefully constructed performance designed to convince a judge that Jaxon Halberg is husband material.

Except nothing about the night at Mickey's has been pretend.

The memory ambushes me—cedar and exhaustion, his hands on my hips, the rough scrape of his voice in my ear. I shove it down hard enough to bruise.

"I understand," I say. "I can pretend."

Simone's smile thaws by approximately one degree. "You'll do fine."

I am not so sure.

***

The game is a blur of violence and grace.

Jaxon stands behind the bench in a charcoal suit, headset on, jaw carved from granite. He barks orders I can't hear over the crowd's roar, and his players respond like soldiers—precise, aggressive, utterly focused.

He’s entirely in his element, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

At the same time, something in me itches to unravel that control. To watch him come undone again.

God.

I can feel some moisture building between my legs.

Get it together.

When the Raptors score in the second period, the arena erupts, but Jaxon just nods once and makes a note on his clipboard.

Control. That is his whole existence. Control of the game, control of his team, control of every variable that can threaten what he's built.

What will it cost him to marry someone for convenience? To surrender even that much autonomy to circumstance?

My phone buzzes.

Danny:

Everything okay?

I haven’t told him about Jaxon and me yet. But he’s going to find out soon anyway, so I might as well tell him now.

Me:

At a hockey game…

Danny:

You? Hockey?

He sends a laughing-crying emoji.

Okay. Now’s the time.

Me:

Actually, you might see me in the media soon.

Danny:

What???!!! What are you talking about?

Me:

Yeah… I’m dating my boss. He’s the head coach here.

Danny:

WTF!

Me:

I know.

Danny:

And you’re telling me this now?

Me:

There’s more.

Danny:

Oh no. Tell me.

Me:

We’re getting married.

My phone starts ringing, but I decline Danny’s call and put it on silent. I’ll deal with that later.

For now, I turn my attention back to the ice.

The third period has started rough—two penalties in quick succession, the other team's power play clicking with dangerous efficiency.

Jaxon's shoulders climb toward his ears, tension visible even from three stories up.

Then someone scores. Not the Raptors.

The family suite falls silent.

I watch Jaxon's spine go rigid, watch him pull his headset off and say something sharp to his assistant coach, Nate. The players on the bench stare at their skates.

This is his world. High stakes, higher pressure, and a six-year-old girl waiting at home who thinks her daddy can fix anything.

The Raptors rally in the final minutes, tying the game with forty seconds left. When the buzzer sounds, Jaxon allows himself exactly three seconds of visible relief before his mask slams back into place.

I wonder if anyone else noticed the crack.

I slip away quickly in search of a bathroom.

Post-game chaos has swallowed everyone—players giving interviews, families posing with mascots, PR handlers orchestrating the whole circus with military precision.

I find the bathroom, take care of what I need to, then wander for a bit.

A hallway opens up, quieter, more secluded. At the end of it, a door marked Staff Only.

Privacy.

I need five minutes. Just enough to catch my breath, to process everything, to convince myself that agreeing to this wasn’t the most reckless decision of my life.

The lounge is small—a couch, a counter with coffee supplies, a window overlooking the service corridor. I lean against the wall and press my palms to my eyes.

What am I doing? Marrying a man I've known less than a week for money and stability, when two weeks ago I had him inside me against a Zamboni maintenance rack?

The door opens.

Jaxon fills the doorway, still in his suit, still wound tight as piano wire. His eyes find mine in the dim light, and something in the air shifts—sharp, electric.

He looks… dangerously good.

“Simone’s looking for you,” he says.

"I needed a minute."

"So did I." He steps inside, letting the door close behind him. The click of the latch sounds very loud.

"We should probably discuss the timeline. The wedding, I mean. My lawyer thinks sooner is better—"

"Jaxon."

"—and there's paperwork to consider, prenuptial agreements, obviously, though my attorney will handle—"

"Jaxon."

He stops talking.

I cross the space between us before I can second-guess myself, fisting my hands in his lapels and pulling his mouth down to mine.

The kiss ignites instantly. No careful build, no tentative exploration—just raw, desperate hunger that has been simmering since the moment I recognized him in his own kitchen.

His hands find my waist, yanking me closer, and I gasp against his lips as my back hits the wall.

"This is a terrible idea," he growls.

"I know."

"We just agreed on boundaries."

"I know."

His mouth traces down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point, and my head falls back against the wall. "We could get caught. Simone has people everywhere."

"Then you'd better make it fast."

Something shifts in him—control snapping, strategy abandoned.

He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me toward the counter. Coffee supplies scatter as he sets me down, stepping between my thighs, his hands pushing my skirt up my hips.

"Tell me to stop." His voice is gravel and smoke. "Tell me this is insane and we're risking everything."

"It is insane." I pull his shirt free of his waistband. "We're risking everything."

"And?"

I find his belt, fingers working the buckle. "And I've been thinking about this since I left that bar."

His exhale shudders against my collarbone. "Zara—"

"Stop talking."

He obeys.

His hands slide beneath my blouse, palms hot against my ribs, thumbs brushing the underwire of my bra.

I arch into the contact, already aching, already desperate. His suit jacket hits the floor. I yank his shirt open, buttons scattering, my nails raking down his chest.

"Christ." He hooks his fingers in my underwear, dragging them down my legs.

The cool air hits my exposed skin, but his hand follows immediately—fingers sliding through slick heat, finding my clit with devastating accuracy.

My moan echoes off the walls.

"Quiet." His breath is ragged. "Unless you want an audience."

I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. He strokes me in slow, deliberate circles, watching my face, learning exactly what makes me gasp and shiver.

When he slips two fingers inside me, my back bows off the counter.

"You're soaked." His voice drops to something dark and satisfied. "How long have you been this wet?"

"Since you—" I choke on the words as his thumb presses harder. "Since I saw you on the ice."

His laugh is rough. "Is that so? Or are you lying to me?"

"Fine. Since you walked into that kitchen and looked at me like—ah—like you wanted to devour me."

"I did." He withdraws his fingers, and I whimper at the loss. "I do."

The sound of his zipper is obscenely loud. I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his cock, feeling him pulse against my palm. Hard and thick and straining.

"Condom," I manage.

"Wallet." He doesn't stop touching me, fingers still teasing, as he retrieves it one-handed.

Watching him roll it on—quick, efficient, his jaw tight with restraint—sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

Then he is there, pressing against my entrance, and everything else ceases to exist.

"Look at me."

I meet his eyes as he pushes inside—one long, relentless stroke that fills me completely. The stretch burns and sings, and I hear myself make a sound that isn't quite human.

"God." His forehead drops to mine. "You feel—"

"Move. Please, move."

He does.

The counter is too hard, the angle almost too deep, and absolutely none of it matters.

Jaxon thrusts into me with the same intensity he brings to everything—controlled at first, then increasingly ragged as my nails score his shoulders.

I hook my ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper, chasing the friction that builds and builds until I can't breathe.

"That's it." His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. "Take it. Take all of it."

His other hand finds my clit again, rubbing in tight circles that match his rhythm. The pressure coils impossibly tight, edge approaching fast.

"I'm going to—"

"I know." He drives harder, faster. "Let me feel it."

I shatter.

The orgasm tears through me in waves, my body clenching around him, his name escaping on a broken cry. He swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing me through the aftershocks as his own rhythm stutters.

"Fuck—Zara—"

He buries himself deep and comes, shoulders shaking, a groan vibrating against my lips.

For a suspended moment, neither of us moves. Just breath and heartbeat and the distant roar of an arena emptying somewhere above us.

Then his phone buzzes.

Reality crashes back.

He pulls away slowly, disposing of the condom in a trash can, retrieving his jacket, fingers moving mechanically through buttons I'd destroyed.

"That was—" He stops. Starts again. "We should probably talk about—"

"Boundaries?" My laugh comes out unsteady. "I think we obliterated those about five minutes ago."

"This complicates things."

"Everything about this situation is complicated." I slide off the counter, smoothing my skirt with trembling hands. "But we still have a custody case to win, and we still need to convince a judge that this marriage is real."

His eyes search my face. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Before I can answer, his phone buzzes again. He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts from post-coital daze to immediate alarm.

"What?"

"Simone." He is already moving toward the door. "Apparently we're late to some family photo thing in the suite, and my ex's fiancé is making comments to reporters about 'hired help.'"

"Lovely."

We emerge into the corridor separately—him first, me thirty seconds later—but Simone finds us within minutes anyway, her expression suggesting she knows exactly what has happened and is professionally obligated to pretend otherwise.

The rest of the night blurs together. Photographs with sponsors, polite conversations with other coaches' wives, a mercifully brief encounter with Jaxon's ex across a crowded room.

Through all of it, I feel his gaze tracking me—heavy, complicated, impossible to ignore.

It isn't until we are in the car heading home that my phone buzzes with a tabloid alert.

RAPTORS COACH'S NEW NANNY: HIRED HELP OR SOMETHING MORE?

City Pulse Sports & Celebrity Desk

New York’s favorite hockey franchise is making headlines off the ice—and this time, it’s not about playoff standings.

Metro Raptors head coach Jaxon Halberg has been spotted with a mystery woman believed to be the live-in nanny for his six-year-old daughter. While the team has declined to comment, photos obtained by City Pulse suggest their relationship may extend beyond a standard employer-employee dynamic.

This image—captured in a restricted arena corridor—shows Halberg and the woman walking side by side. The pair appear relaxed, comfortable, and notably close, with Halberg’s hand hovering at the small of her back in a gesture that reads as far more personal than professional.

A TIMELINE THAT RAISES QUESTIONS

Sources confirm that the woman, identified only as “Zara,” was hired through a high-profile childcare agency just weeks ago. According to those familiar with the arrangement, she was brought in to provide stability for Halberg’s daughter during an ongoing custody dispute between Halberg and his ex-wife.

But observers are already pointing out the unusually fast evolution of her role.

“Most nannies don’t accompany coaches to the arena,” one team-adjacent source tells us. “And they definitely don’t look like that when they do.”

PROFESSIONAL OR PERSONAL?

Halberg, known for his disciplined, no-nonsense demeanor behind the bench, has kept his private life largely out of the spotlight—until now. Teammates have previously described him as intensely focused, with little room for distractions.

Which makes this development all the more intriguing.

“He’s different lately,” one anonymous source claims.

Whether that shift is due to a supportive presence at home—or something more—is the question everyone seems to be asking.

THE CUSTODY FACTOR

The timing of Zara’s arrival has also raised eyebrows given Halberg’s ongoing custody proceedings. Legal experts note that establishing a stable home environment can play a significant role in such cases.

“Optics matter,” says family law analyst Lauren Klein. “A consistent caregiver, a structured household—it all contributes to the overall picture presented to the court.”

Still, Klein cautions against jumping to conclusions.

“That doesn’t automatically imply anything inappropriate. But when personal and professional boundaries blur, it does invite scrutiny.”

WHAT’S NEXT?

Neither Halberg nor representatives for the Metro Raptors have responded to requests for comment.

As the Raptors push deeper into the season, one thing is clear: their head coach isn’t just under pressure on the ice.

He’s under a spotlight off it, too.

And whether Zara is simply hired help—or something more—remains to be seen.

But if these photos are anything to go by…

This story is just getting started.

The accompanying photo shows us from behind, walking through the arena corridor. Too close together. His hand hovering at my lower back.

"Well," I say flatly, "that didn't take long."

Jaxon's jaw tightens. In the glow of passing streetlights, he looks exactly like a man watching his carefully constructed plans unravel.

"My lawyer can—"

"It's fine." I turn off my phone. "We knew this would happen eventually."

"Not like this. Not before we had a chance to control the narrative."

I watch the city slide past the window, all those glittering lights and anonymous windows and lives being lived behind them.

Somewhere out there, a judge will soon decide whether Lily Halberg stays with her father or gets sent across the city to a mother who’s never even learned her favorite bedtime story.

"Then we control it now," I say. "The wedding. Make it soon, make it real, make it impossible to question."

"Zara—"

"I'm not backing out." I meet his eyes. "I said yes, and I meant it. Whatever comes next, we handle together."

The word lands between us with unexpected weight. Together. As if we are actually partners in this instead of two people making increasingly questionable decisions in supply closets.

His hand finds mine in the darkness between seats. Squeezes once.

"Together," he agrees.

Outside, the first tabloid headline of many is already going viral.

12

JAXON

As Friends

The headline burns across my phone screen like a brand.

Metro Raptors' New Coach Caught in Post-Game Tryst: Mystery Woman Identified as Live-In Nanny

Beneath it, a grainy photo. Zara's face half-turned toward me in the arena corridor, my hand at her lower back. The angle makes it look more intimate than it is. Or maybe exactly as intimate as it is.

I scroll down. More photos. Us leaving together. Her hair mussed in a way that tells its own story.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

The article continues—speculation about our living arrangement, questions about professionalism, a particularly cutting line about single fathers and their "household help."

Someone has done their research. They know Zara lives in my apartment. They know she'd started as Lily's nanny.

I call Simone, before my coffee finishes brewing.

"Already on it," she says instead of hello. "We're drafting a statement. Something about private lives staying private, commitment to the team, blah blah blah."

"That's not going to cut it." I move to the window, watching the city wake up seventeen stories below. "There's a custody hearing in a few weeks. My ex-wife's lawyers are going to have a field day."

Simone pauses. The silence stretches long enough that I know she is calculating angles, weighing options. "What exactly are we dealing with here, Jaxon? I need the full picture."

"She's not just the nanny anymore."

Another pause. "Define 'not just.'"

"We're getting married."

The sound Simone makes is somewhere between a laugh and a choke. "You're—I'm sorry, did you say married? To the woman the tabloids just caught you sneaking around with?"

"It's a legal arrangement. For the custody case."

"And the photos? The very much not-legal-arrangement photos?"

I don't answer. Can't, really.

Because what happened in that staff lounge isn’t about custody papers or court appearances. It’s about the way Zara looks at me. The way her skin feels under my fingers. The way she whispered together like she meant it.

"Jaxon." Simone's voice sharpens. "I need to know what I'm spinning here."

"Spin whatever you need to spin. Just keep Lily's name out of it."

"The daughter angle is actually—"

"Out of it, Simone."

She sighs. "Fine. But you're doing a press availability after practice today. Controlled questions, quick answers, we move on. And Jaxon? Maybe keep your hands to yourself until this blows over."

She hangs up before I can respond.

The apartment is quiet around me.

Lily has already left for school—Mrs. Henriksen has taken her early, before I'd even emerged from my bedroom. I'd heard them in the kitchen, Lily's chatter about her dragon cartoon mixing with the housekeeper's patient responses.

What I haven't heard is Zara.

She usually starts the mornings with Lily. Makes breakfast. Talks through the day's schedule while braiding my daughter's hair with a competence I can never manage. Her absence this morning sits wrong in my chest.

I find her in the living room, curled into the corner of the couch with her phone. She looks up when I enter.

Her expression is carefully neutral, but there’s tension in her shoulders.

"You saw," I say. Not a question.

"Hard to miss." She holds up her phone. The same article, same photos. "Danny texted me seven times before six AM. I think he's worried I've joined some kind of hockey cult."

"Who’s Danny?"

"My brother." She sets the phone down, face-up, like she can't quite stop looking at it. "He wants to know if I'm okay."

"Are you?"

The question lands between us. Zara meets my eyes, and I watch her consider lying. Consider giving me the easy answer, the professional response.

"I don't know," she says instead. "I've never been tabloid fodder before. It's... a lot."

I move to the opposite end of the couch, giving her space. “Simone’s handling it. She’s drafting a press statement. But since we have to move fast, it’ll include that we’re getting married. So we can expect more tabloid attention because of that. And if my experience with tabloids says anything, it won’t be kind.”

"Unless they don't." She pulls at a loose thread on her sweater. "Unless your ex-wife's lawyers decide to use this. Unless—"

"Hey." I lean forward. "That's not going to happen."

"You can't know that."

She is right. I can't.

But I'd spent the last five years fighting for Lily. Fighting to stay in her life when everything in the system seems designed to push fathers out.

Fighting to prove I can be enough—coach and parent, provider and presence. I'd learned that certainty is a luxury I can't afford, but action isn't.

"I know what I'm going to do about it," I say. "I'm going to go to practice. I'm going to coach my team. I'm going to come home tonight and read Lily her bedtime story. And tomorrow, I'm going to do it again. The lawyers, the press, the speculation—they can all go to hell. This is my life. Mine and Lily's."

I pause.

"And yours. If you still want it to be."

Zara's hand stops pulling at the thread. She looks at me—really looks, in that way she has that makes me feel stripped down to bone. "You're asking if I'm backing out."

"I'm asking if you're okay."

She uncurls from the couch, standing in one fluid motion. The morning light catches her hair, the same curls I'd tangled my fingers in less than twelve hours ago.

I make myself stay still. Make myself not reach for her.

“I’m okay, and I’m not backing out,” she says. “But Jaxon… this is already more complicated than I ever imagined.”

“I know.”

An email notification lights up my phone with Simone’s draft for a press statement.

I open it and read.

METRO RAPTORS HEAD COACH JAXON HALBERG ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT

New York, NY — The Metro Raptors organization confirms that Head Coach Jaxon Halberg is engaged to Zara Winslow.

Ms. Winslow has been a trusted presence in Coach Halberg’s personal life in recent weeks, and their relationship has developed privately. The couple has made the decision to move forward with their engagement with a shared focus on family, stability, and the well-being of Coach Halberg’s daughter, Lily.

Coach Halberg and Ms. Winslow are committed to building a supportive and grounded home environment and are approaching this next step with care and intention.

While Coach Halberg understands the public interest surrounding his role, he respectfully asks for privacy for his family during this time.

The Metro Raptors fully support Coach Halberg and remain confident in his leadership as the team continues its season.

I show it to Zara.

Her mouth curves, just slightly. “Then it’s out, at least. Go coach your hockey team, Halberg. I’ll hold down the fort.”

I make it as far as the door before I turn back. She’s still standing where I left her, arms crossed, watching me go.

“Zara.”

“Yeah?”

I clear my throat, shifting slightly. “Look, I—” I stop. Try again. “I didn’t say thank you properly.”

She blinks, her brows drawing together. “Oh, don’t worry about it.”

I hold her gaze. “Come to dinner with me tonight. As a thank you.”

Zara studies me, like she’s trying to read what I’m not saying.

“Dinner,” she repeats, testing the word for hidden meaning.

“Yeah.” And when it hits me what she might be worried about, I add quickly, “Not a date, I promise. Just… getting to know each other a bit better, you know, considering we’re getting married. And as a thank you, like I said.”

Something flickers across her expression, but I can’t quite place it.

“Not a date,” she clarifies.

“Right.”

“As a thank you.”

“Exactly.”

“Just dinner as… friends?”

Friends. I like the sound of that.

“As friends,” I agree.

Her lips twitch, just slightly. “Okay then.”

13

ZARA

Not a Date

Ichange my outfit three times.

Which is ridiculous.

This is not a date.

It’s dinner. A thank-you dinner. A completely reasonable, totally professional dinner between a man and a woman who are about to get married.

I try not to look too closely at the flicker of disappointment when Jaxon made it very clear this wasn’t a date—how he emphasized it, just to make sure I understood.

Like I might not be able to keep my hands to myself.

God.

I’ll show him I can.

I stare at my reflection, hands on my hips.

“Get it together,” I mutter.

The dress I’ve landed on is simple. Dark. Fitted without trying too hard. The kind of thing that says effortless, even though I’ve spent the last twenty minutes deciding between this and something softer. Something less… noticeable.

I smooth my hands down my sides.

Why do I care what he thinks?

I don’t. Obviously.

I grab my phone, then pause. Then turn back to the mirror and check my hair again.

“Okay, you care a little,” I admit under my breath.

A knock sounds on my door.

Perfect timing.

“Yeah?” I call, forcing my voice into something casual.

“Ready?” Jaxon’s voice carries through the wood.

My stomach does something traitorous.

“Yeah. Coming.”

I take one last look at myself, then open the door.

He’s standing in the hallway, one hand braced against the wall like he’s been there for a second. Waiting.

And then he looks up—and stops.

I can’t read his expression. Does he think the dress is too much? Does he think I look good?

I have no idea. And he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he pushes off the wall and offers me his hand.

I take it. Just because I’m wearing heels and might need help getting down the stairs with my dignity intact, of course.

His hand is dry and steady, completely enveloping mine.

Downstairs, he helps me into my coat. His fingers brush my shoulders as he settles it in place, the contact brief. Still, it sends a shiver up my spine.

Because I’m apparently a masochist, I ask, “So, just to make sure—this is not a date? I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.” 

The second the words are out, I want to take them back, because I can hear how hollow they sound.

Jaxon glances at me, something flickering in his eyes—curiosity, maybe. Or something sharper. 

“Right,” he confirms. “This is not a date.” 

I nod, like that settles something. Like that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.

“Good,” I say. “That would be awkward.”

“Right,” he agrees.

Outside, the city is alive—lights, movement, the low hum of everything continuing whether we’re ready for it or not.

He leads me toward the car, his hand briefly touching my back to guide me.

Once we’re in the car, I can’t help myself.

“But just hypothetically,” I say, picking the conversation back up—because apparently I enjoy making things worse for myself—“if this were a date… what’s your go-to move?”

His mouth twitches slightly. “My go-to move?”

“Yeah,” I say lightly. “You know. Your signature. The thing that makes women fall at your feet.”

He exhales a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You think I have one of those?”

I give him a look. “You’re rich, successful, and handsome. Don’t pretend you don’t have a system.”

“I don’t have a system,” he says.

I tilt my head, studying him. “Please.”

“I don’t.” His gaze flicks to me again, more focused now. “You seem very interested in this.”

“I’m making conversation,” I say quickly.

“Mm.”

“That’s what people do on not-dates,” I add.

“Right.”

There’s a beat. Then he says, quieter, “I don’t take a lot of women out.”

I blink. That’s not what I expected. At all.

“Really?” I ask skeptically.

“Really.”

I cross my arms, leaning back slightly. “I don’t believe you.”

He huffs out a breath. “I didn’t say none. I said not a lot.”

“Okay,” I concede. “These women you didn’t take out very often—did they usually make it to a second date?”

His grip shifts slightly on the steering wheel.

“Why does it matter?” he asks.

“It doesn’t,” I say immediately.

Lie. Lie. Lie.

I turn to the window again, but my mind is already running in a direction I don’t like.

I think of all the women he’s taken out. That he’s kissed. That he’s done other stuff with.

Apparently, you can be irrationally annoyed at a bunch of women you’ve never even met. 

I shift in my seat, fingers brushing absently over the fabric of my dress.

Finally, he answers with a sigh, like he’s already over this conversation. “There weren’t many second dates.”

That surprises me.

I glance at him again. “Your standards are that high?”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe you’re just difficult.”

“That too.”

A small smile tugs at my mouth despite everything.

“Good to know,” I murmur. “So I can be really glad this isn’t a date, huh?”

“Probably true.”

We arrive at the restaurant, and it’s fancier than I expected.

Low lighting. Polished surfaces.

The kind of place where people speak a little quieter without being told to.

I glance at him, uncertain, because everything about this screams “date” to me.

A hostess approaches, her smile brightening slightly when she recognizes him.

“Mr. Halberg. Your table is ready.”

I follow as we’re led deeper into the restaurant, aware of the subtle shift in attention around us.  People notice him. And by extension—they notice me.

Our table is tucked into a corner. Thankfully, some privacy. 

I slide into the booth, smoothing my dress automatically, while he takes the seat across from me.

For a second, we just look at each other.

“You didn’t tell me it would be like this,” I say.

I can tell he has no idea what I mean. “Like what?”

“Elegant?” I gesture around. “Upscale? Expensive? All of the above?”

He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. You deserve nice things. And I know how to treat my future wife.”

I nearly choke on my own spit.

But before I can make a bigger fool of myself, a waiter appears.

“Good evening. Can I start you with—”

He pauses, glancing between us, a faint knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“—a bottle of wine?”

We order one, and it arrives quickly. Thank God. This is exactly what my nerves need.

The waiter pours, then disappears again, leaving us alone in a dim, intimate pocket of the restaurant.

I take a sip, and the wine blooms across my tongue, rich with layers I can’t even name.

His mouth curves slightly as he watches me, saying nothing.

Which somehow makes me even more nervous. What am I supposed to talk about?

I study the menu like it’s a bomb-defusal manual until I settle on the pasta.

The problem is, once we’ve both ordered, the silence between us feels even heavier.

“So Lily told me you made a dragon potion today.”

I laugh, relieved we’ve found a safe topic. “Yeah. Juice, some raspberries, sparkling water, and edible glitter.”

We keep talking about her, but I still take more sips of the wine than I probably should.

By the time our food arrives, a soft warmth spreads through my chest, smoothing the sharp edges of everything I’ve been trying to keep under control.

Jaxon notices. A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Easy,” he says.

“I am easy.”

His brow lifts.

“Not like that,” I add quickly, internally cringing at myself.

His mouth twitches. “Good clarification.”

The wine is even better with the food. Honestly, it’s delicious.

The restaurant is beautiful, the food is unlike anything I’ve tasted before, and the company…

I’m not even sure what I was so nervous about. This is… easy. Relaxing.

Jaxon keeps looking at me, something warm in his eyes, a quiet smile playing at his mouth.

This grumpy man—smiling. At me.

“Were they pretty?” I ask out of nowhere.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“The women,” I clarify. “The not-many.”

He leans back slightly, studying me now. “Zara… is it possible you’re just a little bit jealous?”

“Jealous? Me?” My voice is full of outrage—convincing even to my own ears. “I just want to know what I’m up against.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I blink.

“Not competing,” I correct quickly. “Wrong word.”

His gaze sharpens.

“Interesting choice, though.”

“It was a slip.”

“Mm.”

“Because this isn’t a date.”

“Exactly.”

“We both know that. I know it, you know it. So there’s no room for confusion.”

Jaxon quietly signals for the check. I’m pretty sure he’s decided he doesn’t want to spend another second with this lunatic. Or he thinks I’ve had enough to drink.

We stand. I reach for my bag, misjudge the distance, and knock it against the edge of the table.

“Smooth,” I mutter.

Jaxon is already there, steadying it—and me—with a hand at my elbow. “Got you.”

His voice is softer now.

I glance up at him, closer than I expected. “Thanks.”

“Have you had too much?” he asks.

“No.”

A beat.

“…maybe a little.”

His mouth twitches.

“Come on,” he says, offering his arm.

I hesitate for a second, suspicious of what that might mean.

Then I slip my hand through his arm.

As we walk toward the car, my foot catches slightly, and I let out a surprised laugh as I stumble into him.

He tightens his grip instantly, his hand coming to my waist to steady me.

“Yeah,” he says dryly. “Maybe a little.”

We stand in front of the car for a moment, the city stretching out around us.

“This was nice,” I say finally.

“I thought it was very nice.”

I glance at him. “Very nice.”

There’s a beat. The kind that stretches just a little too long.

I’m still close. Closer than I need to be. My hand still curled around his arm, his hand still firm at my waist.

My fingers slide from his arm to the front of his jacket, curling lightly into the fabric. I can feel the warmth of him through it. The steady rise and fall of his chest.

My heart starts beating faster.

The rational part of my brain must be offline, because I act on instinct.

I push up on my toes and lean in, aiming for his mouth.

His hand comes up, catching my wrist gently before I can close the last inch between us.

“Hey,” he says, low and steady.

I blink, confused for a second, still halfway leaning into him.

“What?” I ask, like a complete idiot.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

I freeze. “Oh.”

He clears his throat. “It wasn’t even a date, Zara.”

His words hit like a cold shower, sobering me instantly.

Not too long ago, he had me up against a wall on media day. Today, he won’t even kiss me.

I guess a kiss after a romantic dinner means something—something real—while what happened at the arena was just another hookup to him.

God. What did I just do?

On the drive back, neither of us speaks, and we exchange an awkward goodnight when we reach the apartment. 

I lie awake for a while after that, replaying just how stupid I was.

14

JAXON

Expedited

The arena is already buzzing when I arrive.

Reporters cluster near the main entrance, cameras flashing as I walk past without comment. Security has doubled over the last few days—Simone’s doing, probably—and they form a corridor through the press scrum that gets me inside without incident. 

There’s so much going on—the headlines about Zara and me, the custody battle—but right now, the only thing I can think about is last night. My not-date with Zara.

The way she leaned in, so trusting, like she expected me to kiss her.

And I wanted to. God, did I want to.

But I knew, the moment we left the restaurant, that she wasn’t entirely herself. Not drunk, but definitely tipsy. She never would have acted that way completely sober.

Which means the moment wasn’t even real.

And I had to turn her down.

“She wasn’t sober,” I mutter under my breath as I enter the locker room.

My players are already suited up, moving through their pre-practice routines with focused energy.

Nate appears at my elbow as I head toward the ice. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Nate isn’t deterred by my brush-off. “I saw the headlines,” he says.

"Everyone's seen the headlines."

"Fair point." He falls into step beside me, clipboard in hand. "How are we handling it?"

"Simone has a plan. Press availability after practice, controlled Q&A, then we move on."

"I meant with the team."

Nate lowers his voice. "They're buzzing, Coach. Speculation, gossip—you know how locker rooms work. Some of these guys are worried about what a distracted head coach means for the season."

I stop walking. Turn to face him fully. "Am I distracted?"

Nate holds my gaze without flinching. One of the things I appreciate about him—he doesn't back down from hard conversations. "You tell me."

The honest answer is yes. The answer I give him is: "I've got it handled."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's what I'm giving you."

We stand there for a moment, the ice behind us already marked with practice lines, players warming up in loose circles. I can feel the weight of attention from every corner of the rink.

Jake Morrison catches my eye from across the ice.

The veteran captain gives me a subtle nod—acknowledgment, solidarity, the silent language of men who’ve weathered their share of media storms. I nod back.

"Neutral-zone regroups," I say finally. "Then power-play reps. I want Morrison leading the second unit today—his setup passes have been sloppy."

Nate scribbles on his clipboard. "And if someone asks about the photos?"

"They won't."

"But if they do?"

"Then they learn real quick that my personal life isn't up for team discussion." I grab a whistle from my belt. "Let's move."

Practice goes smoother than I expected for the first hour.

The drills I'd planned are demanding enough to keep everyone focused, bodies too tired for gossip.

I push them through neutral-zone transitions until their legs burn, then shift to penalty-kill situations that require the kind of mental sharpness that leaves no room for wandering thoughts.

My own included.

But somewhere around the power-play reps, I catch myself watching the stands. The glass. The corridors beyond where press still lingers despite security. Looking for cameras. For reporters sneaking shots through the barriers.

Looking for threats.

Kowalski, one of the younger defensemen, fumbles a breakout pass for the third time in a row. He curses under his breath, stick slapping the ice in frustration.

I skate over before I've consciously decided to move.

"Hey." I stop beside him, keeping my voice low. "You're anticipating the hit that's not coming. Your eyes are in the wrong place."

"Sorry, Coach. I know it's sloppy, I just—" He shakes his head. "Lots of cameras today."

I look at him. Twenty-two years old, barely one season under his belt, still convinced every mistake will end his career. I remember that feeling. Sometimes I still feel it.

"Breathe," I say. "Keep your head up. Watch the slot, not the glass."

He blinks. "That's it?"

"That's it. You're good at this. Trust that."

I skate away before he can respond, but I catch Nate's raised eyebrow from the bench. He has heard. He has noticed. Later, probably, he'll make some comment about me going soft.

Maybe I am.

Maybe having Zara in my house—Zara in my life—has shifted something I don't fully understand yet.

Midway through the second power-play set, my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket on the bench. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again. And again.

"Coach?" Nate's voice cuts through my focus. "That's the third time."

I pull the phone out. Three missed calls from my lawyer. A text message that just says:

Call me immediately.

The ice feels very far away suddenly. The sounds of practice—skates carving, pucks striking boards, players shouting—fade to white noise.

"Take over," I tell Nate. "Run the five-on-four until I'm back."

I am already moving toward the tunnel before he can answer.

My lawyer picks up on the first ring. "Jaxon. We have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"Your ex-wife's legal team filed a motion this morning. They're citing the tabloid coverage as evidence of an unstable home environment."

I stop walking. The tunnel stretches ahead of me, cold and empty.

"They can't do that. The photos don't show—"

"They show a man caught in a 'tryst' with his daughter's caretaker. Their words, not mine." His voice is clipped, professional, but I can hear the tension underneath. "They're requesting an expedited review of the custody arrangement."

"Expedited meaning—"

"Meaning the hearing that was six weeks out is now potentially three weeks. Maybe sooner, depending on the judge."

The walls close in. I make myself breathe, the way I told Kowalski to breathe just minutes ago. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Control what you can control.

"What do we do?"

"We counter-file. Document the stability of your home, the quality of care Lily receives, the consistency of your presence in her life." A pause. "The marriage would help. Significantly."

"It's happening. Soon."

"How soon?"

I think of Zara sitting across from me last night. Of the way she is with Lily, the way my daughter’s face lights up whenever she walks into a room.

"As soon as I can make it happen," I say.

I end the call and stand there in the tunnel, phone gripped in my hand, the weight of everything pressing down.

The custody battle I need to win. The media exposure I can't control. The woman in my house who has somehow become the center of all of it.

When I walk back to the ice, Nate takes one look at my face and calls for water break without being asked.

Practice ends badly.

Two more botched plays, a near-injury during a board drill, general sloppiness that would have been unacceptable on a normal day.

I keep it together long enough to run through film notes with the assistants, handle the press availability with monosyllabic non-answers that make Simone wince, and escape to my car before anyone can ask follow-up questions.

The drive home takes longer than usual. Rush hour traffic, construction on Seventh, a fender-bender that backs up three blocks.

I sit in the gridlock and think about Lily. About whether she'd heard anything at school. Kids are cruel, and the internet moves fast.

By the time I park in the garage, my shoulders ache from tension. My jaw aches from clenching. The elevator ride to our floor feels endless.

But when I open the door—

Zara's voice, humming something soft and low, drifts from the living room. I follow it around the corner and stop.

She is on her knees by the bookshelf, arranging Lily's collection of picture books by color. My daughter sits beside her, chattering about dragons, holding up a particularly battered copy of her favorite.

"This one has the fire-breathing song," Lily announces. "You said maybe you can learn the words."

"I say I'd try," Zara corrects, smiling. "No promises about hitting the notes."

They haven't noticed me yet. I let myself watch—the easy way Zara listens to Lily's rambling, the patience in her hands as she straightens spines and adjusts placement.

The scene is so domestic, so normal, that the chaos of the day feels suddenly distant.

Then Lily spots me.

"Daddy!" She launches herself across the room, crashing into my legs with the force of a small, determined rocket.

"Zara and me organized the books! And we made snacks! And she taught me a word in sign language!"

I crouch down to her level, pulling her into a hug that probably lasts too long. She squirms, giggling, and I let her go.

"What word?"

Lily hooks her two index fingers together. “Friend,” she says proudly.

Over her head, my eyes meet Zara's. She has risen from the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching us with an expression I can't quite read.

"Sounds like a good day," I say.

"The best." Lily tugs my hand. "Come see the books! Zara put all the blue ones together!"

She pulls me toward the shelf, and I go. Let her show me the organizational system she and Zara have developed, listen to her explain which dragons are the best and why.

The whole time, I am aware of Zara behind us. Her presence, steady and warm.

When Lily finally runs out of steam and heads to the kitchen for juice, Zara moves closer. Our shoulders nearly touch.

"The lawyer called," I say quietly.

"I figured." She doesn't look at me. "Your face, when you came in. Something shifted."

“Expedited hearing. Three weeks—maybe sooner.”

Her breath catches. Barely audible, but I hear it. "What does that mean?"

"It means we need to move faster." I turn to face her. Close. Too close, probably. "The marriage. The—everything."

Zara's eyes search my face. Looking for something. I don't know if she finds it.

"Jaxon—"

"Daddy!" Lily's voice interrupts from the kitchen. "The juice box is stuck!"

I don't move. Neither does Zara.

"We should talk," she says. "Tonight. After—"

"After." I nod. "Yeah."

My phone rings. The lawyer again, probably. Or Simone. Or one of a dozen other people who want pieces of me I don't have to give.

Zara's fingers brush mine as she steps past me toward the kitchen. A touch so light it might have been accidental.

15

ZARA

Developing Situation

The phone rings at six in the morning.

Not my alarm—the actual ring, the one that means someone needs something urgently enough to ignore basic human decency about sleep schedules.

I grab it off the nightstand, squinting at the screen. Unknown number with a local area code.

"Hello?"

"Zara? This is Simone Reed, PR director for the Metro Raptors." Her voice is clipped, professional, and wide awake. "I apologize for the early hour, but we have a developing situation."

I sit up, pushing my hair out of my face. The guest room—my room now, I suppose—is still dark, the city lights filtering through the blinds in thin strips. "What kind of situation?"

"A sports blogger has been asking questions about your relationship with Coach Halberg. Nothing's been published yet, but we're monitoring it closely. I wanted to give you advance notice."

My stomach drops. The scandal from the arena has barely settled, and now this. "What kind of questions?"

"Background checks. Employment history. Whether your arrangement is legitimate."

Simone pauses. "I've already briefed Jaxon. We'll handle this from our end, but you should be prepared for potential media approaches. Don't engage with anyone claiming to be press without clearing it through me first."

I rub my eyes. "Understood."

"And Zara? The family day event at the arena this afternoon—it would be beneficial if you attend with Lily. Show a unified front."

After she hangs up, I stare at the ceiling for a long moment.

The custody hearing looming, lawyers circling, now reporters digging into my past. Three weeks ago, my biggest worry had been whether the Henderson twins would finally stop putting crayons in the microwave.

I get up and start my morning routine. Coffee first—always coffee first.

The apartment is quiet, Lily still asleep, and I move through the kitchen with the familiarity that comes from repetition. Same mug, same spot by the window where the light hits just right.

My phone buzzes.

Danny:

Saw your name trending. You okay?

I type back.

Me:

Define okay.

Danny:

Not crying in a bathroom?

Me:

Not yet. Day's young.

Danny:

Call me if you need to. Love you.

I touch the silver heart pendant at my throat—his gift, ten years old now and still the most valuable thing I own.

Me:

Love you too.

By the time Lily stumbles into the kitchen in her dragon pajamas, I have pancakes ready and my game face on.

"Zara!" She climbs onto her stool at the counter, still half-asleep. "Are we doing something fun today?"

"Actually, yes." I slide a plate in front of her, the pancake shaped vaguely like a star. "Your dad's team is having a family day at the arena. Ice skating, games, probably too much sugar."

Her eyes go wide. "Real ice skating? Like Daddy does?"

"Well, hopefully with fewer people trying to knock you down."

She giggles, and something in my chest loosens.

Whatever chaos swirls around the adults in this situation, Lily remains the center of it all. The reason I'd agreed to any of this in the first place.

We spend the morning getting ready—hair braided, warm clothes layered, skates borrowed from a closet that seems to contain every piece of hockey equipment ever manufactured.

Lily chatters the whole time about her friend Maria's hamster and whether dragons can ice skate and why the color purple is objectively the best color.

I listen, ask questions, make appropriate sounds of wonder at her six-year-old logic.

This part comes easy. Kids are predictable in the best way—they want attention, consistency, and someone who takes their concerns seriously. I'd been giving that for a decade.

It’s the adult stuff that makes me want to hide under a blanket.

I still cringe when I think about the moment I leaned in to kiss Jaxon.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And then he said the worst possible thing: “It wasn’t even a date, Zara.”

Now, as Lily and I enter the arena for family day, I try to push everything else out of my mind and just be present.

I immediately notice how transformed the arena is.

Gone is the serious, high-stakes atmosphere of game night. In its place: streamers, music echoing off the high ceilings, and what looks like half the team’s families milling around on the ice and in the surrounding areas.

Lily grips my hand as we navigate through the crowd. "There's Daddy!"

Jaxon stands near the boards, clipboard in hand, talking with Nate.

He’s in jeans and a Raptors hoodie instead of his usual game-day suit, and the casual look does something annoying to my pulse.

When he spots us, his expression shifts—still guarded, still careful, but something warmer underneath.

"There's my girl." He crouches down as Lily runs to him, scooping her up. "Ready to show everyone your moves?"

"I don't have moves yet," she says seriously. "Zara says we have to learn them first."

"Smart woman." His eyes meet mine over Lily's head. "Thanks for bringing her."

"Simone said it was important."

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Yeah. She mentioned the call."

Before we can say more, a woman approaches with a warm smile and an extended hand. "You must be Zara. I'm Talia Morrison—Jake's wife."

I recognize the name from Jaxon's roster rundowns.

Jake Morrison, veteran captain, the steady presence that keeps the team grounded.

His wife is young, beautiful, with sharp eyes that miss nothing.

"Nice to meet you." I shake her hand. "Lily's been talking about this all morning."

"The kids go crazy for family day. There's a whole obstacle course set up on the auxiliary rink."

Talia glances at Lily, who is already squirming to get down. "Want me to take her over there while you get settled?"

Lily looks at me for permission. I nod. "Go have fun. I'll come find you."

As Talia leads her away, chattering about which station has the best hot chocolate, I become acutely aware of being left alone in enemy territory.

Not enemy, exactly. But unfamiliar. Exposed.

"Come on." Jaxon's hand brushes my lower back—the same spot from before, the gesture that has become something of a signature. "I'll introduce you to some people."

The next hour is a masterclass in subtle interrogation disguised as friendly conversation.

Wives and girlfriends of players approach with bright smiles and questions that are just pointed enough to feel like tests.

"So you two are dating? How did you meet?"

"Jaxon mentioned you just moved here. Big adjustment?"

"Lily seems attached already. Kids can be such good judges of character."

I answer each one carefully—yes, we met at a bar; yes, huge adjustment; yes, Lily is wonderful. The truth, just not the whole truth.

Jake Morrison's wife reappears halfway through, falling into step beside me as we watch the kids race around the obstacle course. "You're handling this well."

"The questions?"

“The whole thing.” Talia sips her coffee. “This world isn’t easy to navigate. There’s politics, scrutiny… People either crumble under it or turn into someone else.”

“Which one are you?”

She laughs. “I was the former coach’s daughter. Avoided hockey like the plague. Then I met Jake.” She shrugs, a smile tugging at her lips. “Now I love it.”

Her gaze drifts to where Jaxon stands with Jake and a few other players. "He's different with you around. Looser. The guys have noticed."

I don't know what to do with that information, so I file it away and change the subject. "Lily's killing it out there."

"She's got good balance. Must come from somewhere."

We watch as Lily attempts to skate between two cones, wobbles dramatically, and recovers with a triumphant whoop.

My chest aches with something I refuse to name.

After the ice time, everyone migrates to the players' lounge for refreshments.

The space is comfortable—leather couches, a well-stocked snack bar, windows overlooking the empty main rink.

Lily has found a group of other kids and is deeply invested in some game involving toy pucks and imagination.

I settle into a corner with my coffee, content to observe, but Jaxon drops onto the couch beside me.

"You survived."

"Did I pass?"

"With flying colors, according to Talia." He stretches his legs out, and his knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves. "She said you were 'refreshingly genuine.' Her exact words."

"High praise from the queen of hockey wives?"

"She's not—" He catches my smirk and shakes his head. "Yeah, okay. She basically runs the whole WAG infrastructure. If she approves of you, everyone else follows."

I watch Lily across the room, her laughter carrying over the ambient noise. "She's happy here."

"She is." Jaxon's voice softens. "Happier than she's been in a while."

There is weight in those words—history I don't fully know, pain he keeps locked away. I think about Simone's call, about the hearing, about all the ways this could fall apart.

"Can I ask you something?" I keep my eyes on Lily.

"Yeah."

“How did you and your ex-wife end things?”

I feel him go still beside me.

For a second, I think he might not answer.

Then he exhales slowly.

“It wasn’t one moment,” he says. “It was… a lot of small ones that added up.”

That makes sense.

It always is, isn’t it?

“We were never really steady,” he continues. “It was intense. Good, when it was good. But everything felt like it could tip over at any second. And it got worse when Lily was born.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“She struggled,” he says. “Didn’t put it like that, but it was obvious. The responsibility. The routine. Looking back, I think she might’ve had undiagnosed postpartum depression. She never got the help she needed.”

“That sounds hard,” I say quietly.

I don’t miss the way his gaze flicks to Lily before he continues.

“There was a night when Lily was three,” he says. “We fought. Nothing new. But this time… she left. Spent the night with some guy she met at a bar.”

My stomach tightens.

“It was over after that,” he goes on. “She walked out, said she wasn’t cut out for motherhood. And honestly, I was relieved. But for Lily, it was hard. She loves her mom. And she’s been let down by her more than once.”

He drags a hand through his hair.

“I spent the next year rebuilding everything. Our routines. Her trust. My sanity.” His voice hardens slightly. “That’s why I get so angry about what she’s doing now. New fiancé with money, new perspective on what she wants—suddenly she’s going for Mom of the Year and trying to take my daughter from me?” He shakes his head. “No way.”

His gaze drops, then lifts again.

“I want her in Lily’s life,” he adds, quieter now. “Of course I do. But I also want to protect Lily from getting hurt again.”

"Jaxon." I wait until he looks at me. "When I was fourteen, my parents divorced. Ugly, bitter, the kind where lawyers practically move in with you. My mom worked doubles to pay for it all, and I became a parent to my brother overnight."

I touch my pendant again. "Danny was six. Same age as Lily. I know what it costs a kid to be caught in the middle."

His expression shifts—something cracking open behind his eyes. "I didn't know that."

"Not something I advertise." I shrug. "But it's why I do what I do. Why I agreed to this. Kids deserve stability, even when the adults around them can't manage it."

He is watching me differently now. Not guarded. Not careful. Just... seeing.

"I started coaching because I wanted to matter," he says quietly. "To make something that will last. But somewhere along the way, it became about proving I am not my own father." He lets out a breath. "He was in and out of my life until I was ten, then just out. Foster homes after that. I swear Lily will never feel that uncertainty."

"She won't." I say it with more certainty than I feel. "Whatever happens with the courts, she knows you're there. She talks about you constantly. 'Daddy does this, Daddy says that.' You're not a ghost to her."

Across the room, Lily looks up and waves at us, grinning. We both wave back.

"There's a charity gala next week," Jaxon says, still watching his daughter. "Black tie, major donors, press coverage. Simone thinks we should attend together."

I stiffen. "Together together?"

"As a couple. Publicly." He finally looks at me. "I know it's a lot. It's not just showing up—it's cameras, questions, performing for people who'll pick apart every detail."

My instinct is to run. I'd spent my career invisible, valuable precisely because I fade into the background of other people's lives.

Stepping into spotlights, onto red carpets, into the scrutiny of people looking for weaknesses—that is the opposite of everything I've built.

But I think about Lily. About the hearing. About Jaxon's face when he talks about foster homes and absent fathers.

"Okay."

He blinks. "Okay?"

"I'll need something to wear." I manage a smile. "And probably a crash course in small talk with billionaires."

"Zara—"

"This is what we agreed to, right? Whatever it takes." I stand, brushing off my jeans. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised Lily I'd help her build a pillow fort in the kids' area."

I walk away before he can respond, before I can think too hard about what I've just committed to.

The gala will push me so far outside my comfort zone I'll need a map to find my way back.

But as I kneel beside Lily and start stacking cushions according to her exacting specifications, I catch Jaxon watching us.

Something has shifted between us today—not just attraction or convenience, but understanding. The kind that comes from showing someone the parts of yourself you usually keep hidden.

It should have scared me more than it does.

Later, as the event winds down and families start leaving, Jaxon finds us in the pillow fort. Lily has fallen asleep against my shoulder, worn out from the excitement.

"I've got her." He lifts her carefully, and she mumbles something about dragons before settling against his chest.

We walk to the car in comfortable silence, Lily snoring softly between us.

The day has been a test, and somehow I've passed. But the gala looms ahead—a bigger test, with higher stakes.

"You didn't have to say yes," Jaxon says as he buckles Lily into her car seat.

"I know."

He straightens, standing too close in the parking garage's dim light. "Why did you?"

I think about lying. About giving him some practical answer about contracts and agreements. But after everything we've shared today, that feels wrong.

"Because you asked. Because it matters." I climb into the passenger seat before I can say anything else. "Now take us home, Coach. Your daughter needs her bed."

He rounds the car, and as he slides behind the wheel, I see the ghost of a smile on his face.

Home. I'd called it home.

And the scariest part is how right that has felt.

16

JAXON

Just a Marriage of Convenience

The city skyline stretches out beneath the balcony like a promise I am not sure I can keep.

Dawn creeps across the glass towers, painting them gold and copper, while I stand there with coffee growing cold in my hands.

Three hours until practice. Twelve hours until the gala.

And somewhere between those markers, I have to figure out how to maintain a facade that is becoming harder to distinguish from reality.

Lily's laughter drifts up from inside—that bright, unguarded sound that makes every complicated decision feel worth it.

Zara's voice follows, warm and patient, coaxing my daughter through what sounds like a debate about breakfast options.

I press my thumb against the ring finger where a band will soon sit. The nervous tic has appeared since we agreed to this arrangement.

Marriage of convenience.

The words taste bitter, clinical, nothing like the heat that sparks whenever Zara walks into a room.

The sliding door opens behind me.

"You're brooding." Zara steps onto the balcony, arms crossed against the morning chill.

Her hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the ends in a way that makes my chest tight. "I can see the storm clouds forming from inside."

"Strategizing."

"Same thing, with you." She moves to stand beside me, close enough that I catch her scent—something soft, floral, completely at odds with the steel in her spine.

"Lily wants waffles. I told her we'd check with you first since Mrs. Henriksen mentioned the new syrup situation."

The syrup situation. My daughter discovered maple syrup three weeks ago and now attempts to drown everything in it, including eggs.

"Moderation," I say. "Two squares, normal amount."

Zara's lips curve. "I'll negotiate."

She turns to go, and I speak before thinking. "The gala tonight. Are you—"

"Ready?" She glances back, one eyebrow raised. "I've survived diaper explosions, toddler tantrums in grocery stores, and a four-year-old who decided to cut her own hair with safety scissors. I can handle a charity event."

"That's not what I meant."

The humor fades from her expression, replaced by something more guarded. "I know what you meant. And yes, I'm ready. This is what we agreed to."

She disappears inside before I can respond, leaving me alone with the growing light and the weight of what we set in motion.

***

The arena hits differently when my head is not in it.

Skates carve into ice. Sticks crack against pucks.

The familiar symphony of practice should center me, but instead, I keep drifting—thinking about Zara's face when I proposed this insane plan, the way she finally agreed without flinching, like she understood exactly what is at stake.

"Coach."

Jake Morrison's voice cuts through the fog.

I blink, realize I have been staring at the same spot on the boards for thirty seconds while the team runs drills around me.

"Morrison."

The veteran captain glides closer, stopping just outside casual conversation distance.

He has that look on his face—the one that says he is about to offer wisdom I probably need and definitely do not want.

"You're somewhere else today."

Not a question. Jake spent fifteen years reading opponents on the ice; reading his coach is not much harder.

"Personal stuff." I keep my voice flat. "Nothing that affects the team."

"Didn't say it did." He shrugs, adjusting his gloves. "Just noticed the younger guys picking up on it. Rodriguez asked me if you were sick."

Damn it. The last thing I need is my focus issues bleeding into team morale.

"I'll tighten up."

Jake nods slowly, like he is weighing his next words. "Talia mentioned meeting Zara at the family event. Said she's good people."

The observation lands with more weight than it should have. Jake is not prone to idle comments.

"She is."

“Having someone in your corner helps.” He holds my gaze. “Before I found Talia, I tried to handle everything on my own. Never rely on anyone, you know. But it wasn’t good for me. Talia basically had to force me to accept help.”

I am not sure if he is talking about the custody battle, the coaching pressures, or the increasingly complicated thing between me and Zara. Maybe all three.

"Point taken."

Jake pushes off, skating backward with the ease of someone who has spent more time on ice than solid ground.

"For what it's worth, Coach—you don't have to figure everything out alone. That's what teammates are for."

He rejoins the drill before I can respond.

I watch the players cycle through the formation, forcing myself to track individual positioning, stick angles, the small adjustments that make the difference between good and great.

Rhys is overcompensating on his left turns. Declan keeps dropping his shoulder before the shot. Normal issues, fixable things.

But my eyes keep drifting to the empty seats beyond the glass, thinking about how Zara will look tonight, standing beside me while cameras flash and questions probe.

Nate appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. "You good?"

"Fine."

"Liar." He does not bother sugarcoating it. That is one of the things I value about my assistant coach—no bullshit, even when I am the one shoveling it.

"You've been watching the same line for ten minutes. They're starting to get paranoid."

"Tell them paranoia builds character."

Nate snorts. "Tell them yourself. After you actually look at the penalty kill we're supposed to be reviewing."

He shoves the clipboard into my hands.

Play diagrams, positioning notes, the technical language of hockey strategy.

I stare at them while my brain tries to process anything beyond the image of Zara descending a staircase.

"The gala tonight," Nate says quietly, pitching his voice beneath the ambient noise. "You ready?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, actually. Because if you walk in there looking like you're facing a firing squad, every photographer in the place is gonna catch it."

He taps the clipboard. "Same principle as game face. Whatever's going on in your head, you bury it. Present the image you need them to see."

Sound advice. The same advice I’ve given players a hundred times.

"When'd you get so smart?"

"Born this way. You just never listen." Nate claps my shoulder. "Take five. Get your head right. I'll run them through the next sequence."

I do not argue.

Just hand back the clipboard and walk toward the tunnel, needing a moment away from the ice.

The locker room is empty, thank God. I sit on the bench, elbows on knees, staring at nothing while I try to sort through the chaos in my skull.

The custody hearing has been moved up. Rachel's lawyers are circling, smelling blood in the water after the scandal hit.

Every move I make is being scrutinized, analyzed, weaponized against my right to raise my own daughter.

And then there is Zara.

I close my eyes, letting myself remember.

Her back arched against that storage room wall.

The sounds she made when I touched her.

The way she looked at me afterward—not with regret, not with expectation, just a kind of stunned honesty that mirrors what I am feeling.

That first night, before I knew who she was, I let myself want something without calculating the consequences.

Now every moment with her comes loaded with implications.

The marriage is supposed to be strategy. Clean, simple, mutually beneficial.

Instead, I find myself watching her when she is not looking, cataloging small details—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the specific rhythm of her laugh when Lily says something ridiculous, the softness in her voice.

This is not the plan.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting Nate or Simone.

But it’s from my ex-wife.

Rachel:

I’ve got people looking into this. If you’re hiding something, they’ll find it.

Another message comes in from an unknown number.

We should talk about your new arrangement. I have questions. - Elena Vance, Sports Illustrated

I delete it without responding.

Another buzz. Same number.

Your ex-wife's team has been forthcoming. Your silence speaks volumes.

I type a response—something sharp about harassment and legal consequences—then delete that too.

Engaging will only fuel the fire.

The door opens. Jake sticks his head in, spots me, and enters without invitation.

"Nate said you needed a minute." He sits down on the opposite bench, stretching out his legs. "Figured I'd provide moral support."

"By ignoring my obvious desire for solitude?"

"Exactly." He grins, that easy captain's smile that has defused a thousand locker room tensions.

"What's the real issue? And don't say nothing, because I've seen nothing, and this isn't it."

I consider lying. Deflecting. The same strategies I use for years to keep people at arm's length.

“Everyone’s digging for dirt. My ex-wife will be all over this.”

Jake's expression does not change, but something shifts behind his eyes. "Looking into what?"

"Everything. My relationship with Zara. Her background. Whether we're legitimate or just putting on a show for the court."

"And are you?"

The question hangs there, simple and devastating.

"I don't know anymore." The admission surprises me as much as it probably surprises him. "It started practical. But..."

"But it's not staying that way."

I do not confirm. Do not need to.

Jake is quiet for a long moment, then nods like he has reached some internal conclusion. "My advice? Stop fighting it."

"Fighting what?"

"Whatever's happening between you two." He stands, brushing off his practice jersey.

"You're not the type to do things halfway, Halberg. If you're in this, be in it. The pretending is gonna crack under pressure anyway—might as well make it real."

He leaves before I can argue.

Not that I have a good counter.

I make it through the rest of practice on autopilot, running drills and offering corrections while my brain processes Jake's words.

Stop fighting it.

Simple advice, impossible to follow.

The drive home feels longer than usual, city traffic crawling while I rehearse what I will say to Zara.

Something professional.

Something that maintains appropriate boundaries while acknowledging that those boundaries have already been obliterated twice over.

I walk through the door to find Lily on the couch, wrapped in her dragon blanket, watching the cartoon with singing dragons that she has been obsessed with for weeks.

Zara sits beside her, reading something on her phone, but she looks up when I enter.

"Daddy!" Lily bounces off the couch, launching herself at my legs with the force of a small hurricane.

I catch her, swinging her up while she giggles. "Zara made the best waffles. I only put a little syrup."

"A little?"

"Medium," Zara corrects, rising. "We negotiated."

Our eyes meet over Lily's head.

Something electric passes between us, that same current that’s been building since the moment I walked into my kitchen and found her there—upending everything I thought I knew about my life.

"Daddy, are you going to a party tonight?"

"A gala," I say. "For charity."

"Can I come?"

"Not this time, bug." I set her down, crouching to her level. "But Mrs. Henriksen is going to stay with you, and Zara said you can stay up thirty minutes past bedtime."

Lily's face lights up like I have promised her a pony. "Really?"

I glance at Zara, who is fighting a smile. "Apparently that was also part of the negotiations."

"She drives a hard bargain." Zara shrugs. "Gets it from her dad."

Lily tugs at my hand. "Zara's gonna look so pretty. She showed me the dress."

My chest tightens. "Did she?"

"It's purple. Like the dragon in my show."

"Violet," Zara says quickly, a flush creeping up her cheeks. "And someone wasn't supposed to share that detail."

Lily claps a hand over her mouth, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oops."

I watch Zara watching my daughter, and something clicks into place.

The way she cares for Lily is not performance. Is not obligation. It is real, bone-deep, the kind of nurturing that cannot be faked.

"Why don't you finish your show, bug," I say. "I need to talk to Zara for a minute."

Lily bounces back to the couch without argument, already absorbed in the cartoon.

I lead Zara into the kitchen, far enough to have a conversation without little ears catching every word.

“My ex has people digging into us,” I say without preamble. “Everything—our relationship, your background, whether this marriage is legit.”

Zara's expression flickers but holds steady. "I figured as much. Simone mentioned a blogger asking questions."

"This is different. This is professional, funded by Rachel's venture capital fiancé. They're going to look under every rock."

"And what will they find?"

The question is not defensive. Just... honest. Like she genuinely wants to know what I am worried about.

"I don't know." I run a hand through my hair. "That's the problem. Every time I think I've got this figured out, something shifts."

She is quiet for a moment, studying me with those gray eyes that see too much. Then she takes a step closer, closing distance I had not realized I needed closed.

"What do you want them to find, Jaxon?"

Something in her voice stops me short.

"What do you mean?"

"When they dig. When they interview people. When they try to prove this relationship is fake."

She holds my gaze. "What do you want the truth to be?"

I cannot answer. Because the truth is that I want her, and wanting her complicates everything.

"I want to keep my daughter," I say instead. "That's what matters."

Something flickers across Zara's face—disappointment, maybe, or resignation.

She steps back, and the loss of her proximity hits harder than it should have.

"Then we make sure that happens." Her voice is steady again, professional. "Tonight, we present a united front. We look in love, act in love, give them nothing to use against us."

"And after?"

She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. "After, we figure out what comes next."

The conversation is over. She walks back toward the living room, leaving me alone in my kitchen, wondering how I have managed to say exactly the wrong thing.

***

Mrs. Henriksen arrives at six.

By six-thirty, Lily is settled with her approved snack and extended bedtime, and I am pacing the living room in a suit that feels too tight.

I hear her before I see her.

The soft click of heels on hardwood. A rustle of fabric. Then Zara appears at the top of the stairs, and everything else disappears.

Violet, Lily had said. But the word does not capture it.

The gown moves with her, every step deliberate, effortless, turning something as simple as walking into a quiet kind of spectacle.

Her hair is up, exposing the line of her neck, and she wears minimal jewelry—just small earrings and that silver heart pendant she never takes off.

She descends the stairs slowly, watching me watch her.

"You're staring."

"You're stunning."

The words come out before I can filter them, raw and honest in a way I usually avoid.

Zara pauses on the bottom step, which puts her almost at eye level with me. This close, I can see the slight flush on her cheeks, the careful way she is controlling her breathing.

"We should go," she says quietly. "Don't want to be late."

I offer my arm. She takes it, her fingers warm through my jacket sleeve.

We make it halfway to the door before my phone buzzes.

I pull it out, ready to silence it, then freeze.

My ex-wife's name on the screen, with a message that makes my blood run cold.

Rachel:

Hope you’re enjoying playing house while you can. You know how easily things fall apart under pressure.

Zara leans over, reading the message. Her grip on my arm tightens.

“She sounds delightful,” she says flatly.

"I know."

She turns, facing me fully. This close, I can see the steel beneath her warmth, the fighter she is.

Her hand comes up, straightening my tie even though it does not need straightening. "Whatever they throw at us, we handle together. That was the deal."

I catch her wrist, holding her still. Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers.

I want to say something. The thing I couldn’t say earlier. But I don’t even know what that is, so I stay quiet.

Her eyes search mine. Whatever she finds makes something shift—vulnerability slipping through the armor, just for a moment.

Then Lily’s voice rings out from the living room. “You guys look like a movie!”

We pull apart, and I’m more confused than ever.

Because are we supposed to pretend to be in love… or pretend we’re not?

17

ZARA

Armor

The woman in the mirror looks like someone else entirely.

I smooth my hands down the lilac fabric clinging to my curves, the dress Simone messengered over this morning with a note that reads:

For tonight. You'll need armor.

She isn't wrong. The gown fits like it has been sewn directly onto my body—structured bodice, plunging neckline that stops just short of scandalous, and a slit up the left leg that makes walking feel like a performance.

I've never worn anything this expensive. The tag is still burned into my memory: four figures. For a dress I'd wear once.

"You look like a princess," Lily announced from my doorway twenty minutes ago, her eyes wide as dinner plates. "A lilac princess."

Mrs. Henriksen ushers her away, but the compliment lingers.

So does the knowledge that somewhere downstairs, Jaxon is waiting—and that out there, people are already digging into the credibility of our relationship.

My phone buzzes against the vanity.

Danny:

You've got this. Call me after.

I type back a quick heart emoji, then set the phone down.

My brother's worry has been a constant hum in my ear since the scandal broke, but tonight I cannot afford distraction. Tonight, I have to be seamless.

I check my reflection one final time.

My hair is pinned up, soft strands escaping to frame my face.

Makeup that somehow makes me look both natural and polished—a trick I learned from a YouTube tutorial at two in the morning when sleep refused to come.

The silver heart pendant from Danny rests at my throat. Not too casual. Not something I’d ever leave behind.

One deep breath. Then another.

You've handled worse than rich people and champagne, I tell myself. You've handled five-year-old twins with the stomach flu. You've handled rich employers who timed your bathroom breaks.

This is just another kind of performance.

I descend the stairs, my borrowed heels clicking against the hardwood with each step.

Jaxon stands in the foyer, adjusting his cufflinks, and when he looks up—

He goes still.

Not the polite stillness of someone waiting. The kind that looks like he’s forgotten how to move.

Or is he just acting?

Heat creeps up my neck, and I try to hide my confusion.

His reaction says I’m the sexiest woman he’s ever seen—but what does he actually think?

I’ll admit, I do feel beautiful in this dress.

But I remind myself this is all fake. The dress. The gala. The way he’s looking at me like I’ve knocked the breath clean out of him.

Then I really look at him—and my mouth goes dry.

The tux fits him like it was made for him, emphasizing broad shoulders and the lean strength underneath. His hair is styled for once, not pushed back with impatient fingers, and he’s shaved, revealing the sharp line of his jaw.

He looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine.

When he catches my wrist, something flutters low in my stomach.

But Lily’s voice cuts through the moment, and just like that, we’re moving again—slipping into the waiting car that will take us to the gala.

The Grand Meridian Hotel blazes with light, every window glowing gold against the dark sky. Town cars line the curved driveway, disgorging couples in designer gowns and tailored suits.

Camera flashes explode like fireworks as photographers jockey for position behind velvet ropes.

"Remember," Jaxon murmurs as our car approaches the drop-off point, "Simone will intercept anyone too aggressive. Stay close to me. If someone asks about the wedding, we're planning a small, private ceremony."

"Got it." My hands are steady in my lap, but my stomach churns. "Smile, deflect, don't mention the custody case."

"And if someone brings up Rachel—"

"I've never met her. I have nothing but respect for Lily's mother. Next question."

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "You've been practicing."

"Simone sent me a media prep document. Fourteen pages."

I've memorized every talking point, every pivot phrase, every way to redirect an uncomfortable question. "She's thorough."

"That's one word for it."

The car door opens. Sound rushes in—crowd noise, shouted questions, the click-whir-click of cameras.

Jaxon steps out first, then turns to offer me his hand.

I take it.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

"Coach Halberg! Over here!"

"Zara! Zara, look this way!"

"Is it true you were his daughter's nanny before the engagement?"

I keep my smile fixed as we walk the gauntlet.

Jaxon's arm wraps around my waist, anchoring me to his side.

Each step feels like walking through honey—slow, deliberate, aware of every eye tracking our progress.

Simone appears at the entrance, sleek in black with an earpiece barely visible beneath her hair. "Looking good, you two. Press line's hot tonight. I've already shut down three questions about the Garrison-Walsh thing."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it.

"Don't thank me yet. The donor crowd inside makes these photographers look friendly."

She checks her phone, frowning. "Heads up—Brantley from Sports Daily is circling. He's the one who published the rumors about a contract marriage. Keep your distance."

We push through the gilded doors and into a ballroom that looks like it has been designed by someone with an unlimited budget and a vendetta against subtlety.

Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling. Flower arrangements the size of small cars anchor every corner. Wait staff circulate with champagne flutes that probably cost more than my old apartment's monthly rent.

"You okay?" Jaxon's breath is warm against my ear.

"I'm fine." Overwhelmed, but fine. "Just taking it in."

"The charity supports youth hockey programs in underserved neighborhoods," he says, guiding me deeper into the crowd. "Sixty percent of every dollar raised tonight goes directly to equipment and ice time for kids who couldn't otherwise afford it."

Something softens in my chest. Of course he knows the exact percentage. Of course this is about kids who need help.

"That's why you agreed to come?"

"That's why I always come." His hand presses more firmly against my back. "Everything else is just... noise."

The next two hours are a masterclass in high-society navigation.

Jaxon introduces me to team owners and corporate sponsors, to retired players and their impeccably dressed wives.

I smile until my cheeks ache, laugh at jokes that are not funny, and answer the same questions a dozen different ways.

Somewhere around the third circuit of the room, I find myself standing with Talia Morrison while Jaxon confers with Jake about something team-related.

"You're doing great," Talia says, handing me a fresh champagne flute. "First gala?"

"That obvious?"

"You haven't tried to murder anyone yet, so actually, you're ahead of the curve."

I laugh.

The interruption comes fast.

"Zara! Hey, Zara!"

A man with a camera shoves forward.

"Quick question—how much is Halberg paying you to play wife? Is there a bonus if you win the custody case?"

Silence.

Then Jaxon steps in front of me.

“Don’t talk to my fiancée like that,” he says, his voice low and controlled, but edged with steel. “If you have a question, you address me. Respectfully. Or you don’t ask it at all.”

The silence that follows Jaxon’s words is sharp. Cutting.

The reporter hesitates—just for a second—clearly not expecting to be shut down that fast, that clean.

Then Simone is suddenly there, smooth and efficient, stepping between us like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment. “That’s enough,” she says, her tone pleasant but firm. “Enjoy the evening, gentlemen.”

She steers the reporter away before he can recover, her hand light on his arm but completely unyielding.

Jaxon doesn’t move.

His body is still in front of mine, solid, unshakable. A barrier.

My pulse stutters.

“Hey,” I say softly, touching his arm. “I’m okay.”

He turns then, his eyes finding mine immediately.

There’s something dark in them. Controlled, but barely.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says.

“It’s part of the deal, right?” I try for lightness, but it comes out quieter than I intended. “Media attention and scrutiny.”

His jaw tightens. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

For a second, we just look at each other.

Then someone calls his name from across the room, and the moment snaps.

He exhales slowly, nodding once. “We’re leaving.”

“What? I thought—”

“We’ve done enough,” he says, already reaching for my hand. “Simone can handle the rest.”

There’s no argument in me.

Not when he looks at me like that.

So I nod. “Okay.”

Soon we’re inside the car, the door shutting behind us, the noise falling away.

I glance at Jaxon out of the corner of my eye and catch him exhaling—long, rough—as he leans back, dragging a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

A faint smile tugs at my lips, but it fades the second he takes my hand.

My breath catches.

This again. That dangerous, quiet shift between us.

“Jaxon—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, but his voice isn’t sharp. It’s low. Rougher than before. “I don’t want to hear it right now, Zara.”

My pulse stumbles.

“There’s something between us,” he goes on, his voice tight with restraint. “You feel it. I know you do. Because I do.”

I swallow.

“It makes no sense pretending we don’t,” he continues. “Talking about boundaries like that’s going to fix anything. This—whatever this is—it’s already there.”

His grip on my hand tightens, his knuckles white against the leather of the seat.

“You’re supposed to be my future wife,” he says, his voice dropping to a gravelly silk. “So tell me why I’m supposed to keep my hands off you. Why I’m supposed to pretend I don’t want…” He breaks off, his jaw flexing as he stares through the window.

“Why you shouldn’t want what, Jaxon?”

He turns, his gaze heavy and dark. “Why I shouldn't want everything. Because right now? All I can think about is kissing you until you’re breathless, and then going down on you right here in this car. I’m telling you because you need to know exactly what’s happening in my head.”

The air in the cabin feels like it’s been sucked out. I swallow hard, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

“Okay,” I manage, the word barely a whisper.

He freezes, his eyes searching mine for any hint of a joke. “Okay, what?”

“Okay,” I repeat, finding my voice. “You can kiss me. And you can do... that.”

A low, guttural sound escapes his throat—half-growl, half-starved relief.

He doesn’t wait another second.

18

JAXON

Bumpy Ride

The partition between us and the driver is already up when I reach for her.

I tilt my head and close the final inch, my mouth finding hers with a desperate, pent-up intensity that blurs everything else into the background.

The kiss is everything this night has been—dark, quiet, and overwhelming. The exact opposite of a polite, staged peck between two people playing a role.

God.

This woman.

Her tongue meets mine with a hunger that matches my own, and the kiss turns messy, desperate, all teeth and heat.

A sudden bump in the road jolts us closer, her body pressing into mine, our teeth knocking together. But it only deepens the moment.

When I pull back, her eyes are half-lidded. Her chest rises and falls in quick succession.

I ease her back against the leather seat, guiding her shoulders down until she's reclining. The material sighs beneath her weight.

Her dress rides up as she settles, revealing the lacy tops of her stockings, the pale strip of skin above them.

"Fuck," I breathe. "You're killing me."

My fingers find the hem of her dress and push it higher. She lifts her hips to help me, and the fabric bunches around her waist.

Her panties are black and thin, a delicate strip of lace that barely covers her. I can already see the darker spot of wetness staining the fabric.

"Look at you." I drag a finger along that damp patch, and her hips jerk. "So fucking wet already. Did getting in this car do that? Knowing what I wanted to do to you?"

"Jaxon, please—" Her voice cracks.

I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and pull. She lifts again, and I slide the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, past her ankles.

I stuff the lace into my jacket pocket without breaking eye contact.

"Spread your legs for me."

She hesitates for half a heartbeat. Then her knees fall open, and I see her fully—glistening, swollen, desperate.

The scent of her arousal fills the confined space, mixing with the leather and the lingering traces of cologne.

I settle between her thighs, my shoulders pushing them wider.

My hands grip the soft flesh above her stockings, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg meets hip.

I can feel her trembling.

"Jax—"

"Shh." I blow a stream of cool air across her heated flesh, and she whimpers. "Let me."

The first taste of her floods my tongue—salt and musk and something uniquely Zara.

I drag my tongue in a broad stroke from her entrance to her clit, and her whole body arches off the seat. Her hands fly to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

"Oh god—"

I seal my lips around her clit and suck. Gently at first, then with increasing pressure.

Her thighs clamp around my head, and I feel the muscles in them jump and flex.

The car's motion adds an extra rhythm—a slow sway that shifts her beneath me, changes the angle, keeps her guessing.

She's vocal and I love that about her.

Every flick of my tongue draws a sound from her throat—gasps, moans, broken syllables that might be my name or might be pleas for more.

The windows fog around us, sealing us into this private world of heat and wet and want.

I alternate between long, slow licks and quick flicks against her sensitive bud.

My jaw aches from the effort, but I don't care. Her pleasure is the only thing that matters right now—chasing it, drawing it out, making her fall apart piece by piece.

"Jaxon—Jaxon, I'm—" Her hips buck against my face, grinding into my mouth. Her fingers tighten in my hair until my scalp stings. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

I won't. I have no intention of stopping.

I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue works her clit.

She's tight, clenching around me, and I curl them to find that spot—the one that makes her cry out loud enough that I'm grateful for the partition and the soundproofing.

The car hits another bump, and the motion drives my fingers deeper. She screams, her back bowing off the seat.

"That's it," I murmur against her flesh, the vibrations making her shudder. "Come for me. Let go."

I feel her orgasm before I hear it—the rhythmic clenching around my fingers, the way her thighs shake against my ears.

Then the sound hits me, a broken wail that she tries to muffle with her own hand. I reach up and pull her fingers away, wanting to hear every note of her release.

Her juices coat my chin, my cheeks, my fingers. I work her through it, easing the pressure of my tongue but never quite stopping.

Her hips twitch with every aftershock, oversensitive and trembling.

When I finally lift my head, her eyes are closed. Her chest heaves. Her fingers have gone slack in my hair.

I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh—tender, almost reverent. Then another, higher up. Her eyes flutter open.

"Jaxon." My name comes out slurred, satisfied.

"Hey." I crawl up her body, bracing myself on my elbows above her. The leather sticks to my palms. "You okay?"

She lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “Actually… I’m more than okay.”

I grin. “I aim to please.”

I brush a strand of hair back from her face, slower now. Careful.

“Hey,” I say again, quieter this time. “We’re here.”

It takes her a second to process that. I see it in the way her gaze sharpens, the way reality settles back in.

“Already?” she murmurs.

“Yeah.”

Neither of us sounds particularly happy about it.

I help her sit up, my hands lingering at her waist a fraction longer than necessary. She smooths her dress, fingers slightly unsteady, and I force myself to lean back, to give her space.

To get my head back on straight.

I step out first, then offer her my hand. She takes it.

The elevator ride up is… quiet. My thumb brushes over her knuckles once, absent, instinctive. She doesn’t pull away.

The doors slide open into the private vestibule.

We step out, the space hushed and secluded, and for a second, neither of us moves.

Then I reach for the front door, unlock it, and push it open.

We step inside the penthouse—and then just… stop.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Her gaze lifts to mine. “Goodnight, Jaxon.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“Goodnight,” I echo.

I lean in slowly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.

Then we part ways, each heading to our own bedroom.

***

When I get up the next morning, I expect a normal day at the rink. Practice. Routine. Control.

But the relentless buzzing of my phone tells me otherwise.

Three missed calls from Simone. Two texts from Nate.

“Media’s picked it up. Big time.” Simone’s voice from the voicemail echoes in my head.

The plan had been to build a quiet narrative. Something controlled. Credible.

This? This is anything but.

Our appearance at the gala last night has clearly set something off.

By the time I step into the kitchen, Zara is already there, coffee in hand, scrolling through her phone. One look at her expression tells me everything I need to know.

“Bad?” I ask.

She exhales softly. “It’s… a lot.”

Yeah.

“Right,” I mutter.

Silence stretches for a beat.

Then—

“What do you need from me today?” she asks.

I look at her. God, she’s incredible.

“I think we have to lean into it now,” I say finally. “Meet the media storm head-on.”

“Okay. If you think that’s best, I trust you.”

“Then come with me to practice. They’ll be there. Reporters. Cameras. If we show up together—solid, united—it helps.”

She nods immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Stay close,” I add. “Let me handle most of it.”

A small smile touches her mouth. “I can handle myself, Jaxon.”

“I know,” I say. “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to step in.”

Her eyes flick to mine for half a second longer than necessary.

Then she nods. “Got it.”

An hour later, we’re pulling up to the practice facility.

The cold hits me first. Then the cameras.

I step out of the SUV and into a wall of flashing lights, the morning air biting through my jacket like it has something to prove.

Security has cleared a path from the parking structure to the practice facility, but the media has multiplied overnight. Yesterday there were a handful of photographers. Today looks like a goddamn premiere.

"Coach Halberg! Is it true your engagement is a sham?"

"Jaxon! Did you pay Zara Winslow to—"

I keep walking.

Zara's hand finds mine, her fingers threading through with a steadiness that should not surprise me anymore but still does.

She matches my pace without hesitation, chin lifted, shoulders squared. Not hiding. Not cowering.

The woman has spine.

"Did you hire your fiancée for the PR?" The question comes from a guy in a wrinkled blazer who has wedged himself past the security line, recorder thrust toward us like a weapon.

I stop.

Zara's grip tightens on my hand.

Behind us, I hear Jake's low whistle and Nate's muttered curse. Simone is somewhere in the chaos, probably already drafting damage control statements in her head.

The reporter's smirk falters when I turn to face him fully.

"Zara's here for family—not headlines." I keep my voice flat, cold. The same tone I use when a player thinks they can coast through practice. "Next question better be about hockey, or we're done here."

Silence. The kind that presses against eardrums.

Zara steps forward before I can move us along. "I can speak for myself, thanks." She looks directly at the reporter, and something in her expression makes him take a half-step back. "But he's not wrong. I'm here because I choose to be. Because this family matters. Any other questions about my motivations can go through legal."

She turns and walks toward the facility entrance without looking back.

I follow, catching Jake's eye as we pass.

He gives me a slight nod—approval, maybe, or just acknowledgment that the situation is handled. Talia stands beside him, her expression unreadable but her posture protective as she watches Zara disappear through the doors.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Zara slows once we are out of camera range, and I catch up to her near the hallway leading to the family viewing area.

"Thank you for backing me up." Her voice is quiet but steady. "But I had it."

"I know you did."

"Then why—"

"Because nobody talks to you like that." The words come out rougher than I intend. "Not while I'm standing there."

She studies my face for a long moment, something shifting behind her eyes.

Then she nods once and heads toward the stands where some of the other wives and families will be gathering for the morning skate.

I watch her go longer than I should.

"Coach." Nate's voice cuts through my distraction. "Ice is ready. Players are waiting."

Right. Hockey. The thing I am supposedly good at.

I change into my gear and make it to the rink with three minutes to spare before warm-ups start.

The ice gleams under the arena lights, freshly resurfaced and waiting. Usually the sight settles something in my chest—home, purpose, the one place where everything makes sense.

Today my mind keeps drifting to curly hair and gray eyes and the way she says I had it like she means I don't need saving.

Which she doesn't. That is the whole point.

"Halberg!" Morrison's voice echoes across the ice as I step through the boards. "You planning to join us, or you want to admire the Zamboni tracks a little longer?"

I shoot him a look that would make a rookie flinch.

Jake just grins and skates backward toward center ice, stick tapping the surface in a rhythm that matches the thud of my pulse.

Practice starts rough.

The 1-3-1 formation we have been drilling all week falls apart in the first ten minutes. Rhys misses a pass that should be automatic, sending the puck careening into the neutral zone where Chicago would eat us alive.

I call for a reset, switch to the 1-1-3 setup, and watch the D-pairs rotate through their positions.

"Settle the neutral zone!" Nate's voice carries from the bench. "Coach, we need to—"

"I see it." I do see it. I also see Zara in my peripheral vision, seated three rows up behind the glass, her attention fixed on the ice like she actually understands what she is watching.

Focus.

Morrison moves to center on Line 1, a shuffle I have been considering for weeks but have not pulled the trigger on.

The change clicks something into place—his skating smooths out, his positioning sharpens. The team notices. Energy shifts.

I run them through board-battle drills until sweat drips and complaints start. Then I run them again.

"Penalty kill meeting in twenty," I call out as they filter off the ice. "Nobody leaves early."

The meeting runs long.

I walk them through adjustments, field questions from the younger guys, watch Morrison demonstrate proper stick positioning for a power play defense. Normal. Necessary.

The kind of work that builds championships.

Except nothing feels normal with the gala still playing on repeat in my head. With Zara's I had it echoing alongside the photographer's sneer and the way her hand has felt in mine—solid, certain, refusing to let go.

"You okay?" Jake materializes beside me as the room empties out. His voice is low enough not to carry. "You seemed... elsewhere out there."

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw. "It's handled."

"The media thing? Or the thing where you're clearly losing your mind over your fiancée?"

"She's not—" I stop. Clench my teeth. "It's complicated."

"Yeah." Jake leans against the wall, arms crossed. "Relationships usually are." He pauses, something shifting in his expression. "For what it's worth—she's good for you. Anyone with eyes can see that."

"We've got you," he adds, quieter now. "Whatever's going on. The team. We've got you."

I do not know what to say to that, so I just nod and head for the showers.

Zara left earlier to pick up Lily from school, so the drive home is quiet.

City lights blur past the windows as I navigate traffic, my thoughts circling the same questions that have been gnawing at me for days.

What’s real. What’s part of the arrangement. Where the line blurred beyond recognition.

Zara is in the kitchen when I walk through the door.

The apartment smells like rosemary and something savory—roast chicken, maybe, or that herb bread Lily loves.

She stands at the stove with her back to me, hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot, an oversized shirt hanging loose over her leggings.

She looks like she belongs there.

"Lily's already eaten," she says without turning around. "She wanted to wait for you, but seven o'clock came and went, so I made the executive decision that growing children trump coaching schedules."

"Good call." I shrug off my jacket, hang it by the door. "Where is she now?"

"Bath time. Mrs. Henriksen's supervising. Something about a rubber duck emergency that required immediate intervention."

Zara finally turns, a wooden spoon in one hand and an unreadable expression on her face. "You hungry?"

"Starving."

She fixes me a plate without comment, setting it on the kitchen island along with a glass of water and a napkin folded into a neat triangle.

Such a small, thoughtful gesture. I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me like that. Rachel wasn’t really the type…

Silence settles, but something hums beneath it.

I set my fork down, my appetite suddenly gone.

Because this—this is the moment. The point where I can’t push it off any longer.

“Zara.”

Her eyes lift to mine immediately.

“We need to talk about the wedding.”

19

ZARA

Courthouse Wedding

My fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the counter, grounding myself.

This is my fucking wedding we’re talking about. I don’t take that lightly. So yeah—it’s natural to feel nervous.

But it’s not just nerves twisting in my stomach right now. It’s… something else, too. Excitement. Anticipation. A flicker of something dangerously close to joy.

“Okay,” I say carefully, not wanting to show too much.

Because for him, this is about the custody case. I know that. And I agreed to it. I knew what I was signing up for.

Jaxon is watching me—not like before, not like at the gala or in the car. This time, it’s different. Like he’s bracing himself. Like he expects me to bolt.

I won’t.

“We need to move fast,” he says. “Faster than I planned.”

My stomach flips, but I nod.

“That makes sense,” I say. “After… today. So what does that look like?”

His gaze flicks over my face, like he’s measuring something.

“How do you feel about a simple courthouse wedding?” he asks. “We could get an appointment quickly. Just the two of us and witnesses. Then the paperwork is done.”

Wow.

It’s efficient. Practical. Probably the smartest way to handle this.

And completely unromantic.

For Lily, I remind myself.

“Just us?” I ask.

“Just us,” he confirms.

A small breath leaves me.

There’s something oddly… relieving about that.

I swallow. “Okay.”

Then I ask the question that’s been sitting heavy in my chest since he said the word fast.

“When?”

His answer comes without hesitation. “Tomorrow.”

The world tilts and I blink at him. “Tomorrow?”

He nods once. “We already have the engagement public. The longer we wait, the more scrutiny we invite.”

“Tomorrow,” I repeat, my voice quieter now.

That’s not soon. That’s immediate.

I let out a small, disbelieving breath. “Wow.”

His expression shifts, just slightly. “Too fast?” he asks.

There’s something careful in his tone now. Something that wasn’t there before.

I think about it.

About the way Lily looks at Jaxon.

About the way Jaxon looks at Lily.

About everything he’s risking.

About everything I’m stepping into.

About the fact that I already feel more tied to this family than I should.

I lift my gaze to his. “No,” I say.

His brows draw together slightly. “No?”

“It’s not too fast,” I clarify. “It’s just… a lot to wrap my head around.”

His shoulders ease just a fraction.

“We’ll keep it simple,” he says. “I’ll have Simone handle the paperwork first thing in the morning. We’ll need IDs, signatures, a couple of witnesses. That’s it.”

I nod once more. “Okay.”

Another pause.

“What about Lily?” I ask softly.

That’s the part that matters. More than anything else.

His expression shifts again, softer this time.

“I’ll talk to her,” he says. “Explain it in a way she can understand.”

His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before lifting again.

“Then that’s settled,” I say, aiming for lightness. “Tomorrow, we get married.”

He swallows. “Tomorrow,” he echoes.

And just like that—there’s no going back.

***

I wake up before my alarm.

For a second, I don’t know why my heart is already racing. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar in that early-morning haze, soft gray light filtering through the curtains. Then it hits.

Today.

“Oh my God,” I whisper into the quiet room. “Today is my wedding day.”

The words sound ridiculous out loud. Like I’m joking. Like I’m talking about a brunch reservation or a dentist appointment.

I’m getting married today.

To my boss.

To a man I met in a bar. Slept with. Argued with. Agreed to fake a life with.

My stomach flips.

There it is again—that mix of nerves and something dangerously close to excitement.

Oh God. This is a recipe for disaster, and someone—me—is going to get hurt.

But there’s no backing out now.

Because the moment I said yes—really said it—I crossed a line I can’t uncross. Not without consequences. Not without hurting people who don’t deserve it.

Lily.

The thought settles everything. Of course I’m doing this.

I push myself out of bed, moving on autopilot at first. Shower. Teeth. Hair. The kind of routine that usually grounds me, but today it feels distant, like I’m watching myself from the outside.

Like I’m playing a version of me who is calm and capable—and not someone who’s secretly giddy at the thought of being kissed by her husband on her wedding day.

I open my closet and just… stare.

What does one wear to a courthouse wedding that isn’t really a wedding?

My gaze lands on a simple cream dress I packed when I moved here. Knee-length. Clean lines. Soft fabric. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screams bride.

It feels right.

I slip it on, smoothing the material over my hips. It fits well—maybe a little too well. Like it suddenly matters more than it did yesterday.

I keep everything else minimal. Light makeup. Hair down, softly styled. No statement jewelry.

Except, of course, my silver heart pendant.

I hesitate for half a second before fastening it around my neck.

Then I glance at myself in the mirror. I don’t look like a bride. I just look like… me.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

My breath catches.

“Yeah?” I call, trying to sound normal.

The door opens a second later, and Jaxon steps inside.

And for a moment, everything else just… fades.

He’s not in a suit. Dark slacks, a crisp white shirt, the top button undone.

Effortlessly put together.

His gaze finds me—and holds.

My pulse stutters.

“This okay?” I ask, gesturing vaguely at myself, suddenly unsure.

His jaw flexes slightly. “Yeah,” he says, his voice lower than usual. “More than okay.”

Something warm flickers in my chest. “Good,” I say, even though my voice comes out softer than I intend.

“Are you ready?” he asks after a moment.

I let out a small breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

That almost earns me a smile. Almost.

He nods once. “Let’s go.”

The drive to the courthouse is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts—probably circling what this means for our future.

We sit side by side in the backseat. Not touching. And I’m caught between wanting that reassurance from him and knowing I probably couldn’t handle it without falling apart.

“Are you okay?” he asks suddenly, without looking at me.

I turn my head slightly. “Yeah. You?”

A beat. “Yeah.”

The courthouse is… underwhelming.

Fluorescent lights. Beige walls. Rows of plastic chairs. A security line that looks like every other government building I’ve ever been in.

This is it? This is where people get married?

Jaxon gestures toward the check-in desk. “We need to sign in.”

“Right,” I say, following him.

We give our names. IDs. Sign papers that feel far too official for how surreal this still is.

Then we’re told to wait. We sit side by side in a row of chairs.

Across from us, a couple in their twenties holds hands, whispering and smiling nervously.

Next to them, an older pair sits in silence, comfortable and familiar.

Finally, our names are called. “Zara Winslow. Jaxon Halberg.”

I stand, my legs slightly unsteady.

We follow the clerk down a short hallway into a small room.

No decorations. No music. Just a desk, a flag in the corner, and a woman who looks like she’s officiated a hundred of these already this week.

“Please stand here,” she says, gesturing.

We step into place, side by side.

Close enough that our shoulders almost touch. I become hyper-aware of everything.

The warmth of him beside me. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The faint scent of his cologne.

“Are you ready to begin?” the officiant asks.

Jaxon answers first. “Yes.”

I swallow. “Yes.”

She starts speaking, but I barely hear a word. It feels distant, like I’m watching it happen from the outside.

Until—

“Do you, Zara Winslow…”

My breath catches.

“…take Jaxon Halberg…”

Time slows.

“…to be your husband?”

My throat is dry, but I manage to get the words out. “I do.”

The officiant continues. “Do you, Jaxon Halberg…”

I turn my head slightly, looking at him. His strong jaw. His mouth I already know too well. His expression, steady and serious.

And I realize—I know this man.

Maybe this isn’t the wedding I dreamed about as a kid. Not romantic. Not grand.

But he’s a good man.

And with that thought, the nerves fade.

“…take Zara Winslow…”

His gaze stays locked on mine.

“…to be your wife?”

“I do.”

Something light and bright blooms in my chest.

The officiant nods, satisfied.

I blink in surprise when Jaxon produces a set of simple wedding bands. When did he even have time to get those?

He takes mine first. His fingers close around my hand.

He slides the ring onto my finger, and the contact sends a small, unexpected shiver up my arm.

I do the same for him.

His hand is larger. Rougher. Familiar in a completely different way.

The ring settles into place.

And just like that—we’re married.

“By the power vested in me…”

The officiant finishes.

“…you may kiss.”

The words hang in the air, and my pulse spikes.

Jaxon turns toward me slowly, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

His hand comes up first, brushing lightly along my jaw.

Then his mouth finds mine in a soft kiss.

It’s not heated, not like before—but it still makes my heart kick and my toes curl.

Then he pulls back, too soon.

The clerk clears her throat, and reality crashes back in.

We sign papers. Names. Dates. Legal confirmation of what just happened.

“Congratulations,” she says with a smile.

We step out of the courthouse together, and I glance down at my hand.

The ring catches the sunlight, glinting back at me.

I’m Zara Halberg now.

20

JAXON

Not in a Controlling, Possessive Way

She’s looking at the ring, her expression soft.

And I wonder what that look is for.

The simple gold band I picked out late last night and had rushed over this morning?

Or Lily?

Or something else… someone else?

I clear my throat. “I took the day off.”

Her head turns, surprise flashing across her face. “You… what?”

“I took the day off,” I repeat, more evenly. “Cleared my schedule.”

She blinks. “Why?”

Like she expects less of me than that.

The thought irritates me more than it should.

“Because we’re not going home yet,” I say.

Her brows lift slightly. “We’re not?”

I shake my head once. “No.”

A small pause.

Then, slowly, something like curiosity replaces the surprise in her expression. “Okay,” she says. “Now I’m intrigued.”

Good.

We get into the car, and a few minutes later it stops in front of a small café I picked out earlier.

It’s nothing flashy, but it’s the first place that came to mind when I thought about where to take Zara. Cozy, warm—and they have the best croissants in New York.

I step out first, then offer her my hand. I’ll show her, with time, that I know how to treat my wife.

She takes it, and we walk inside together.

The place smells like coffee and fresh pastries.

She looks around, taking it in. “This is… actually really lovely.”

I huff out a quiet breath. “I figured after this morning, we could use somewhere to just… breathe.”

“That’s thoughtful,” she says, her voice soft. “Thank you.”

We sit, and a server approaches. We order coffee, something simple to eat.

When they leave, Zara leans back slightly, studying me. “So,” she says, “husband.”

“Wife,” I return in the same tone.

Her mouth curves faintly. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

Then she asks, “Do you always plan things like this?”

“No.”

“Just for your fake wives?”

My mouth quirks. “Just for you.”

She clears her throat. “So… how are you feeling about everything? The media, the custody battle… and now the wedding?”

I take a moment before answering. “Honestly? I think I feel… good.”

The words surprise me, but they’re true. The future suddenly feels a little less heavy with Zara beside me. With her, I have someone who’ll show up for Lily the way I do. I’m not alone in this anymore.

I meet her gaze. “How do you feel? This is a big step, and I want you to know I’m not taking it lightly.”

She looks down at her hands, her thumb brushing absently over the ring. “It is a lot,” she admits quietly. “I think… I’m still catching up. Yesterday I was your nanny. Today I’m your wife.”

A small, almost disbelieving smile tugs at her mouth. “That’s a pretty big jump.”

“Yeah,” I say, watching her. “It is.”

Her gaze lifts to mine, searching. “I don’t regret it,” she adds quickly. “I want you to know that. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t mean it.”

Something in my chest eases at that.

“But,” she continues, softer now, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little… overwhelmed.”

I nod slowly. “That’s fair.”

“I know what I asked of you,” I say, my voice quieter now. “And I want you to know you’re not just a means to an end. You’re not just here to fix things for me. Or to make this look good on paper. That’s not how this works.”

Her eyes flicker, something uncertain there.

“Then how does it work?” she asks.

I take a breath.

“You’re my wife now,” I say. The word feels strange and solid all at once. “Which means you’re part of this. Of my life. Of Lily’s life. And that comes with… certain things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that I take care of what’s mine.”

Her eyes widen slightly.

“I don’t mean that in some controlling, possessive way,” I add, because maybe this sounded creepy. “I mean… if you’re in my life, I show up. I make sure you’re okay. I make sure you’re not carrying more than you should.”

She doesn’t speak. So I keep going.

“You’re not going to have to worry about where you stand,” I say. “Or whether you’re supported. Or whether I’m going to leave you to deal with things on your own. That’s not how I operate.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. “That sounds… like a real partnership.”

“And that’s how it should be, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” she agrees softly.

I hold her gaze.

“This situation might’ve started as strategy,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean I treat it like something disposable. Or temporary in the way it affects you.”

Her fingers tighten slightly in her lap.

“I want you to feel safe with me,” I add, quieter now. “In this… arrangement. With me.”

Something shifts in her expression.

She lets out a small breath. “I already feel safe with you.”

I reach for her hand without really thinking.

She lets me, her fingers curling slightly around mine—warm, real, grounding.

After that, the conversation drifts to her brother, Danny.

“He’s so mad he wasn’t invited to the wedding.”

I raise a brow. “You told him everything?”

“Oh yeah, there’s no way to hide anything from him,” she says with a small groan. “We’re really close. We talk about everything.”

“You mentioned you practically raised him. That can’t have been easy.”

She shrugs, but there’s something heavier beneath it. “It wasn’t. By the time he was old enough to have opinions, I was already the one making sure he got to school, did his homework, ate something that wasn’t cereal.”

“Sounds like a lot of responsibility for someone that age.”

“It was,” she says simply. “Still is, sometimes.”

“Do you still feel responsible for him?”

She lets out a small breath, like the answer is obvious. “Yeah. I do.”

I study her for a second. “Even now?”

“Especially now,” she says quietly.

Something in her tone makes me straighten a little.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

Zara hesitates.

For the first time since this conversation started, she looks like she’s weighing whether to say more.

“Danny’s at university,” she says finally. “Which is great. I’m really proud of him.”

“But?” I prompt.

“But…” She exhales slowly. “It’s expensive. And he’s taken on a lot of student loans.”

I nod. That’s not unusual.

But the way she says it—

“How much is ‘a lot’?” I ask.

She shoots me a quick look, like she already knows I’m not going to like the answer.

“About one hundred sixty thousand left,” she says.

What the—?

“Zara—” I say carefully. “Please tell me you’re not paying down his debt for him.”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses her lips together.

“Zara,” I say again, exasperated.

She sighs, rubbing a hand over her arm. “He’s my brother, Jax. He deserves someone looking out for him. It’s not his fault Mom and Dad can’t.”

My jaw tightens slightly. “I get that. But does he expect that from you?”

“No,” she says immediately. “God, no. He actually hates it when I help. We fight about it all the time.”

I huff out a quiet breath. “At least he’s got some sense.”

“He just… doesn’t want to be a burden,” she says.

“And you don’t want him to struggle,” I counter.

“Exactly.”

Silence settles between us. I lean back slightly, thinking.

“Our contract,” I say slowly. “The marriage…”

Her gaze flicks back to mine, defiant. “I’ll use the money to pay off the debt. All of it.”

I nod once.

Yeah. I figured.

We let the topic drop and shift gears, talking about the families she’s worked for—and somehow, she actually makes me laugh.

She tells me about a five-year-old who insisted on wearing a superhero cape to school every day.

“He refused to take it off,” she says, smiling into her coffee. “The teachers gave up after a week.”

“Sounds like a smart kid.”

“He was impossible,” she corrects. “But also kind of great.”

“You liked him.”

“I like most kids,” she says. Then, after a beat, “But yeah. I liked him.”

I nod.

I tell her about my first year as a coach. The pressure. The mistakes. The nights I didn’t sleep because I couldn’t shut my brain off.

She tilts her head slightly, studying me in that quiet, curious way she has. “What do you prefer? Coaching or playing?”

I lean back a little, exhaling through my nose. “I love both. But playing takes a different toll. I’m glad I got out when I did.”

That feels like a lifetime ago.

Her brows lift slightly. “You make it sound like survival.”

“In some ways, it is.” I glance at her. “You’re in your twenties, making more money than you ever thought you would, playing in front of twenty thousand people every night. Everyone wants something from you—coaches, media, sponsors, fans.”

“And you just… handled that?”

A quiet huff leaves me. “Not always well.”

That gets her attention. “What does that mean?”

I run a hand over my jaw, thinking.

“It means I made mistakes,” I say. “On the ice. Off the ice. You think you’re invincible at that age. Like nothing can touch you.”

“And then?”

“And then something does.”

Her expression softens. “Injury?”

I nod once. “Yeah.”

I don’t go into detail right away, but she doesn’t push. She just waits, giving me the space to get there.

“It wasn’t one big moment,” I say after a second. “Not some dramatic hit that ends everything. It was smaller stuff. Wear and tear. Things not healing right. Playing through pain because that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“God,” she murmurs. “That sounds brutal.”

“It’s part of it.” I shrug. “But it catches up with you. Eventually your body stops bouncing back the way it used to.”

“And that’s when you stopped?”

“Yeah.” My mouth tightens slightly. “I could’ve pushed longer. A year, maybe two. But I wasn’t the same player anymore. And I knew it.”

“That must’ve been hard,” she says quietly.

I glance at her.

“It was,” I admit. “Hockey was my whole life. Since I was a kid. Every decision, every move—it all led there.”

“And then it just… ended.”

“Not ended,” I correct. “Changed.”

She nods, like she understands—and I think she does.

We order a second coffee, keep talking as we eat.

When she laughs, she tips her head back, her eyes bright.

Something in my chest shifts again.

Christ.

I clear my throat, reaching for my coffee.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

I hesitate.

Then, because I’m apparently incapable of filtering myself around her, I say, “That you’re easy to be around when you’re not arguing with me.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

I hold up a hand. “That came out wrong.”

“It really did.”

“I meant—” I exhale. “This. Right now. It’s… good.”

She studies me for a second longer.

Then she leans back slightly. “It is,” she admits.

Yeah. It is.

We leave the café an hour later.

I don’t tell her where we’re going next.

But when we arrive at the small practice rink, it’s quiet. Tucked away—the kind of place used for private ice time and off-hours training.

She slows when we step inside. “Jaxon…”

“Come on,” I say, already moving.

“I don’t skate,” she calls after me.

“You do today.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s not,” I say. “I’ve got you.”

She snorts. “Famous last words.”

I grab a pair of skates for her.

She eyes them like they might attack. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“You won’t die.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I say simply.

She rolls her eyes but takes the skates.

A few minutes later, we’re on the ice.

Or rather—I’m on the ice.

She’s clinging to the barrier like her life depends on it.

“Jaxon,” she says through clenched teeth, “this is a terrible idea.”

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re gripping the wall like it personally offended you.”

I step closer, placing my hands on her waist.

She stills.

“Let go,” I say quietly.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re not going to fall.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I repeat. “Because I’m right here.”

She hesitates.

Then—slowly—her fingers loosen from the barrier.

Her weight shifts straight onto me. Her hands grab my shoulders.

“I hate you,” she mutters.

“No, you don’t.”

“Give it time.”

I almost smile.

I guide her forward, slow, steady. Step by step.

“You’re doing fine,” I say.

She glares at me. “If I face-plant, I’m taking you down with me.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

We move across the ice.

Awkward at first. Then… less so. She starts to relax. Her grip on me loosens. Her steps grow steadier.

“See?” I say. “Told you.”

She huffs. “Don’t get cocky.”

Too late. I’m already enjoying this more than I should.

Twenty minutes later, we end up sitting on the bench.

She’s flushed. Slightly breathless. And smiling.

“I didn’t die,” she says.

“You’re welcome.”

She nudges my shoulder lightly. “Don’t push it.”

I look at her. She looks… happy.

I reach into my jacket.

“Zara.”

She turns her head. “Yeah?”

I hold out a small box.

Her brows draw together. “What’s this?”

“Open it.”

She hesitates for half a second, then takes it and lifts the lid.

Inside is a keycard. Simple. Black. Her name engraved on it.

Zara Halberg.

“Jaxon…”

“It’s for the penthouse,” I say. “Full access. I mean, you already have that. But this one isn’t temporary or conditional. It’s yours.”

“I know this isn’t what you planned,” I add. “But I’m not going to let it become something you regret.”

Our eyes meet, and I hold her gaze.

Her lips part slightly. “Jaxon…”

I lift a hand, hesitating for a second before brushing my fingers along her arm.

Then I slide my hand up to her shoulder and pull her in, until she’s right there against me.

Her arms come around my waist, holding me just as tightly.

We’ve been close before—kissed, held hands, had sex—but this hug…

It feels spectacular! It feels right and I don’t want to let go.

Her cheek presses against my chest, and I feel her exhale, the tension leaving her in a quiet release.

My hand comes up to the back of her head, fingers threading lightly through her hair, holding her there.

“You’re not going to regret this,” I murmur into her hair. “I won’t let you.”

21

ZARA

Pretty Damn Good Team

Yesterday was… wonderful. It brought Jaxon and me closer.

For a while, it almost felt like we were a real couple. Every time that thought crossed my mind, I told myself not to read too much into it.

But lying in bed last night, alone with my thoughts, I couldn’t ignore the truth. Somewhere along the way, I’d fallen—completely—for my fake husband. My boss.

Had I imagined the way his gaze softened when he looked at me?

I don’t know.

Either way, that quiet, easy feeling is gone today.

An email from Jaxon’s lawyer, waiting for me first thing this morning, replaces it with something sharper. Urgency.

I’ve spread every document across the dining table, trying to make sense of it all.

I trace my finger down the legal brief, highlighting key phrases with a yellow marker.

Stability of home environment.

Primary caregiver assessment.

Character witnesses.

Each term carries weight, each one a brick in the wall we are building to protect Lily.

From down the hall, I hear her laugh—bright and uncomplicated, the sound of a six-year-old who doesn't understand what the adults around her are fighting for.

Mrs. Henriksen's voice murmurs something in response, probably negotiating the great maple syrup debate that has become a morning ritual.

My phone buzzes. Talia's name lights up the screen.

Talia:

Heard about the hearing. The wives are with you. Whatever you need.

I type back quickly.

Me:

Thank you. That means everything.

Another buzz. This time from Danny.

Danny:

You okay? How was the wedding night? *wink, wink*

I set the phone face-down. Danny will have to wait.

Right now, I need to focus on the task list growing in my notebook: affidavits from colleagues, PR strategy confirmation with Simone, testimony preparation with Jaxon's attorney.

Each item feels like a small battle in a larger war I'd never expected to fight.

But here I am. Fighting anyway.

The scent of brewing coffee mingles with something sweeter—Lily must have convinced Mrs. Henriksen to make pancakes.

I hear the clatter of dishes, the pad of small feet against hardwood, and then a flash of movement as Lily appears in the doorway.

"Zara, are you doing homework?"

I smile, capping my highlighter. "Grown-up homework. Very boring."

"That's silly. Grown-ups don't have homework." She climbs onto the chair beside me, peering at the papers with undisguised curiosity. "What are all these words?"

"Important stuff for your dad." I smooth a hand over her hair, still sleep-tangled despite Mrs. Henriksen's best efforts. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Lily considers this, her expression grave. "Is it about the court place? Daddy said I might have to talk to someone there."

My chest tightens. "Maybe. But if you do, all you have to do is tell the truth. That's it."

"The truth about what?"

"About what makes you happy. Who takes care of you. What your life is like." I tuck a curl behind her ear. "Easy stuff."

She nods slowly, seeming to accept this. "I'd tell them about you. How you make the best grilled cheese and know all the words to the dragon song and don't get mad when I accidentally use too much glitter."

I swallow past the sudden thickness in my throat. "That's—yeah. That's good."

"And Daddy. How he reads me stories even when he's tired and always checks for monsters even though he says monsters aren't real." She pauses. "And how he smiles more now that you're here."

Before I can respond, Mrs. Henriksen calls from the kitchen.

Lily hops down, already distracted by the promise of breakfast, leaving me alone with the documents and the echo of her words.

He smiles more now that you're here.

I press my palms flat against the table, steadying myself. This isn't supposed to be complicated.

I am here for a job—a job that has evolved into something stranger, something that involves fake marriages and real feelings and a little girl who has somehow carved out space in my heart without asking permission.

My phone rings, and it’s Danny.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Zara.”

His voice is… off.

My stomach tightens immediately. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says quickly. “I just—did you do something?”

“What do you mean?” I ask slowly, already bracing myself.

There’s a pause on the other end. Like he’s trying to figure out how to say it.

“My student account,” he says. “I logged in this morning because I had to check something for registration.”

Another pause.

“And?”

“And it says my balance is zero.”

My breath catches.

“What?”

“Zero,” he repeats. “Like—completely paid off. All of it.”

I sit up straighter on the couch. “That’s… that’s not possible.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says, a shaky laugh slipping through. “So I checked again. And again. And then I called the finance office.”

My heart is starting to pound now.

“What did they say?”

“That it was paid in full yesterday afternoon,” he says. “Single transaction.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I murmur.

“Zara,” he says, more firmly now. “Did you do this?”

“No,” I say immediately.

Because I didn’t. I haven’t received the agreed-upon amount from Jaxon. It would look suspicious if anyone took a closer look. I don’t even have the money.

“Are you sure?” he presses. “Because you know you can tell me. If you did, I at least want to know.”

“I didn’t do this,” I repeat, slower this time.

There’s a silence on the line. “Then who did?” he asks.

I open my mouth to say I have no idea, but then I close it again.

Because I do have an idea.

“Zara?” Danny says.

I press my fingers to my temple, my pulse suddenly too loud in my ears.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“Zara, what?” His voice sharpens. “Do you know something?”

I do. I know exactly what must have happened.

“Zara.”

I swallow.

“It wasn’t me,” I say again, because it’s the truth.

“Then who—”

“I have to go,” I cut in.

“What? No, you don’t just—Zara, you need to tell me what’s going on—”

“I’ll call you back,” I say, already pushing to my feet.

I hang up before he can argue.

My heart is racing now, my thoughts tripping over each other.

He did this. Jaxon did this.

There’s no one else who could have. No one else who would have.

One hundred sixty thousand dollars.

Paid off like it’s nothing.

“Jaxon Halberg,” I murmur under my breath.

This man. This impossible, infuriating—

The front door opens.

Jaxon's voice carries from the entryway, low and tired, followed by the thud of his bag hitting the floor.

He has been at an early practice, up before dawn to run drills with the team before the day's real chaos begins.

“Zara?” he calls.

I’m already moving.

I round the corner into the hallway just as he straightens, shrugging out of his jacket. His hair is still damp, his T-shirt clinging slightly to his shoulders.

He looks up, sees my face, and immediately goes still.

“What happened?” he asks, alert in an instant.

I stop a few feet in front of him.

For a second, I just look at him.

Because I don’t know where to start.

“You paid it off,” I say.

His expression doesn’t change.

“Zara—”

“You paid off Danny’s loans,” I repeat, my voice thinner now.

There’s a beat. Then he exhales slowly.

“Yeah,” he says.

Something inside me twists.

“Jax,” I breathe, shaking my head slightly. “Why would you—” I break off, pressing a hand to my chest as my emotions scatter in every direction. “Why would you do that without even talking to me?”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“Because if I’d asked,” he says quietly, “you would’ve said no.”

I blink. Because he’s right. I would have.

I let out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through my hair.

“That’s not the point,” I say, even though it kind of is.

“It is the point,” he counters, his voice still calm but firmer now. “You’ve been carrying that on your own. You shouldn’t have to.”

“It’s not yours to fix,” I shoot back.

His eyes flash, just briefly. “I told you. You’re mine to take care of.”

God. Part of me wants to believe that.

My throat tightens painfully, and I think about the fact that he chose to spend his money on something that matters to me. He’s not someone who makes decisions lightly. I know that.

I press my lips together, trying to hold back the emotions threatening to choke me.

I shake my head, tears finally slipping free.

“This is too much,” I whisper.

His gaze drops to my face, to the tears, and something in him shifts.

“Hey,” he says, softer now.

He closes the distance, his hand coming up to cup my cheek.

I don’t pull away. I can’t.

“It’s not too much,” he murmurs. “Not for me.”

“It is for me,” I say, my voice breaking. “No one’s ever—no one just does something like that for me, Jax.”

His thumb brushes lightly under my eye, catching a tear.

“Well,” he says quietly, “get used to it.”

A laugh breaks out of me, wet and unsteady.

I shake my head again, then—without thinking—I step into him.

My arms wrap around his waist, holding on. Tight.

He exhales softly, like he’s been waiting for that, and his arms come around me immediately, pulling me closer.

“I don’t even know how to thank you,” I mumble against his chest.

“You don’t have to,” he says.

“I do,” I insist, tightening my grip just slightly. “You just… you changed everything for him.”

“I did it for you,” he says. “And you’re welcome.”

And the way he says it, like it was never even a question, does something dangerous to my heart.

For a moment, we just stand there, holding each other.

Finally, I pull back just enough to look at him. “We should probably talk about the court case, huh? Your attorney wants to do a video prep session this afternoon. Testimony rehearsal.”

“We can use the conference room at the arena,” he says. “Quieter than here.”

"Works for me."

He straightens, but his hand remains on my shoulder, thumb brushing absently against the curve of my neck.

"Lily asked about the court this morning." I turn to face him, watching his expression shift. "She said if anyone asks, she'll tell them about grilled cheese and glitter."

Something flickers in his eyes—fear, maybe, or something softer. "She shouldn't have to deal with any of this."

"No. But she's handling it better than we are." I reach up, covering his hand with mine. "She's resilient. You raised her that way."

I break eye contact first, gathering the papers into a neat stack. "We should get moving. Long day ahead."

***

The arena's conference room smells like stale coffee and dry-erase markers, but it's private—tucked away from the media circus that seems to follow Jaxon everywhere these days.

I've set up my laptop at one end of the table, the attorney's face filling the screen, while Jaxon paces near the windows.

"Describe your role in Lily's life," Rebecca Sullivan says, her voice crisp through the speakers.

She is silver-haired and sharp-eyed, the kind of woman who has probably never lost a case and doesn't intend to start now.

I straighten in my chair. "I'm her primary caregiver during Jaxon's work hours. I handle school pickup, meals, activities, homework. I'm there when she wakes up and when she goes to bed."

"And beyond the logistics?"

I pause, thinking. "She trusts me. When she's scared or confused, she comes to me. When she needs help with something—tying her shoes, understanding why the sky is blue, figuring out friendship drama with her classmates—I'm the one she asks."

I glance at Jaxon, who has stopped pacing to watch. "My presence brings stability, I think. A home filled with consistency and support."

Rebecca nods, making notes. "Good. Specific and emotionally resonant without being saccharine. Now, opposing counsel will likely challenge the legitimacy of your relationship with Mr. Halberg. They'll suggest it's a manufactured arrangement designed to influence the court."

“It’s not manufactured.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “We’ve built a real connection. The stability in this household—the way Lily has flourished—that’s not something you can fake.”

"Excellent." Rebecca's pen taps against her notepad. "Maintain that conviction. Judges can smell insincerity a mile away."

We run through a dozen more scenarios—questions about my background, my qualifications, my intentions for the future.

Jaxon jumps in occasionally, his responses measured and precise, the coach in him emerging whenever strategy is discussed.

I notice how he defers to me on matters related to Lily's daily care, how he references specific moments I've shared with his daughter as evidence of our bond.

"One more," Rebecca says. "They may ask about the intimate nature of your relationship. Whether it predated the employment arrangement."

My stomach drops. Beside me, Jaxon goes very still.

"We don't have to answer that," I say carefully.

"You don't. But evasion can be interpreted as guilt. Better to address it head-on." Rebecca's gaze, even through the screen, is unflinching. "What's your answer?"

I look at Jaxon. He looks back at me.

"Our relationship developed naturally," he says, his voice steady. "Whatever existed before the formal arrangement evolved into something deeper through shared experience. Through taking care of Lily together. That's the truth."

Rebecca nods slowly. "Keep it vague on timing. Emphasize the evolution, not the origin. Anything else?"

We wrap the session with action items—documents to gather, character references to line up, media statements to approve.

By the time Rebecca signs off, my shoulders ache from tension and my jaw hurts from clenching.

Jaxon closes the laptop, the room falling silent except for the distant echo of hockey sticks against ice somewhere in the arena.

"She's good," I say finally. "The attorney."

"She's expensive."

"Same thing, usually."

He almost smiles. "Nate texted during the session. Practice went well. Morrison's looking sharp."

"Good." I stand, stretching muscles that have gone stiff. "The team needs to stay focused. Playoffs are coming."

He huffs out a quiet breath, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Look at you,” he says, his voice low with amusement. “Finally learning about hockey.”

I shoot him a look. “Excuse you. I’ve been studying.”

“Have you?” His brow lifts, clearly entertained.

“Yes.” I cross my arms, lifting my chin. “I know what a power play is now.”

“That’s impressive,” he says dryly.

“And icing,” I add, just to prove a point.

That actually gets a reaction. He pauses, looking at me like he’s reassessing something.

“Okay,” he admits slowly. “I’m a little impressed.”

I grin. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Lily’s influence?”

“Partly,” I say. “She takes her hockey education very seriously.”

“She does,” he agrees, softer now.

There’s something in his expression that makes my chest tighten.

“Looks like I made the right call,” he murmurs.

I frown slightly. “What call?”

His eyes flick between mine, something unreadable passing through them.

“Bringing you into this,” he says. A beat. Then, quieter—more deliberate—“You and me.”

He studies me for a second, like he’s weighing something.

My breath catches.

“I think we make a pretty damn good team,” he says, voice low and sure.

22

JAXON

Everything Backwards

The next days blur together as the court hearing creeps closer.

I’m up before sunrise every morning. Practice. Running the team through drills. Going over strategy for the next games.

By the time I get home, Lily is already waiting for me more often than not.

I make sure to give her my full attention. We laugh, tell stories, play—she insists on cuddling more than ever.

It’s the one part of my day that doesn’t feel like a fight.

Evenings settle into a rhythm of their own.

Zara and I on the couch, files spread across the coffee table like we’re building something piece by piece. Or maybe holding something together that’s at risk of breaking.

We sit closer than we need to, but not quite touching.

I feel closer to her than ever. The crisis has pulled us tight, bound us into something real. We’re partners. I feel it deep in my chest.

Her warmth draws me in, but aside from a few fleeting touches, that’s all it’s been.

Accidental brushes. Hands grazing. Knees pressed together a second too long.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the way my body reacts every single time. The way my chest tightens. The way my thoughts derail.

The way I want more.

Instead, I’m left taking matters into my own hands in the shower, gripped by a craving that’s turning into a constant ache. The soap and steam do nothing to wash away the thought of her, the pull in my chest. I imagine it’s her skin instead of mine, her fingers instead of my own, pushing myself toward a jagged, solitary release just to quiet the tension.

I can’t pinpoint why neither of us has acted on what’s so obviously there. Maybe it’s the court hearing looming. Maybe it’s because crossing that line now would make it real.

Something we couldn’t come back from.

It’s ironic. We’re finally husband and wife, and since then we’ve shared nothing more than a chaste kiss at the ceremony and a brief hug.

Everything about this is backwards.

The night before the hearing, I stay late at the arena. Everyone else has already gone. I texted Zara earlier, asking if she can handle bedtime.

She tells me it’s no problem, that I can stay as long as I need.

The truth is, I’ve been done for an hour. I just couldn’t make myself go home.

It’s time.

I grab my jacket and head for the tunnel, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The arena feels different at this hour—hollowed out, expectant. Like it's holding its breath for something.

Or maybe that's just me.

I make it three steps past the locker room before I see her.

Zara stands at the end of the hallway, silhouetted against the distant lights of the lower bowl.

She wears jeans and one of my old Raptors hoodies—the gray one with the frayed cuffs that I give her during a particularly cold night at the apartment.

Her curls are pulled back in that messy ponytail she defaults to when she isn't thinking about appearances, and even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders.

"Hey." Her voice is soft, carrying easily in the silence. "Are you okay?"

I close the distance between us, stopping just short of touching her. "You didn't have to come."

"I know." She reaches out, her fingers brushing my jaw. "I wanted to."

The contact undoes something in my chest. All day, I’ve been holding myself together with sheer stubbornness—but here, with her hand warm against my face, I feel the cracks spreading.

“The arena’s empty,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, threaded with something that wasn’t there before. Something that has my pulse kicking up despite everything weighing on me. “Everyone’s gone.”

I let out a quiet huff of a laugh, because of course she’d say something like that right now. Because of course she’d be the one person who can cut through the pressure sitting on my chest.

“What are you suggesting, Mrs. Halberg?”

Her lips curve, just slightly. “I’m suggesting…” She takes a small step closer, closing the already minimal distance between us. “That maybe I can help you relax. Make you forget.”

I answer by kissing her.

Finally. I have her again.

It isn't gentle. It can't be, not with everything churning inside me.

I back her toward the concrete wall, swallowing her gasp as her shoulders hit the cold surface.

Her hands are already working at my jacket, shoving it off my shoulders with an urgency that matches my own.

"Here," she breathes against my lips. "Right here."

We stumble down the corridor, past the empty equipment room, until we reach the edge of the lower bowl.

The ice stretches out before us, pristine and waiting, the overhead lights casting everything in a blue-white glow.

I turn her in my arms, pressing her back against the concrete barrier that separates the seats from the ice.

I pull her hips against mine, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.

Zara's breath hitches, and she rocks forward, grinding herself against the hard length of me. The friction is maddening—even through layers of fabric, I can feel the heat of her.

Zara's hands slide down my chest, her fingers deft as they work at my belt.

The metal clinks softly in the quiet arena, the only sound besides our ragged breathing. She doesn't fumble, doesn't hesitate—just works with a single-minded determination that makes my cock twitch in anticipation.

She pushes my pants down just enough, her palm pressing flat against my stomach before her fingers wrap around my shaft.

I hiss at the contact, my hips jerking forward of their own accord. She lingers there for a heartbeat, squeezing gently, before sliding her hand toward the tip to find the excess skin. She brushes up and down—once, twice, three times.

“Enough,” I growl.

“Someone’s eager,” she murmurs, a trace of her usual playfulness slipping through.

“Someone’s been hard since our wedding day,” I counter, and her grip tightens in response.

Then she's sinking to her knees, the concrete cold and unforgiving beneath her.

But she doesn't seem to care—her eyes are fixed on my cock, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in anticipation.

The sight of her like this, on her knees in the empty arena, sends a fresh wave of arousal crashing through me.

"Zara, you don't have to—"

"I want to." She looks up at me through her lashes, and the raw desire in her gaze steals the words from my throat. "Let me do this for you. Let me take care of you."

She leans forward, her breath warm against the head of my cock.

Then her tongue traces a slow path from base to tip, and my hands fist at my sides, every muscle in my body tensing against the urge to thrust into her mouth.

She takes her time, exploring every inch of me with lips and tongue.

She presses wet, open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, her hand working what she can't reach.

When she finally wraps her lips around the head, I have to brace one hand against the concrete barrier behind her, my knees threatening to buckle.

"Fuck," I groan, the word torn from somewhere deep in my chest.

Zara hums in response, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure racing up my spine.

She takes me deeper, her throat relaxing as she swallows around me. The wet heat of her mouth is overwhelming, and I can feel myself already edging toward the precipice.

Her hands grip my thighs, her nails digging into the muscle through my pants.

She sets a rhythm, bobbing her head with a steady, relentless pace that has my breath coming in sharp gasps.

Each stroke of her tongue, each tight suction of her lips, pushes me closer to the edge.

I force myself to look down at her, to watch my cock disappearing between her lips.

Her eyes are closed now, her expression one of pure concentration—like she's savoring this, like giving me pleasure is its own reward.

"Zara." Her name comes out strangled, warning. "I'm close. If you don't stop—"

She doesn't stop.

If anything, she redoubles her efforts, taking me deeper until I can feel the back of her throat.

The orgasm builds slowly at first, a tightening in my lower belly that spreads outward.

Then it crashes over me all at once, and I'm spilling into her mouth with a groan that echoes through the empty arena.

She swallows around me, taking everything I give her, her throat working as she milks every last drop.

When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen and glistening. She looks up at me with hooded eyes, and I can see the arousal written across her features—she's just as affected as I am.

"Good?" she asks, her voice rough.

I answer by pulling her to her feet and capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss.

I can taste myself on her tongue, salty and bitter, and it only makes me hungrier.

I groan into her mouth, my fingers working the button of her jeans. She helps, shimmying the denim down her hips along with her underwear, and then she is bare from the waist down, the cold air raising goosebumps on her thighs.

I lift her, setting her on the narrow edge of the concrete, and she wraps her legs around my waist like she'd done it a thousand times.

She reaches down to grip my cock again. To my surprise, I'm already starting to harden beneath her touch—something that rarely happens this quickly.

"I need you inside me," she says, her voice firm despite the tremor running through her body. "Now, Jaxon. Please."

I don’t need telling twice. I reach for my wallet, fumbling for a moment before tearing into a foil packet. My breath hitches as I roll the latex down, the friction of my own hands nearly undoing me.

Once protected, I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock nudging against her opening. Then, in one smooth thrust, I bury myself inside her.

Her head falls back against the concrete, a moan escaping her throat that echoes through the empty arena.

I hold still for one agonizing moment, feeling her stretch around me, feeling the way her body welcomes mine like we are made to fit together.

"Move," she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Jaxon, I need you to move."

I pull back until just the tip remains inside her, then snap my hips forward.

The sound of our bodies meeting echoes through the arena, obscenely loud in the silence.

I set a punishing pace, each thrust driving her harder against the barrier.

"Is this what you wanted?" I growl against her ear, my hand finding her clit. "Wanted me to fuck you right here where anyone could see?"

Zara’s response is a soft moan before her teeth sink lightly into my shoulder.

"Answer me," I demand, my fingers pressing harder against her clit.

"Yes," she gasps. "God, yes. I've wanted this for—ah—weeks."

The confession sends a surge of primal satisfaction through me. I increase my pace, driving into her with a desperation I haven't felt in years.

The pressure that's been building in my chest for weeks—the stress of the job, the loneliness of being a single father, the weight of expectations—all of it fades away, replaced by the singular focus of this woman in front of me.

Her walls start to flutter around me, and I know she's close.

I can feel my own orgasm building at the base of my spine, but I force myself to hold back.

"Look at me," I command, and her eyes fly open, gray and wild and locked onto mine. "I want you to see exactly who's making you feel this."

"I see you." Her voice breaks on the words. "I always see you."

Something cracks in my chest. Something I've been protecting for years, holding at a distance from everyone except Lily.

Zara has slipped past all my defenses without even trying, and now she is here, wrapped around me, taking everything I have to give.

I slide one hand between us, my thumb finding her clit again, and she cries out—loud enough that if anyone has been left in the building, they would've heard.

I don't care. Let them hear. Let the whole damn world know.

"Come for me, Zara," I murmur against her neck, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Let go."

She does.

Her whole body tenses, her back arching as the orgasm tears through her. I feel her clench around me, rhythmic pulses that push me over the edge right along with her.

I bury myself as deep as I can go, spilling inside her with a groan that seems to come from somewhere outside myself.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. Our breathing is ragged, fogging in the cold air. Her forehead presses against mine, her fingers still tangled in my hair.

"Well," she murmurs eventually, a hint of that sunshine smile breaking through. "I'll never look at center ice the same way again."

I huff a laugh, the tension in my shoulders finally—finally—releasing. "That makes two of us."

I pull back slowly, both of us hissing at the sensation. Zara looks up at me, her hair mussed, her cheeks flushed.

She looks thoroughly fucked, and the sight is the biggest boost for my ego.

We clean up as best we can, stealing kisses between adjustments to clothing and attempts to look somewhat presentable.

On the way to my car, my phone buzzes with a message from my ex-wife.

Rachel:

Tomorrow, 9 AM. Don't be late.

A taunt dressed as a reminder.

I show Zara the message, watching her jaw set in that stubborn way that means she is preparing for battle.

"Tomorrow," she says firmly. "We face it together."

23

ZARA

Pacing

The morning light slips in through the curtains in soft, golden stripes, painting the bedroom in warmth that doesn’t quite reach the knot in my stomach.

I’ve been awake for a while.

Not fully up. Just… lying here. Staring at the ceiling. Listening.

There’s a rhythm to the apartment I’ve started to recognize over the past weeks. The low hum of the fridge. The distant city noise filtering in through the windows.

And this morning—

The faint, steady sound of footsteps downstairs.

Jaxon.

Pacing.

I close my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly, trying to calm the restless energy buzzing under my skin. It doesn’t really work. My thoughts keep circling back to the same point.

The hearing. It’s in four hours.

My gaze flicks to the clock on the nightstand.

Three hours and fifty-two minutes.

My chest tightens, but then my mind drifts back to last night.

My fingers curl into the sheets as the memory hits, sharp and vivid. The empty arena. The way he looked at me like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us. The way he kissed me…

Slow at first.

Then not slow at all.

A heat spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with nerves this time. My lips press together, a small, helpless smile slipping through despite everything.

God.

I’m in trouble.

Because this isn’t just attraction anymore. It’s not just proximity or shared stress or the strange intimacy of playing house.

It’s him.

My heart squeezes, something soft and terrifying settling in.

I’m in love with him.

And the worst part?

It makes everything about today so much harder.

Because this—us—started as an arrangement. A solution to an impossible problem.

And now it’s the one thing I don’t know how to defend in a courtroom.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pressing my feet into the cool floor, grounding myself. I can’t spiral. Not today.

Downstairs, the pacing continues. Measured. Relentless.

I can picture him without even seeing him. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense. Running through every possible scenario in his head, trying to control something that can’t be controlled.

My chest aches at the thought. He’s carrying all of this alone.

No.

Not alone.

Determined, I push to my feet, grab my clothes, and get dressed in record time.

My phone pings with a new message.

Danny:

All fingers crossed for today.

Me:

Thank you.

Danny:

Even though I still think this husband of yours is crazy…

Me:

For marrying me or for paying off your debt?

Danny:

Both.

I put my phone away and head downstairs. At the sound of my footsteps, Jaxon turns around.

“You’re pacing,” I say gently.

“I’m thinking.”

I lean against the counter, watching him. “You’re pacing while thinking. There’s a difference.”

He huffs something under his breath, but doesn’t argue.

I move to the coffee maker, starting it with practiced ease. At this point, I probably know this kitchen as well as he does.

“How long have you been up?”

“A while.”

I glance at him. “Jaxon.”

He stops mid-step, like he’s been caught. “Since four.”

Of course he has.

I don’t tell him he needs sleep. Don’t tell him to calm down. He wouldn’t hear it anyway. Instead, I grab two mugs and set them on the counter, focusing on something simple. Something we can control.

“Lily’s still asleep,” I say. “Mrs. Henriksen will be here by seven to get her ready for school. I figured we could go over the timeline one more time before we leave.”

I pour the coffee, keeping my movements calm and deliberate. I hand him his mug, holding his gaze.

“We’ve got this, Jax.”

He sets the coffee aside without looking, then pulls me into him, his arms wrapping around me like he needs the contact just to stay upright.

My breath catches as my hands come up to his chest, then slide around his back, holding him just as tightly.

His forehead presses against mine.

“I can’t lose her,” he says, his voice rough, breaking at the edges. “Lily’s everything.”

My heart squeezes.

“You won’t,” I whisper, threading my fingers through his. “We won’t.”

24

JAXON

In Court

There’s too much going on in my head.

I pace.

Living room. Turn. Kitchen. Turn back again.

Part of it is the hearing, of course. But there’s something else, too.

The realization that I’m completely in love with my fake wife.

With Zara.

I crave her body, admire her spirit, love her soul.

There’s no way around it. I have to tell her.

She can’t have any doubt about how I feel.

Living room. Turn. Kitchen.

Only… now isn’t the time. Not with everything going on.

When she comes down the stairs a few moments later, relief hits me hard, so visceral it steals my breath. Just having her near does that to me.

She’s wearing a navy dress that somehow manages to look both professional and approachable—the exact image Rebecca recommends for the hearing. Warm but competent, she'd said. A woman who loves her family.

She isn't wrong.

Because I think that Zara might love us, too.

I know she loves Lily. But does she love me?

***

A few hours later, we climb the courthouse steps side by side.

The building looms, all marble columns and stone, designed to make you feel small.

I adjust my tie for the third time.

The courtroom itself is smaller than I expected. Wood paneling. Fluorescent lights that hum overhead.

Rachel sits at the opposite table with her lawyer, a severe woman in a charcoal suit who makes her career destroying fathers in custody battles.

My ex-wife doesn't look at me when we enter.

She keeps her eyes fixed on the documents in front of her, jaw set.

We were married for four years before everything fell apart. I loved her once, or at least I thought I did.

Looking at her now, I can’t remember what that felt like. All I see is a woman trying to take my daughter.

Rebecca guides us to our seats, her hand briefly touching my shoulder. "Remember what we discussed," she murmurs. "Short answers. Factual. Don't let them bait you."

I nod, though my stomach churns with everything I can't say.

The judge enters—a gray-haired woman with sharp eyes who’s probably seen every trick in the book.

She takes her seat, reviews some papers, then looks up at both tables.

"We're here regarding the matter of Halberg versus Halberg," she says. "Custody modification of the minor child, Lily Halberg. I understand there have been some new developments."

Rachel’s lawyer stands. “Your Honor, we have reason to believe that Mr. Halberg’s recent marriage is entered into specifically to influence these proceedings. The timeline suggests an arrangement between my client’s ex-husband and his current wife, calling into question the authenticity of their relationship and the stability of the household.”

My jaw tightens. Beside me, Zara’s hand finds my knee under the table, squeezing once.

“We’ve also submitted a request for a supplemental home evaluation,” the lawyer continues, “as well as a revised parenting plan that better reflects the reality of Mr. Halberg’s demanding career as head coach of the Metro Raptors.”

The judge turns to Rebecca. “Response?”

Rebecca rises without rushing, smoothing a hand over her blazer like she has all the time in the world.

“Your Honor,” she says calmly, “what opposing counsel is offering is speculation dressed up as concern.”

She steps forward, just enough to command the room without overplaying it. “Yes, the timeline of Mr. Halberg’s marriage is recent. That’s not in dispute. What is in dispute is the implication that this relationship is somehow fabricated or harmful to the child in question.”

I feel Zara’s fingers tighten slightly against my knee.

Rebecca continues, “We have submitted extensive documentation demonstrating Lily Halberg’s routine, stability, and overall well-being over the past several weeks and months. School reports, caregiver logs, testimony from her teacher, and from Mrs. Henriksen, who has been a consistent presence in her daily life.”

She gestures lightly toward the stack of files. “Every single piece points to the same conclusion: Lily is thriving.”

Rachel’s lawyer shifts, but Rebecca doesn’t give him room to interrupt.

“And while opposing counsel raises concerns about stability,” Rebecca adds, her tone still measured, “we would ask the court to consider the documented inconsistencies on Ms. Halberg’s side. Missed appointments. Last-minute cancellations. Periods of limited contact that have required others to step in to maintain continuity for the child.”

A beat. Just long enough for that to land.

“As for Mr. Halberg’s career,” she continues, her tone sharpening just a fraction, “it isn’t new. As an NHL coach, his job has always been time-consuming. What’s changed is the support system around him.”

My gaze flicks to Zara.

She’s watching Rebecca, steady, composed on the outside—but I can feel the tension in the way her hand still rests against me.

Rebecca follows my line of sight for half a second before continuing.

“Mrs. Halberg has been an integral part of Lily’s daily life over many weeks. Consistently.” She pauses. “The court will find no evidence of instability here. Only structure, care, and a child who is deeply attached to both adults in that household.”

But Rachel’s lawyer keeps pushing.

“And yet,” she says during cross-examination, “isn’t it true that Ms. Winslow, excuse me, Mrs. Halberg, was originally hired as a nanny? That her first role in this household was as an employee?”

“She was hired to care for my daughter,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “The relationship developed naturally over time.”

“Naturally. Within weeks of her employment?”

“Sometimes people connect quickly.”

“Or sometimes people recognize an opportunity.” The lawyer’s smile is sharp as a blade. “You are facing a custody battle, Mr. Halberg. Your ex-wife has raised concerns about the stability of a single-parent household with your demanding schedule. And conveniently, you find yourself married to your live-in nanny.”

“Objection,” Rebecca says. “Counsel is testifying.”

“Sustained. Keep it to questions.”

The next hour blurs into a series of accusations and rebuttals.

Rachel testifies about her concerns for Lily’s wellbeing. The hypocrisy of it is almost hard to sit through.

I testify about the years I spent as Lily’s primary caretaker while Rachel remains mostly absent from her life.

Documents are submitted, rejected, reconsidered.

Through it all, Zara sits beside me like an anchor.

When they call her to testify, she speaks clearly about her relationship with Lily, the bedtime routines, the homework help, the way Lily opens up about her fears and dreams.

She talks about falling in love with my daughter, and the words ring with the kind of truth you can’t fake.

Rachel’s lawyer tries to rattle her, but Zara holds her ground.

“Mrs. Halberg, do you deny that your marriage to the defendant is motivated by his custody concerns?”

Zara pauses, weighing her words. She won’t lie on the stand—I know that much.

“I won’t deny that the timing is… accelerated by circumstances. But that doesn’t mean what we have isn’t real. I’m part of this family now. And I believe this family is exactly what it appears to be—three people who found each other when they needed it most.”

The judge calls a recess. Rebecca pulls us into a side room, her expression cautiously optimistic.

“They’re pushing hard on the timeline of your relationship,” she says. “The judge has ordered home evaluations for both parties over the next few days.”

I frown slightly. “Both parties?”

Rebecca nods. “Yes. Yours and Rachel’s.”

Jaxon’s jaw tightens beside me. “So they’re digging deeper.”

“They are,” she confirms. “But this isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

I glance at her. “How is that not a bad thing?”

Rebecca leans forward slightly, her tone calm but deliberate. “Because an evaluation doesn’t just look at your household—it looks at hers, too. Her routines. Her priorities. How present she actually is in Lily’s life.”

Something shifts in my chest.

Jaxon’s expression sharpens. “You think that could work in our favor.”

“I do,” Rebecca says. “From what we’ve already documented, your home shows structure, consistency, and emotional stability. Lily is clearly attached to both of you.” Her gaze flicks to me briefly before returning to Jaxon. “That matters.”

“And Rachel?” I ask quietly.

Rebecca’s expression tightens just slightly. “If she’s not prioritizing Lily the way she claims, an evaluator will see that. They’re trained to look beyond what’s said in court.”

Jaxon exhales slowly, processing.

“So we let them look,” he says.

“Yes,” Rebecca replies. “You don’t perform. You don’t overcorrect. You just live your life the way you have been.” A small pause. “Because from what I’ve seen, that’s your strongest argument.”

“But it’s all happening so fast.” I run a hand through my hair. “The playoffs start in ten days.”

“I know. The evaluator’s schedule may conflict with your games. We’ll need to work around it. But the sooner it happens, the sooner you’ll have a final ruling. Maybe even within a week.”

I feel the walls closing in. Every direction I turn, something else demands my attention, my daughter, my team, my marriage. The pressure builds behind my eyes like a coming storm.

Zara touches my arm. “We’ll figure it out.”

“The judge did note the genuine nature of your testimony,” Rebecca continues. “Both of you. She acknowledged the commitment you’ve demonstrated to Lily’s wellbeing. That’s a good sign.”

A good sign. Not a victory. Just another step in a war that feels endless.

We leave the courthouse under gray skies, the threat of rain hanging heavy in the air.

My phone accumulated fourteen messages during the hearing—three from Nate about practice changes, two from Simone about press inquiries, and the rest from various team personnel who need decisions I can't focus on making.

My phone buzzes with a new message. I expect another message from the team.

Instead, I find a notification that makes my blood run cold.

Evaluator appointment scheduled: Wednesday, 9:00 AM.

Wednesday. The same day as our critical road game against Chicago. The game that can determine our playoff position.

I show the screen to Zara. Her face goes pale.

"That's—"

"The Chicago game. I know."

The implications crash over me like a wave. Miss the evaluation, risk the custody case. Miss the game, risk my team's season. Risk my job.

Zara's hand finds mine, squeezing tight. "We'll figure it out," she says again.

But this time, even she doesn't sound sure.

I look back at the courthouse, its marble columns stretching toward a darkening sky.

Somewhere inside those walls, a judge holds my daughter's future in her hands.

And somewhere across the city, my team waits for a coach who can't seem to keep his life from falling apart.

One thing at a time, Zara says.

But when everything demands attention at once, which thing comes first?

25

ZARA

Evaluation Day

“There’s only one thing I can do,” Jaxon says out of the blue that evening, when we’re on the couch after Lily is fast asleep.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, like even breathing takes effort right now. Then he turns to me.

There’s something different in his eyes. Not doubt, but clarity.

“I’m not going,” he says.

The words land between us, quiet but absolute.

For a second, I don’t respond. Because I know exactly what he means. And I know exactly what it costs.

“The game,” I say anyway, just to make sure we’re talking about the same impossible thing.

He nods once. “Chicago.”

My stomach drops.

“That’s…” I swallow. “Jax, that’s not just any game.”

“I know.”

“They need you.”

His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Lily needs me more.”

“Jax, what does this mean for your career? What will management say?”

His expression softens, just a fraction. “They won’t be happy, that’s for sure.”

A beat passes. Heavy, loaded. Everything sits between us.

Then he lifts his phone.

“Let’s find out,” he says quietly.

He taps the screen, pulls up a contact, and hits call.

It rings once. Twice.

Then—

“Thomas Vance,” a voice barks on the other end. The General Manager of the Metro Raptors.

Jaxon’s posture shifts, almost imperceptibly.

“Hey, Thomas. I’m calling to let you know I won’t be making the Chicago game. I wanted to tell you myself. I’ll inform Nate, Simone, and the team, but you should hear it first.”

Silence.

Then, “What?” Thomas sounds like he misheard. “What do you mean you’re not making the—Jaxon, we’ve got—”

“I know exactly what we’ve got,” Jaxon cuts in, still calm. “I also know I have a court-ordered home evaluation that day. I’m staying. This matters.”

A sharp exhale cuts through the line.

“Important?” Thomas repeats, his voice going dangerously quiet. “You think this game isn’t important?”

Jaxon doesn’t flinch. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, what you said is you’re choosing not to show up,” Thomas snaps. “For a game that could determine our playoff position. For a team that relies on you to lead them.”

My stomach knots as I watch Jaxon, knowing how hard this must be for him. He loves his job!

“I’m choosing to be there for my daughter,” he says evenly. “There’s a difference.”

A humorless laugh comes through the phone. “There’s always a difference when you’re the one making the call, isn’t there?”

Jaxon’s grip tightens slightly around the phone, but his voice stays level. “This isn’t up for debate, Thomas. I’m informing you, not asking for permission.”

On the other end, something shifts. The air changes, even through the phone.

Thomas lets out a slow breath, like he’s trying to rein himself in and failing. “Do you have any idea what this looks like? To ownership? To the press? To the locker room?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still doing it anyway?”

“Yes.”

Silence stretches, long and heavy.

I can practically feel the weight of everything Thomas isn’t saying pressing down through the line.

When he speaks again, his voice is colder.

“Then let me be very clear with you, Jaxon. Actions have consequences. You don’t just walk away from your responsibilities without it coming back to you.”

My heart stutters.

“Understood.” Jaxon sounds unshakeable.

“And when this season’s over,” Thomas continues, “we’ll be having a very serious conversation about your future with this organization.”

“I figured as much,” he says.

Thomas exhales sharply. “You better hope this is worth it.”

Jaxon’s gaze lifts, meeting mine. Steady. Certain.

“It is.”

Something inside me cracks wide open.

The line goes dead.

I want to hug Jaxon so bad right now. My fingers itch to reach out, to take some of the weight off his shoulders, even if it’s just for a second.

But I don’t know if he would want me to, so I stay still.

He’s still just sitting there, phone in his hand, jaw tight.

That’s just the way he is, I tell myself. He doesn’t let anyone in. So I try not to be disappointed.

But then Jaxon moves towards me.

His hand finds mine first, warm and solid, like he needs to anchor himself. My breath catches, and before I can even process it, he pulls me closer.

Right into him.

I don’t hesitate.

My arms come up around his waist instantly, holding him tight, my cheek pressed to his chest. His heart is beating fast. Or maybe that’s mine.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. He just holds on.

His hand slides up my back, fingers curling into the fabric of my sweater, and something in my chest squeezes so hard it almost hurts.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur against him. “This is really messed up.”

His hand comes up, brushing my hair back from my face, stopping me mid-sentence.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “I know I made the right choice.”

***

Today is the evaluation.

I turn off the alarm on my phone and push myself upright, dragging a hand through my hair, already running through a mental checklist.

Apartment. Lily. Breakfast. Routine.

The only difference is that Lily has no school today but will stay home for the evaluation this morning.

I force myself out of bed and move quickly, pulling on clothes that strike that impossible balance between comfortable and presentable. Not trying too hard. Not too relaxed. Somewhere in the middle.

The apartment is already spotless, thanks to Mrs. Henriksen’s magic touch.

Still, I move through it anyway, straightening things that don’t need straightening. I adjust the throw pillows on the couch. Wipe down the already-clean kitchen counter.

Then I hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Morning,” I hear his gravelly voice.

My breath catches just at the sound of it.

I turn. Jaxon stands at the bottom of the stairs, hair still slightly damp, shirt half-buttoned like he didn’t quite finish getting ready. His gaze is already on me.

“Morning,” I echo, suddenly very aware of the space between us.

He crosses the room in a few quiet steps, stopping right in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes.

“What?” I ask, my voice softer than I mean it to be.

“Nothing,” he says, his lip quirking. “Can’t I look at my wife?”

Then he kisses me in greeting, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Right on the mouth. It’s closed, brief, barely a second, but it leaves me flushed and completely off balance.

I try to cover it. “Ahem, so, yeah—”

Oh God.

Words. Use words.

“So, um… breakfast,” I continue, turning a little too fast toward the counter. “I was just—making breakfast. Obviously. Because that’s… what people do in the morning. They eat. Normal people. We’re normal.”

I wince internally.

Stop talking.

But I don’t.

“And pancakes are, you know, statistically a very safe choice,” I add, grabbing a bowl and stirring something that does not need stirring. “For evaluations. I mean—not that there’s, like, official data on that, but if there were, I feel like pancakes would rank high. Comfort food. Approachable. Non-threatening.”

Behind me, there’s a pause.

A very pointed pause.

I can feel his eyes on me.

“Zara,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m just saying,” I rush on, because apparently I’ve completely lost control of my brain, “we could have done something more complicated, like eggs Benedict, but that feels a little try-hard, and we’re not trying too hard, we’re just—naturally competent, casually put together, emotionally stable adults who happen to—”

I stop.

Finally.

Very slowly, I turn around.

He’s watching me like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week.

“You’re done?” he asks.

I press my lips together. “Yes.”

“Good.”

And then it hits me. Jaxon doesn’t seem nervous at all. After all the worry of the past few weeks, he seems almost cheerful today, and I can’t figure out why.

I frown slightly, turning to face him fully. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

His brow lifts. “I’m in a good mood?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. “It’s suspicious.”

That earns me a real smile.

“Good to know,” he mutters.

“I’m serious,” I insist, crossing my arms.

“You want to know why?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, still wondering what is going on.

“The last few weeks have been incredibly difficult. There’s been a lot of stress, a lot of hard decisions. But I know they were the right ones. Now all that’s left is to live our lives. Carry on as normal. I feel confident about today,” he says. “There’s honestly nothing to worry about.”

I stare at him. “How can you not be worried about today?”

“Because there’s nothing to fake,” he replies simply. He gestures between us, then around the apartment. “This. It’s real. We’re not putting on a show for anyone. This is how we live. This is how we are with her. With each other.”

His gaze holds mine.

“They can come in here and observe all they want,” he continues. “They’ll see exactly what’s already there.”

My throat tightens.

“And what’s that?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

His lips curve just slightly. “A family.”

He’s about to say something more when small footsteps pad into the kitchen.

“Mornin’,” Lily mumbles, her voice still thick with sleep.

I turn immediately, my chest loosening at the sight of her. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

She goes to her dad first, giving him a big hug, then comes over to me and wraps her arms around my waist. I laugh softly, bending to hug her back and press a quick kiss to the top of her head.

“Did you sleep okay?” I ask.

She nods against me. “Can I have pancakes?”

I smile. “Already working on it.”

I move around the kitchen, grabbing ingredients, pouring batter, flipping pancakes while Lily chatters about something that happened at school yesterday.

Jaxon joins us, leaning against the counter, asking her questions, listening.

Lily laughs at something he says, then reaches for my hand without even looking, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

My heart squeezes.

A sharp knock at the door cuts through the moment.

Everything inside me tightens instantly.

Right on time.

Jaxon straightens. Lily looks between us, sensing the shift even if she doesn’t fully understand it.

I wipe my hands on a towel, forcing my shoulders to relax as I move toward the door.

Don’t mess this up.

I open it to find a woman in her forties standing on the other side, dressed in a simple blazer, a folder tucked neatly under her arm.

“Ms. Wins—” she starts, then corrects smoothly, “Mrs. Halberg?”

“That’s me,” I say, hoping my smile reads as warm and not strained. “Please, come in.”

She steps inside with a polite nod, her gaze already moving, taking in everything. The space. The light. The details most people wouldn’t notice.

“This is Jaxon,” I say, gesturing toward him. “And this is Lily.”

“Hi,” Lily says, a little shy now, pressing closer to Jaxon’s side.

The evaluator crouches slightly, her expression softening just enough. “Hi, Lily. Thank you for letting me visit your home today.”

Lily nods solemnly, like this is a very important responsibility.

“I’m just here to see how your mornings usually go,” the evaluator continues gently. “You don’t have to do anything special.”

Lily looks at Jaxon. “We’re already having pancakes.”

He nods. “Best morning ever.”

The evaluator smiles faintly and straightens. “That sounds perfect.”

We move back into the kitchen, and I feel her presence immediately—quiet, observant, constant.

I plate Lily’s pancakes, cut them into smaller pieces without thinking, pour her juice.

“Do you always prepare breakfast?” the evaluator asks, her tone neutral.

“Most mornings, yes,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “But sometimes her dad or our housekeeper, Mrs. Henriksen, step in as well.”

The evaluator makes a small note.

She glances up. “How do you typically divide responsibilities in the household?”

“We both handle the daily routines,” I say. “Breakfast, school prep, bedtime. It depends on our schedules, but we keep it consistent for Lily. I tend to take more mornings, and Jaxon often handles evenings and bedtime.”

The evaluator nods, writing again.

“How do you handle conflict between the adults?” she asks next.

My stomach flips slightly.

Jaxon doesn’t hesitate. “We talk.”

“Even when we don’t agree,” I add.

“Especially then,” he says.

The evaluator nods slowly.

“Do you feel your relationship developed quickly?” she asks, her tone still neutral, but more pointed now.

“Yes,” I say honestly. “It did.”

“And how do you account for that?”

I glance at Jaxon briefly, then back at her.

“Because we were already functioning as a unit before we labeled it,” I say. “Living together. Raising Lily. Building routines. The emotional part caught up quickly, but the structure was already there.”

The evaluator studies me carefully.

A pause.

Then she writes again.

Lily, completely oblivious to the weight of the conversation, slides off her chair and wanders into the living room.

“Can I show you my drawing?” she asks suddenly.

The evaluator looks up. “I’d love that.”

Lily grabs a crumpled sheet of paper and hands it over.

“It’s a dragon,” she says. “With glitter scales.”

The evaluator smiles. “I can see that. Very impressive.”

Lily climbs into my side, leaning against me for a quick cuddle, completely unbothered by the stranger in the room.

The evaluator glances at me, then at Lily. “And how do you feel living here with your dad and Zara, Lily?”

Lily shrugs, like the answer is obvious. “It’s good.”

“What makes it good?”

She thinks for a second. “We do stuff together. And it’s always fun.”

“Do you feel safe here?” the evaluator asks gently.

Lily nods immediately. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Lily looks at Jaxon first. “Because he’s my dad.”

Then at me. “And because Zara’s here.”

My throat tightens.

The evaluator doesn’t react outwardly, but I catch the way she writes that down, carefully.

“Thank you,” she says to Lily.

Lily beams, then runs back to her seat like her job here is done.

The evaluator asks to see Lily’s room, and Lily shows it off like the queen herself has come to visit.

“This is my bed,” she says. “And this is where my books are. And this is my dragon.”

Jaxon leans against the doorframe, watching her, that same quiet focus in his eyes.

The evaluator scans the room, taking notes.

Once Lily has shown her everything, the woman closes her folder after one final glance around.

“Thank you,” she says. “This has been very helpful.”

Jaxon and I walk her to the door, the tension in my chest slowly unwinding.

“You have a very… cohesive dynamic,” she says carefully.

I hold my breath.

“And Lily appears well-adjusted and secure,” she adds.

Relief floods through me so fast I almost sway.

“Thank you,” Jaxon says, steady.

She nods once. “We’ll be in touch.”

And then she’s gone. The door closes.

I think—no, I know—this went well.

26

JAXON

The Best Grilled Cheese

The door closes behind the evaluator with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than it should.

For a second, I just stand there.

Zara is by the couch, one hand pressed to her stomach like she’s physically holding herself together, and when our eyes meet, something in both of us seems to give way at the same time.

“Well,” she says.

I huff out a laugh.

“Well,” I echo. “I think we did well,” I tell her.

She narrows her eyes. “I think I used the phrase emotionally stable adults like I was reading from a brochure.”

“That part was strong.”

Her mouth falls open. “You’re making fun of me.”

“A little.”

She points at me. “I nearly died in there.”

I grin at her, my heart full. I feel light, optimistic. Once they’ve seen us as a family, there’s no way they can take Lily from me. I’m certain of it.

Lily had been Lily. Zara had been Zara. Nothing had felt staged because nothing was staged. That’s what I’d been trying to tell her all morning.

We hadn’t needed to perform family.

We’d just lived it.

Lily comes barreling back into the room from the hallway, one sneaker half untied, rainbow hair clip hanging crookedly from her curls. “Mrs. Henriksen says if we go now we can get the swings before the big kids.”

Zara crouches immediately. “That sounds like a very serious playground strategy.”

“It is,” Lily says gravely.

I drop to one knee and fix her shoelace. “Then you’d better get moving.”

She throws her arms around my neck, quick and fierce. “Bye, Daddy.”

“Bye, bug.”

Then she turns and launches herself at Zara with the same force.

Something tight and tender pulls in my chest as Zara catches her easily, laughing as Lily nearly knocks them both off balance.

“Bye, sweetheart,” Zara says, smoothing her hair. “Have fun.”

“We might get ice cream,” Lily whispers, as if this is classified information.

“I had a feeling,” Zara whispers back.

Mrs. Henriksen appears in the doorway, smiling knowingly. “We’ll be back later.”

I stand and nod. “Thanks again.”

The door closes a minute later, and the apartment falls quiet.

Zara looks at the door for a second, then turns slowly back toward me. “Okay,” she says. “Now I think I might actually collapse.”

“You want to sit down?”

“I want a drink.”

“It’s eleven-thirty.”

She lifts one shoulder. “If this isn’t a time to celebrate, I don’t know what is.”

I head into the kitchen and grab two glasses. “You’re right. Wine?”

“Definitely,” she says, following me.

She leans against the counter while I pour, and I catch myself watching her the way I have a hundred times now.

She’s so fucking beautiful without even trying. Does she have any idea what she does to me, just standing there?

I don’t think she does.

I hand her a glass.

She takes it and lifts it slightly. “To not crashing and burning in front of the evaluator.”

I touch my glass to hers. “To non-threatening pancakes, the statistically safe breakfast choice.”

That makes her laugh, bright and immediate, and for a second I just stand there listening to it.

It hits me all over again, that impossible certainty that has been sitting in my chest for days now.

I love her.

Lily.

Zara.

Us.

That’s the order of my life now. Maybe it has been for a while.

“I should probably make lunch.”

“We just had breakfast.”

She frowns. “I was too nervous to eat, and I’ve had a full emotional journey today. I’m starving.”

“Okay, Mrs. Halberg. What do you want?”

“Honestly?”

“No. Lie to me.”

She smiles into her glass. “Grilled cheese.”

“Alright, sit. I’ll make you the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had.”

She lifts one eyebrow. “That’s a bold claim.”

“You say that only because you haven’t tasted my grilled cheese yet.”

She laughs softly and settles onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, curling one leg beneath her. “I’m just saying, the bar for grilled cheese isn’t exactly high.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” I pull a pan from the cabinet and set it on the stove. “Anyone can make grilled cheese. Very few can make an exceptional grilled cheese.”

“Oh my God.” She takes another sip of wine, watching me with amusement dancing in her eyes. “Are you about to get pretentious over melted cheese?”

“Absolutely.”

I open the fridge and start pulling things out. Bread. Butter.

She props her chin in her hand. “So what makes this the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had?”

“Balance.”

She blinks. “Balance.”

“Exactly. You need flavor, texture, proper browning, and cheese melt. Too much of one thing and the whole structure collapses.”

I butter the bread and set the pan on the stove, aware of Zara watching me.

“Are you happy?”

I glance back at her. “Very.”

“I think I still worry on your behalf,” she says lightly, but not quite lightly enough. “For your job.”

I flip one sandwich and hear the satisfying hiss of crisping bread. Then I turn to face her fully.

“Don’t.”

Her gaze lifts.

“I mean it, Zara. Don’t carry that for me.” I rest my hands on the counter. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

“And if Thomas Vance follows through?”

“Then he follows through.”

She stares at me, frustrated. “How can you say that like it doesn’t matter?”

“It matters.” I keep my voice calm. “But not more than this.”

I turn the heat down, plate the sandwiches, and set them in front of her before taking the stool beside hers.

She picks up half of hers and takes a bite, then closes her eyes.

I wait.

Slowly, she opens them again. “Damn it.”

Satisfaction rolls through me. “That good?”

She points the sandwich at me. “Don’t be smug.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It’s really good,” she mutters.

“Really good?”

She takes another bite, chewing more slowly this time like she resents enjoying it so much. “Fine. It’s maybe the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had.”

I nod solemnly. “Told you.”

“You’re going to be unbearable now, aren’t you?”

“Almost certainly.”

She laughs, finishing the last bite of her sandwich, then absently licks a crumb from her thumb.

My entire train of thought derails so fast it’s almost embarrassing, and I can’t stop staring.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Halberg?” she asks quietly.

For a second, I just look at her.

At the woman in my kitchen who, in just a few weeks, has become so essential to my life that not saying this now feels impossible.

I let out a breath.

“I’ve known for a while,” I say.

Her brows draw together. “Known what?”

I don’t think she has any idea what I’m about to say.

“That I’m in love with you.”

Stunned silence follows.

Zara just stares at me.

I watch the words hit her, settle, watch her blink like she’s not sure she heard me right.

“What?”

I huff a quiet laugh. “I’m in love with you, Zara,” I repeat, slower this time, like I’m explaining something simple.

Her hand lifts to her chest. “No, this—” She shakes her head. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You can’t just say something like that like it’s a normal sentence.”

“Feels pretty normal to me.”

“It absolutely does not feel normal to me.”

I smile, even though my heart is pounding now.

Zara keeps staring at me like I’ve started speaking another language.

Then she lets out a small, disbelieving laugh and takes a step back, her hand still pressed to her chest.

“You really mean that,” she says.

“Yes.”

She exhales, shaky and quiet, glancing down for a second before looking back at me.

“But how?” she blurts out.

That almost makes me smile again. “How what?”

“How is this possible?” She gestures between us, still half incredulous. “I’m your fake wife. You don’t just start falling in love with people you’re fake married to. There were supposed to be boundaries. Logic. All of that.” Her voice softens. “And now you’re standing here telling me you love me.”

I shrug lightly. “Yeah.”

She gives me a look that’s equal parts exasperated and overwhelmed. “You’re being way too calm about this.”

“I’m not calm.”

“No?”

“No.” I take a small step closer. “I’m sure.”

That quiets her.

For a moment, she just looks at me. Really looks.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

“What?”

“You really love me.”

I nod once. “Pretty much.”

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “I’m not telling you so you’ll say it back. I’m telling you because it’s true, and because you deserve to know.”

She takes a deep breath. “It suddenly feels really warm in here, don’t you think?” She fans herself with her hands, her face definitely flushed.

God, I could watch that forever.

“Okay. This is…” She trails off.

She looks at me for a long moment, then drops her gaze to my chest like it’s easier than meeting my eyes.

“I think…” She stops.

I wait.

She tries again.

“I need you to know this isn’t one-sided.”

Warmth floods through me so fast it almost knocks the breath from my lungs.

My heart slams hard against my ribs.

“It’s not?”

“No.” She smiles a little, like the admission embarrasses her even as she makes it. “It’s very much not.”

I step closer, until there’s barely any space left between us.

“Tell me,” I say quietly.

Her eyes widen. “You know what I mean.”

“I think I do. I still want to hear you say it.”

She glances away, then back up, gathering her courage.

When she finds it, her voice comes out soft, a little shy, and it hits me straight in the chest.

“I think about you all the time,” she admits. “I wait for you to come home. I know the sound of your footsteps on the stairs. I can tell when you’re in a bad mood before you say a word. I care what you eat, whether you’ve slept enough, whether your tie is crooked before you walk into something important.” Her cheeks flush deeper with every word, but she keeps going. “And when you touch me, even just a little, I feel it for hours.”

Every muscle in my body tightens.

Her voice softens even more.

“I love Lily like she’s part of me now. And somewhere along the way…” Her eyes meet mine, open and vulnerable. “You became part of me too.”

“Zara… that’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“You really love me,” she says again, and this time it sounds different. Less disbelief, more like she’s testing the truth of it, getting used to how it feels.

“I really do.”

She nods once, almost to herself.

Then, very quietly, almost shyly, she says, “That makes me ridiculously happy.”

I smile. “Good.”

“And terrified.”

“That too.”

“And kind of like I want to kiss you and hide from you at the same time.”

A laugh slips out of me. I slide one hand higher along her back, keeping her close. “You can skip the hiding part.”

“Can I?”

“Yeah.”

She studies me for a second longer, like she’s making one last decision.

Then she nods. “Okay.”

And when she rises onto her toes and kisses me first, it feels like something in the world finally falls into place.

27

ZARA

Research Study

For a second, when I wake up, I’m disoriented.

The mattress is softer, the sheets are white instead of gray, and even the light feels different, softer somehow, filtering through curtains that aren’t mine.

Then I remember.

I’m in Jaxon’s bed. Yesterday happened. The evaluation went well.

And then Jaxon told me he’s in love with me.

Since then, I’ve felt like I might burst from happiness.

My breath catches as I turn my head.

He’s there.

On his back, one arm thrown over his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach. His hair is slightly messy, his face relaxed in sleep in a way I’ve never really seen before. No tension in his jaw. No crease between his brows. Just… him.

Soft.

Real.

Mine.

My heart does something ridiculous in my chest.

Oh my God.

We’re actually—

I press my lips together, trying to keep the smile from spreading too wide across my face.

We’re together. Not fake-together. Actually together.

Actually in love.

Actually married.

I let out a quiet, breathless laugh that I quickly muffle with my hand.

This is insane.

A few weeks ago, I was his nanny. Then I was his fake wife.

Now I’m waking up in his bed, watching him sleep, trying to process that the man next to me is in love with me.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second.

It’s the best, most overwhelming thing that’s ever happened to me.

When I open my eyes again, he’s looking at me.

I freeze.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me with that slow, knowing awareness that makes me feel like he’s already clocked every thought I just had.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

My stomach flips.

“Morning,” I whisper back, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I am in his bed, in his shirt, with my hair probably doing something chaotic.

He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “You’ve been staring at me.”

I immediately sit up a little straighter. “I was not staring.”

“You were definitely staring.”

“I was observing,” I correct.

His mouth twitches. “That makes me feel like a scientific project.”

I tilt my head, letting my gaze drift over him in a way that is very much not subtle anymore. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

His brow lifts. “Depends on the experiment.”

“Oh, it’s a very thorough one,” I say lightly, shifting onto my side so I’m facing him more fully. “Extensive research. Long-term study. Possibly multiple… hands-on trials.”

There’s a beat.

Then his eyes darken just slightly.

“Hands-on trials,” he repeats slowly.

I shrug, trying for nonchalance and landing somewhere closer to blatant flirting. “You know. For accuracy.”

He lets out a low huff of amusement, but there’s something else underneath it now. Something warmer. He shifts closer, closing a little more of the space between us.

“And what exactly are you planning to research?” he asks.

My pulse picks up, but I don’t back down.

“Your… general composition,” I say, gesturing vaguely. “Structure. Reactions. Durability under pressure.”

His mouth curves. “Durability.”

I bite back a smile, suddenly very aware of how close he is now.

“And I assume this research is purely for academic purposes,” he adds.

“Obviously,” I say. “I’m a professional.”

“Right.”

His hand slides a little higher on my arm, slow, deliberate, like he’s testing something of his own.

“And what makes you think I’m volunteering for this study?” he asks.

I meet his gaze, my voice softening just a fraction.

“You already did,” I say.

He studies me for a second, then leans in just slightly, his voice dropping.

“And what did you think of the preliminary findings?” he murmurs.

I shrug, my heart racing now. “Yesterday’s findings were… compelling.”

That earns me a quiet laugh, but his eyes stay on mine.

“Careful,” he says. “You keep talking like that, I might start thinking this study isn’t entirely objective.”

I lean in just enough that our breaths brush.

“It’s not objective at all,” I admit softly.

Something in his expression shifts then. Less teasing. More intent.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment where neither of us moves.

Then his hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly along my jaw, and my breath catches.

“For the record,” he murmurs, “I’m not opposed to further research.”

My stomach flips.

“No?”

“No.”

We kiss, slow and like we have all the time in the world.

All my lady parts come alive in an instant and a soft sound slips out of me before I can stop it, and his lips curve just slightly against mine.

He shifts closer, the space between us disappearing completely, and I’m very aware of everything at once. The warmth of him. The weight of his hand. The way his breath mixes with mine.

“Zara,” he murmurs, and there’s something different in his voice now. Something deeper.

I’m about to go for it and put my hand down his boxer briefs when—

“Daaaaaad?”

We freeze.

My eyes fly open.

Jaxon goes still against me, his hand tightening slightly at my waist like he’s not entirely sure if he imagined that.

“Daaaaaad!” Lily’s voice echoes again from down the hallway, louder this time. “Where are you?”

I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing, because the situation is so absurd I might actually lose it.

Jaxon drops his forehead to mine with a quiet groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Incredible timing,” I whisper back, trying not to giggle.

“Not helping,” he mutters.

“DAD!”

“Yeah!” he calls back, his voice instantly shifting. “We’re—uh—here!”

I bury my face in his shoulder for a second, laughing silently.

“We are absolutely not getting out of this gracefully,” I whisper.

“Define gracefully,” he mutters back.

I lift my head just in time as the bedroom door swings open.

Lily stands there.

She looks at him.

Then at me.

Then at the fact that we are very obviously both still in bed.

Together.

There’s a pause.

A long, assessing pause.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey, bug,” Jaxon answers, way too calm.

I attempt a smile. “Hi.”

Lily squints at us slightly.

“What are you doing?”

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Jaxon tries. “We were just—uh—talking.”

“In bed?” she asks.

I choke on a laugh and immediately turn it into a cough.

“Yes,” he says. “People… talk in bed.”

She considers that.

Then shrugs.

“Okay.”

Just… okay.

I blink at her. “You’re not surprised?”

She frowns like that’s a weird question. “Why would I be surprised?”

I glance at Jaxon. He looks just as thrown as I feel.

“Because we—” I start, then stop, because how do I even phrase this.

Lily gestures between us like it’s obvious. “You’re married.”

My face heats instantly.

“That’s true,” Jaxon says.

“And you like each other,” she adds.

I make a small, strangled sound.

“We do,” he says, a little less steady now.

“So sometimes you’re together,” she concludes.

I hide my face in the blanket for a second.

Jaxon rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. That’s—accurate.”

She nods, satisfied. “Okay.”

Another pause. Then— “I’m hungry.”

I lower the blanket just enough to look at her. “You’re always hungry.”

“Yes,” she agrees easily. “Can I have pancakes?”

Jaxon lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “We just had pancakes yesterday.”

“That was yesterday,” she says.

Fair point.

She turns and starts walking out like this conversation is completely finished.

Then pauses in the doorway.

“And next time,” she adds casually, “you should lock the door.”

Then she disappears down the hall.

I slowly turn my head to look at Jaxon. He looks at me.

And then we both start laughing. Full, helpless laughter that we can’t even try to stop.

“Oh my God,” I manage between breaths.

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Yeah.”

I fall back against the pillows, covering my face. “She just gave us relationship advice.”

He exhales, still smiling. “I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen.”

“Good plan.”

The laughter fades into something softer and Jaxon is still looking at me. It’s that same look from before. Warm. Sure. A little amused.

“Ahem,” I say, trying to recover some dignity. “Where were we?”

His mouth curves slowly.

“Research,” he says.

My stomach flips again.

“Right,” I murmur.

A pause.

Then, from down the hall—

“DAD! PANCAKES!”

I let out a soft laugh.

“Your study has been… postponed.”

He pushes himself up, running a hand through his hair.

“Come on,” he says, glancing back at me. “Let’s go feed the tiny dictator.”

***

After we survive breakfast with an entirely too-cool Lily, I take her to school. The past few days have been so hectic I’ve barely had her to myself, and I savor the time we get.

After a quick hug, she’s off, disappearing through the doors, and I head back home.

Home. It still feels strange to think of it that way.

Back at the apartment, I keep myself busy with chores. Jaxon’s at the rink, back to his practice schedule. His team won against Chicago last night, putting them at the top going into the playoffs.

It’s all working out even better than we could have hoped.

Now all that’s left is to wait for the judge’s decision.

28

JAXON

We Got It

The rink smells the same.

Cold air, sharpened steel, that faint mix of rubber and sweat that’s been part of my life for so long it feels like muscle memory. The sound hits me next—the steady scrape of skates, the thud of pucks against boards, the low hum of voices echoing across the ice.

I stand just inside the boards for a moment, arms crossed, watching.

Nate is already running the drill at center ice, barking instructions with a confidence that wasn’t there a season ago. The lines move cleanly. Sharp passes. Fast transitions. No hesitation.

They’re locked in.

Disciplined.

A pass cuts clean across the ice, intercepted mid-stride and turned into a quick shot on goal. Misha blocks it with a sharp snap of his glove, and the guys groan in unison.

“Again!” Nate calls. “Faster this time—don’t think, move!”

I almost smile.

I push off from the boards and step fully into the rink space, the shift in energy immediate.

They see me. One by one.

There’s a ripple that runs through the team. Coach is back.

Nate skates toward me, pulling off his helmet. “You’re early.”

“Or you’re late,” I reply.

His mouth twitches. “We’ve been out here twenty minutes.”

“Then you’re on time.”

That earns a quiet chuckle from a few of the guys nearby.

I glance past him, taking in the group again.

“Bring it in,” I call.

No hesitation.

They skate over, forming a loose circle around me, sticks resting against their legs, breath still visible in the cold air.

I take a second before I speak.

“I watched the Chicago game,” I say finally.

I look at Nate, then around the group. At Declan, Rhys, Jake, Marcus, Connor, and the others.

“You played like a team that knows exactly who they are,” I say.

I see spines straighten. A flicker of pride.

“Your transitions were clean. You trusted each other.” My gaze sharpens slightly. “That’s not luck. That’s work.”

“Nate,” I add, my focus locking on him. “Thank you for stepping in. You did amazing.”

He shrugs, deflecting the compliment.

I shift my attention back to the group.

“Misha,” I call. “That second-period save—left side.”

He grins. “You saw that?”

“I saw everything.”

A few laughs ripple through the team.

“Kept us in the game,” I continue.

He taps his stick lightly against the ice in acknowledgment.

“I’m proud of you,” I say. “Of all of you.”

“Coach,” Declan mutters under his breath, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

I let the moment sit for a second.

“I also want to apologize that I couldn’t be there. As you know, I had a very important appointment that day and couldn’t make it. But I’m very sorry I wasn’t here with all of you. And I won’t let you down again.”

Jake clears his throat “You didn’t let us down, coach. You did the right thing.”

I hear murmurs of agreement, Rhys and Marcus nod.

“Yeah,” Connor else adds. “We knew where you were.”

“And why,” Declan chimes in. “You had bigger things going on.”

My gaze sharpens. “That’s not your concern.”

“It kind of is,” Nate says.

I look at him.

He hesitates for half a second, then goes for it.

“We talked to management.”

That catches me off guard.

“What?”

“The whole thing,” he says. “Chicago. You missing it. Vance losing his mind about it.”

My jaw tightens. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, we did.”

“Why?”

He looks at me like the answer should be obvious.

“Because you’ve got our backs,” he says. “We’ve got yours.”

Silence follows. I can’t believe they did that. The whole team? And I haven’t even been their coach that long.

“And?” I ask.

Nate glances at a couple of the guys, then back at me.

“They backed off,” he says. “No penalties. No disciplinary nonsense. Nothing.”

I stare at him.

“Vance agreed?” I ask.

“Reluctantly,” Nate admits. “But yeah.”

Another voice cuts in, lighter this time. “Turns out it’s hard to threaten your head coach when the entire team tells you to back off.”

A few grins spread.

I shake my head slowly, processing that.

This team. My team.

“You’re going to turn me into a soft fool,” I mutter, blinking against the sting behind my eyes.

Nate’s grin widens. “Nah. We’re going to win you a cup.”

That pulls a real laugh out of me.

“Get back on the ice,” I say, shaking my head. “Let’s see if that confidence is earned.”

They break immediately, energy snapping back into place.

***

By the time I leave the rink, the noise is still in my bones.

The scrape of blades. The rhythm of drills. The sharp focus that comes with being on the ice.

For years, that’s been the thing that centered me. The thing everything else had to fit around.

Now—

I pull my jacket on, stepping out into the cool air, and my phone buzzes in my pocket. Not with pressure. Not with something I need to fix.

Just a message.

Zara:

We’re home. Lily insists you bring snacks.

A faint smile pulls at my mouth.

Yeah. Not everything revolves around hockey anymore.

By the time I step into the apartment, I hear them before I see them.

Lily’s laugh. Zara’s voice. The easy overlap of both.

“Dad!” Lily calls, already halfway down the hall.

I barely have time to drop my bag before she launches herself at me.

I catch her automatically, lifting her up with a grunt. “Hey, bug.”

“Did you win practice?” she asks seriously.

I huff out a laugh. “We’re working on it.”

I glance up.

Zara’s leaning against the kitchen counter, watching us with that soft look that’s been undoing me more and more lately.

Lily wiggles in my arms. “Did you bring snacks?”

“Is that all I am to you now?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Zara snorts.

I set Lily down, shaking my head. “Kitchen. Now. Before you stage a rebellion.”

She runs ahead without another word.

I follow at a slower pace, my gaze drifting to Zara as I step into the kitchen.

“You’re back early,” she says.

“Wrapped up faster than expected.”

Her eyes search mine. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, stepping closer. “Better than okay.”

She studies me for half a second longer, then nods.

The rest of the evening settles into something that feels… easy.

Dinner happens in that chaotic, half-organized way that comes with Lily talking non-stop about something that happened at the playground.

Zara listens like it’s the most important story in the world. I sit there, watching both of them more than I probably should.

By the time Lily starts rubbing her eyes, the energy shifts.

“Bed,” I say.

“No,” she says immediately.

“Yes.”

“Five more minutes.”

“Two.”

She considers that. “Three.”

I glance at Zara.

Zara shrugs, clearly amused. “Three seems fair.”

“Three,” I agree.

Lily grins like she just won a major negotiation.

Three minutes later, I carry her down the hallway anyway.

She’s half-asleep already, her head tucked against my shoulder, her small hand fisted in my shirt.

I settle her into bed, pulling the blanket up and smoothing her hair back from her face.

“You staying?” she murmurs, barely awake.

“Always,” I say quietly.

She hums something that might be agreement, might be sleep, and then she’s gone.

I stay there for a second longer than necessary. Just watching her breathe.

Then I step back into the living room. Zara is curled up on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand.

She looks up when she hears me, something soft lighting in her expression.

“She out?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Fast?”

“Didn’t stand a chance.”

She smiles, patting the spot next to her. “Come sit.”

I grab a glass for myself, pour something without really paying attention to what it is, and drop down beside her.

For a moment, we just sit there.

“This feels weird,” she says after a second.

I glance at her. “Weird how?”

“Like… not having a crisis to manage.”

I take a sip of my drink, considering that.

“Yeah,” I admit. “A little.”

She smiles faintly, then leans back into the couch, her shoulder brushing mine.

My phone rings. At the name on the screen, we both sit up a little straighter.

It’s Rebecca.

“Answer it,” Zara says softly.

I nod and pick up. “Rebecca.”

“Jaxon,” she says. “I won’t keep you long.”

Something in her tone tells me everything I need to know.

I stand slowly, more out of instinct than necessity.

Zara watches me, her expression tight.

“The judge has finalized her decision,” Rebecca continues.

I don’t breathe.

“She is ruling in your favor. Full custody is being awarded to you. Rachel will have structured visitation rights.”

I close my eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the sheer relief flooding through me.

“She’s… staying,” I say, more to myself than to Rebecca.

“Yes,” Rebecca replies gently. “She is.”

I nod once. “Thank you.”

“You earned this,” she says. “Both of you did.”

The call ends.

I lower the phone slowly.

For a second, I just stand there.

Then I look at Zara.

She hasn’t moved.

“Jax?” she whispers.

“We got it,” I say.

Her breath catches.

“We got it.”

That’s all it takes.

She sets her glass down without looking and crosses the space between us in two quick steps, throwing her arms around me.

I catch her, pulling her in just as tight.

“We did it,” she breathes against my chest.

“We did.”

My hand slides up her back, holding her there, grounding both of us.

It’s over.

There’s no more fight.

No more waiting.

No more wondering if something is going to take this away from us.

She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes bright.

I reach for the wine, hand her glass back, then lift mine.

“To us,” I say.

Her smile breaks wide, unguarded, and something in my chest locks into place.

She lifts hers, her fingers brushing mine.

“To us.”

29

ZARA

Pickup

“Jax?” I whisper, my voice barely steady.

He looks at me, something deep and certain in his eyes. “We got it.”

The words hit me all at once. Like something unlocking inside my chest. Like everything that’s been tight and heavy and waiting finally… letting go.

And then I’m moving. I don’t even think about it—I just cross the space between us in two quick steps and throw my arms around him.

He catches me instantly, like he was already bracing for it, his arms wrapping around me just as tightly.

“We did it,” I say into his chest, my voice breaking a little despite myself.

“We did,” he murmurs.

His hand slides up my back, steady, grounding, holding me there like he’s not letting go anytime soon.

We won.

I pull back just enough to look at him, my heart still racing, my eyes burning a little.

He reaches for the wine, pressing my glass back into my hand before lifting his own.

“To us,” he says.

Something in my chest swells so big it almost hurts.

My fingers brush his as I lift my glass, still smiling like I’ve completely lost control of my face.

“To us,” I echo.

We clink glasses.

I take a sip, the wine warm and unfamiliar on my tongue, and then I let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking my head.

“I think… I think this is the best day of my life,” I admit.

He watches me, smiling just as wide.

“Let me see if I can make it even better,” he says, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs into his bedroom.

We’ve kissed so often now, but each one has been different. This one feels like everything that stood between us—doubt, pressure, fear—is finally gone.

There’s nothing in our way anymore.

His hands tremble slightly as he pulls me closer, and I feel that tremor all the way through my chest.

This man—this steady, unshakeable coach who commands respect from a whole locker room of athletes—is shaking.

“Zara,” he breathes against my mouth. “I don’t know how I deserve this much happiness.”

I answer by pressing up on my toes, slanting my lips over his again, deeper this time.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I taste the wine he had earlier—just a sip, enough to warm him—and underneath that, something purely Jaxon.

Something I haven’t stopped craving since our first night together.

His fingers find the hem of my sweater, and he stills.

I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. Dark. Hungry. But waiting.

“What are you waiting for?” I whisper, a smile threading through my voice.

That's all he needs.

The sweater comes over my head in one smooth motion, and then his hands are everywhere.

Skimming up my ribs. Tracing the edge of my bra. His calloused palms catch slightly on the lace, and the friction sends heat pooling low in my belly.

I arch into his touch, and he groans—a low, rough sound that I feel more than hear.

"You have no idea," he says, his voice thick as his mouth trails down my neck, "what you do to me."

"Tell me." I'm working at the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. "Tell me what I do to you."

“Since the first fucking day.” He nips at my collarbone, and I gasp. “I’ve wanted you. I still do.”

He presses his hard length against me. “This is what you do to me. All. The. Fucking. Time.”

I get the last button undone and push the shirt off his shoulders.

Once again I marvel over his broad shoulders.

There’s a dusting of light hair that trails down his stomach, disappearing beneath the denim.

My hands map him—over his shoulders, across his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm.

“I love you, Jaxon,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I love you so much.”

He turns us then, walking me backward until my knees hit the edge of the mattress.

I sit down hard, looking up at him through my lashes, and his expression shifts—something darker taking over. He cups my face in both hands, tilting my head back.

“I love you too, Zara,” he says, low and intense.

Then he kisses me again, following me down onto the bed, his weight settling over me as I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer.

The hard ridge of his cock presses against my core through too many layers of fabric, and I rock against him instinctively.

"Fuck, Zara." His voice breaks on my name.

His hand slides between us, working at the button of my jeans. I lift my hips to help him, and he peels them down my thighs, taking my underwear with them.

The cool air hits my heated skin, and then his fingers are there—sliding through my wetness, exploring.

"God, Zara." He growls my name, his mouth hot against my neck. "You have such a perfect little pussy. Always so wet and ready for me."

"Only for you," I manage, the confession coming out breathless.

He finds my clit with his thumb, circling with just the right pressure, and I cry out.

My hands fist in the comforter, twisting the fabric as pleasure builds in waves. One finger slides inside me, then two, curling to find that spot that makes my vision blur.

"Jaxon—"

"I've got you." His mouth replaces his thumb, his tongue dragging over my clit while his fingers continue their steady rhythm.

My back arches off the bed.

The scruff on his jaw scratches against my inner thighs, and the slight pain mixes with the pleasure until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

I'm close—so close—my thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, his hot breath vibrating against me. “So wet. So perfect.”

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me in pulsing waves, and I'm saying his name, over and over, like it's the only word I know.

He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my hips, my stomach, the curve of my breast still trapped in my bra.

When I open my eyes, he's watching me.

His lips are swollen and glistening, his eyes nearly black with desire. He reaches behind me to unclasp my bra, tossing it aside, and then he just... looks.

"You're beautiful." The words are rough, reverent. "Every fucking inch of you."

I reach for his belt, needing him bare, needing to feel all of him against all of me. He helps me, shoving his pants and boxers down in one fluid motion.

His cock springs free, thick and hard. I wrap my hand around him, stroking once, twice, and his head falls back with a low, guttural groan.

“Zara.” My name is a warning and a plea. “I need—”

“I know.” I reach for the nightstand, my fingers trembling as I find a foil packet. He watches me, his breath hitching as I tear it open. I place the latex against his head and roll it down, my knuckles brushing against his heat. He’s pulsing beneath my touch, straining with a restraint that looks like physical pain.

“Me too,” I whisper, discarding the wrapper and guiding him to my entrance.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch.

The stretch is exquisite—fullness and friction and the overwhelming rightness of having him inside me.

When he's fully seated, he stills, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

“Can you take this?”

“You know I can.”

“Such a good girl,” he praises, and God, if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

I open my eyes. His gaze holds mine as he pulls back, then slides home again.

The pace he sets is slow, deliberate—each thrust deep and measured, like he wants me to feel every inch of him, every moment of this connection.

"From now on," he rasps, his voice breaking. "It’s the two of us. You’re my fucking wife."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, dragging him down. "I know. I am."

His rhythm increases slightly, his hips snapping against mine with more urgency.

I meet him thrust for thrust, my body rising to his, and the room fills with the sounds of the creak of the mattress beneath us.

"Harder," I whisper against his ear. "I won't break."

A sound tears from his chest—something between a growl and a moan—and he obeys.

His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise as he pounds into me, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm.

I'm building again, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in my core.

"Come with me," I gasp. "Jaxon, please—"

"Fuck, yes." His hand slides between us, finding my clit, and that's all it takes.

We fall together.

My orgasm crashes through me at the same moment I feel him pulse inside, hot and thick.

He buries his face in my neck, groaning my name, and I hold him through it—through the tremors that shake us both, through the slow return to earth.

When our breathing finally steadies, he doesn't pull out. Instead, he shifts us onto our sides, tucking me against his chest, his still-semi-hard cock nestled inside me.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder, and I press a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

"I love you," he murmurs into my hair.

I tilt my head up to look at him. In the dim light, I see the vulnerability in his expression—the same raw, terrifying, wonderful vulnerability I feel in my own chest.

“I love you, too,” I tell him.

***

The next day, I’m a little early to pick Lily up from school.

She’ll be happy about that. She likes it when I’m already waiting when the bell rings. Says it makes her feel like she’s the first kid in the world someone came for.

The thought pulls a smile from me.

The spring air is cool enough that I’m glad for the light sweater I threw on before leaving the apartment.

I quickly type a message to Danny.

Me:

We got it!

Danny:

Woohoo! Congratulations! I couldn’t be happier for you!

Danny:

How’s your husband?

I ignore the eggplant emoji he sent.

Me:

Over the moon and in love.

Danny:

Ugh. You two are sickening.

Me:

Love you too.

I tuck my phone away and head toward the front entrance, passing a row of cheerful chalk drawings fading on the sidewalk—flowers, suns, a lopsided rainbow. Someone’s attempt at a dog that looks more like a potato with legs.

Lily had insisted this morning that she was going to draw me a dragon this afternoon if she got free art time.

I told her I would frame it.

She’d narrowed her eyes at me over her cereal. “You better not be lying.”

I’d sworn on my favorite sneakers.

That had satisfied her.

The memory warms something soft in my chest as I reach the front steps.

The doors are still closed. Pickup hasn’t started yet. A few other adults linger nearby, some scrolling on their phones, some chatting quietly.

I move to my usual spot near the office windows, settling in to wait, calm and content. Everything is going so well.

My phone buzzes in my purse.

It’s Jaxon.

A strange little thrill runs through me before I can stop it.

Jaxon:

Running ten minutes late from the rink. How’s my favorite girl?

I stare at the message for a second longer than necessary.

I type back before I can overthink it.

Me:

Which one?

The three dots appear almost instantly.

Jaxon:

The one who bossed me into cutting the crusts off her sandwich this morning.

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head.

Me:

Good thing she hasn’t asked for pancakes in her school lunch… yet.

His reply comes back right away.

Jaxon:

Keep me posted.

There’s something so easy about this. So domestic. So dangerously nice that I have to slide the phone back into my bag before I start standing here in front of an elementary school smiling like an idiot.

My gaze drifts over the parking lot, over the parents gathering in loose clusters, over the black iron fence framing the playground out back.

Then it catches on a woman walking toward the entrance.

For half a second, nothing about her registers beyond polished.

She’s tall, slim, dressed in cream slacks and a pale blouse under a tailored camel coat that probably costs more than my rent used to.

Her dark hair is blown smooth, not a strand out of place, and she moves with the quiet confidence of someone used to rooms rearranging themselves around her.

Then she looks directly at me.

And something cold slips down my spine.

Because I know exactly who she is.

I’ve seen her in court.

It’s Rachel, Lily’s mother.

My fingers curl more tightly around the strap of my purse.

She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t look uncertain or surprised. She comes straight toward me with the kind of measured calm that feels more threatening than anger ever could.

When she stops in front of me, her mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile.

“Zara, right?”

The fact that she recognizes me instantly shouldn’t surprise me. It still does.

I straighten slightly. “Yes.”

Her gaze moves over me, clinical. Appraising. Like she’s checking a list against reality.

“I’m Rachel.”

Her tone is light, but there’s an edge beneath it, just enough to make my skin prickle.

“I know.”

For one absurd second, I consider pretending I need to take a phone call. Walking away. Finding a teacher, the office, anyone.

Instead, I stay exactly where I am.

Rachel glances toward the school doors, folds her sunglasses, and tucks them into her bag. Casual, like this is small talk.

“So, Zara, I imagine this situation must be confusing for you.”

“Not really.”

“No? Well, good for you. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You seem like a really sweet person…”

I don’t respond right away, already certain this isn’t going anywhere good.

“Was there a reason you wanted to talk to me?”

She studies me for a beat, and I feel the exact moment she drops the pretense.

“Actually, yes.” Her voice lowers, softer now, more intimate. “I wanted to understand what exactly Jaxon thinks he’s doing.”

There it is.

I hold her gaze. “If you have something to say to him, you should say it to him.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice so no one else can hear.

“Has he told you what this is?”

My spine stiffens. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Whatever version of reality he’s selling you.” Her gaze is cool, almost pitying. “The stable home. The devoted father. The man who finally found someone he can trust.”

I keep my expression neutral.

Rachel goes on. “Men like him don’t fall in love with women like you,” she says, almost gently. “They rely on them. Until they don’t anymore.”

For one horrible second, it’s like she’s reached into my chest and put a hand around every secret insecurity I have.

The difference in our worlds.

The fact that Jaxon is all sharp edges and wealth and command, and I still sometimes feel like I’m making up adulthood as I go.

The way everything between us has been real and not real at the same time, built in stolen moments and heated glances and things neither of us fully says out loud.

My throat goes tight.

I hate her for this.

I hate myself more for the split second where doubt opens inside me like a crack in ice.

Rachel watches me with a predator’s patience.

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” she lies. “You actually seem nice. That’s why I thought you should know. Before you embarrass yourself.”

I swallow hard. “Are you done?”

“Almost.”

She glances toward the doors as voices rise inside the building. Children. Teachers. The end-of-day shuffle.

Something in her posture changes. Becomes more alert.

My own instincts go on high alert with it.

Rachel looks back at me, all composed elegance. “I’m Lily’s mother. You should remember that before you start mistaking proximity for importance.”

Then the bell rings.

The sound slices through the tension like glass shattering.

The front doors swing open and kids begin spilling out, bright backpacks bouncing, voices overlapping in a hundred excited pitches.

And then I see Lily.

She comes through the doors with two girls from her class, her pink cardigan unbuttoned, one shoelace half untied, the paper crown they made in class slightly crooked on her head. She’s laughing about something, animated and bright, until her gaze lifts.

She sees me first. Her face lights.

Then she sees Rachel. And everything in her expression changes.

The smile drops away. Confusion rushes in first. Then hope. Then something smaller and more fragile that hurts to look at.

Rachel’s entire body softens in an instant. It’s so fast, so practiced, that if I hadn’t just stood here while she tried to gut me open with a smile on her face, I might believe it.

“Hi, baby,” she says, voice warm as honey.

Lily slows.

Rachel crouches gracefully, arms opening. “Come here.”

Lily looks at me, uncertain, like she’s trying to figure out where it’s safe to go before she moves.

Rachel notices, and a flicker of irritation crosses her face before the sweetness slides back into place.

“I missed you so much,” she tells Lily. “Mommy wanted to surprise you.”

Lily shifts her backpack higher on her shoulders. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

“No, sweetheart. That’s why it’s a surprise.” Rachel steps closer before Lily can say anything else. “I thought maybe we could spend the afternoon together. Just us.”

My whole body goes tense.

Because that wasn’t the plan. Because Rachel isn’t on Lily’s pickup list. Because this is wrong on so many levels.

But Rachel says it all with such easy certainty that for one dizzy second I understand how dangerous she is.

How a child could be swept into that tone. How a school office could be charmed if no one checked twice.

Lily’s eyes dart to me again.

Rachel reaches for Lily’s hand and she lets Rachel take it.

Just for a second, I freeze.

One stupid, awful second where Rachel’s words are still in my head.

You’re useful. You’re temporary.

It lasts maybe a heartbeat.

Then Lily takes one tiny step toward Rachel, not because she’s eager, not because she feels safe, but because she’s six and adults are supposed to know what they’re doing.

And that snaps something in me clean in half.

I move. “She’s not going with you today.”

My voice comes out calm and steady.

Rachel turns her head slowly. “Excuse me?”

I step closer, putting myself within reach of Lily without yanking or making a scene. “You’re not authorized for pickup.”

Rachel’s expression barely changes. “I’m her mother.”

“I know who you are.”

“Then I’m not sure why you’re speaking to me like I’m a stranger.”

Because this is wrong, I think again.

“Lily is leaving with me,” I say evenly. “Please stick to the approved visitation schedule.”

Rachel lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s adorable.”

She looks down at Lily. “Sweetheart, get your things. We’re going.”

Lily doesn’t move.

Her little face has gone blank in that way children do when too much is happening too fast.

I crouch to her level immediately.

“Hey, bug.”

Her eyes jump to mine.

I keep my tone gentle, even though my pulse is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. “Look at me, okay?”

She swallows and nods.

“We’re sticking to the plan.”

“Remember?” I tell Lily. “We go home, you have snack, then you show me whether your unicorn has wings or if it’s one of those fancy wingless ones you invented.”

Lily blinks.

Then, so quietly I almost miss it, she says, “Mine has glitter hooves.”

Relief punches through me so fast it nearly buckles my knees.

“That’s right.” I smile at her. “And I really need to see those.”

Rachel’s grip tightens minutely around Lily’s hand.

“Lily,” she says, voice still warm but harder underneath now, “Mommy wants to spend time with you. Don’t you want that?”

Lily’s mouth trembles.

God.

I could hate Rachel for the rest of my life for trying to make her answer that question.

A teacher starts toward us from the doorway, concern written across her face, but I speak first.

Still crouched, focused only on Lily, I say, “Bug, it’s okay. You don’t have to answer that. We’re sticking to the plan, okay? You can see your mom another time. We’ll make sure it’s scheduled.”

Something flashes in Rachel’s expression then. It’s fury. Cold and sharp and quickly hidden.

“I’m her mother.”

“And right now,” I say, equally quiet, “you’re frightening her.”

Rachel’s nostrils flare.

The teacher reaches us at last. “Is everything okay here?”

Rachel turns on the charm so fast it would almost be impressive if it weren’t monstrous.

“Yes, of course. Minor misunderstanding.” She smiles lightly. “I’m Lily’s mother. I’m just taking her for the afternoon.”

I cut in quickly.

“She is not authorized for pickup today.” My voice is calm, professional. “I’m Lily’s assigned pickup, and if there’s any confusion I’m happy to walk inside with you and call Mr. Halberg right now.”

Rachel’s gaze slices to me, pure venom hidden beneath a social smile.

The teacher looks at Lily. “Honey, are you okay?”

Lily finally pulls her hand free from Rachel’s, steps toward me, and presses into my side.

Something in the teacher’s expression hardens.

“Ma’am,” she says to Rachel, “I’m going to need you to step back.”

Rachel’s mask slips. Humiliation, disbelief, and anger war across her face.

She looks down at Lily and the sweetness returns, brittle around the edges now. “Baby, you don’t have to be scared. I’m your mom.”

Lily says nothing. She only squeezes my hand harder.

My heart feels like someone took it out of my chest and closed a fist around it.

Rachel’s eyes lift to mine.

The softness is gone.

What’s left is much more honest.

The teacher gestures toward the entrance. Another staff member has appeared in the doorway, watching. A few parents nearby are pretending not to stare.

She smooths a hand down the front of her coat as if this is all beneath her.

“Fine,” she says. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

She turns as though she’s about to walk away. Then pauses beside me.

She leans in just enough that only I can hear her.

“When he’s done with you,” she murmurs, voice like silk over a blade, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Then she straightens, puts her sunglasses back on, and walks away across the parking lot like she didn’t just try to take her child against the agreed plan.

I don’t breathe properly again until her car pulls out.

The teacher says something about the office wanting a quick note made of the incident, about calling Jaxon, about whether Lily needs a moment inside.

I answer because I have to. Because adults are talking to me and paperwork and procedures matter.

But part of me is entirely focused on the little girl glued to my side.

“Can we go home now?” Lily asks in a very small voice.

I look down at her.

Her crown is still crooked. One shoelace is still untied. Her eyes are too wide, her mouth trying so hard not to wobble.

And something fierce and absolute surges through me.

“Yes,” I say immediately. “We can go home.”

30

JAXON

How Dare She?

The call comes in just as I’m leaving the rink.

I almost let it go to voicemail.

Practice ran long, and my head is still full of systems, line rotations, the rhythm of the ice.

I’ve got Simone texting me about media, Nate asking about adjustments for tomorrow, and a dozen other things pulling at my attention.

Then I see the number. It’s the school.

Shit.

Zara should already be there, so why are they calling?

I answer immediately. “Halberg.”

“Mr. Halberg, this is Ms. Keller from Lily’s school.”

Her voice is measured.

“Is Lily okay?”

“Yes—yes, she’s safe,” she says quickly. “She’s with your wife right now.”

That’s something.

“Okay, what’s going on?” I ask.

There’s a small pause. Paper rustling. Like she’s choosing how much to tell me.

“Your daughter’s mother came to the school for pickup today,” she says. “She attempted to take Lily with her.”

What in the—?

“What do you mean attempted?” My voice drops.

“She was not authorized for pickup. Mrs. Halberg intervened and ensured Lily remained with her. We stepped in as well.”

My jaw clenches so hard I feel it in my temples. “She tried to take her?” I ask, making sure I understood correctly.

“Yes.”

“Is Lily okay?”

“There was no physical escalation. But Lily was… I think you can understand—upset and confused.”

I close my eyes for a second, forcing myself to breathe. “Is Rachel still there?”

“No. She left after the incident. We’ve documented everything.”

Good. Because if she were still there—

No. Focus.

“Where are Lily and Zara right now?”

“They should be on their way home.”

“Good.” My voice sharpens. “I’m on my way.” I hang up.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

I’m angry. More angry than I’ve ever been. Angrier than when the custody battle started. Angrier than when Rachel cheated on me.

It coils in my stomach, tight and vicious. I want to hit something.

How dare she cross that line?

I move.

By the time I get into the car, my pulse is pounding, my thoughts racing ahead of me.

I start the engine and pull out fast.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I drive.

Images flash through my mind, unwanted and immediate.

Lily standing there. Rachel talking to her. Reaching for her.

My chest tightens.

No.

She doesn’t get to do that.

And then I think of Zara. Of course I do. She handled it. I don’t even know how I could love her more or owe her more than I already do—but somehow, I do.

I press the accelerator a little harder.

The drive home feels like it takes forever and no time at all.

By the time I push open the apartment door, I’m sweating, jittery.

Zara stands in the kitchen, wiping down the counter.

The second I see her, something in my chest loosens.

I don’t say anything. I just cross the distance between us and pull her into me.

Hard.

She exhales against me as my arms wrap around her, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her into my chest.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice low, rougher than I intend.

“I’m okay,” she says immediately, her arms tightening around me. “Lily’s okay.”

I close my eyes for half a second.

Thank God.

“Did she touch you?” I ask.

Zara pulls back slightly, her brows knitting. “No. Nothing like that. She tried to take her, but I stopped it.”

I let out a slow breath. “You did exactly right.”

Her eyes search mine. “She tried to—she tried to make Lily choose.”

My jaw tightens again.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “That sounds like her.”

The words hang there for a second. Heavy. Ugly.

Then something shifts in my chest—sharp and immediate, cutting straight through the anger.

“Zara, I don’t know how to thank you.” My voice comes out rough. Hoarse.

Her expression shifts instantly, something almost startled flashing across her face. “Jax—”

“I mean it,” I cut in, the words dragging out of me. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

She shakes her head, like I’m making it bigger than it is. “Anyone would have done that.”

“No,” I say quietly. “There’s only one person who could have been there for Lily like that. There’s only one Zara.”

Zara swallows.

Without thinking, I pull her back into me again.

“Thank you,” I murmur against her hair.

She exhales softly, her arms sliding around me.

“You really don’t have to thank me,” she says.

“I do.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s warmth in it.

“Come on,” she says softly after a second. “She’s in the living room, listening to a podcast.”

I don’t wait. I move past Zara, down the hallway.

Lily is sitting on the couch, small and quiet, her legs tucked under her, her backpack still on the floor beside her.

“Hey, bug,” I say, keeping my voice light as I step closer, like this is any normal afternoon.

Her head snaps up. “Dad.”

She’s off the couch immediately, running toward me.

I catch her easily, lifting her into my arms, holding her tight. She clings to me.

“Hey,” I murmur, pressing a quick kiss to her hair. “What’s going on, huh?”

She shrugs against me, a little uncertain. “Mommy came to school. I didn’t know what to do.”

I nod like that makes perfect sense. “Yeah?”

“She said we could go,” Lily says, pulling back to look at me. “She said it was a surprise.”

“I heard,” I say, keeping my tone calm, almost conversational. “That must’ve been confusing.”

She nods.

“I didn’t want to make her sad,” she adds.

A sharp surge of anger hits me, hot and immediate, but I push it down.

I shift, sitting down on the couch with her in my lap, turning her slightly so we’re facing each other.

“Hey,” I say gently. “Can I ask you something?”

She nods.

“What did you think in that moment?” I ask. “Like, what felt right to you?”

She frowns, thinking. “I… looked at Zara.”

My chest tightens just a fraction.

“And?” I prompt softly.

“And she said we were sticking to the plan,” Lily says. “So I stayed.”

I nod, like that’s the most natural thing in the world. “That makes sense.”

She watches my face carefully. “Was that okay?”

“Yeah,” I say easily. “That was a really good decision.”

Her shoulders relax just a little.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I add, keeping it simple. “You just followed the plan. That’s exactly what we want you to do.”

“Okay,” she says, a little more certain now.

“And if something ever feels confusing again,” I continue, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “you can always take a second, look for one of your grown-ups, and stick with what we talked about. Sound good?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

I smile at her. “Good.”

There’s a beat. Then she leans into me again, a little more like herself.

Zara steps closer, quiet, steady, and Lily reaches for her without even thinking about it.

Zara takes her hand, squeezing gently. “You handled that really well,” she says softly.

Lily glances between us. “It was a little weird.”

I huff out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Sounds like it.”

“But not bad-weird,” Lily adds quickly. “Just… weird-weird.”

I nod. “I get that.”

She seems satisfied with that explanation.

Then, just like that—

“Can we have a snack?” she asks.

Zara laughs softly. “Of course we can.”

I shake my head. “Impressive recovery time.”

“I’m hungry,” Lily says, like that explains everything.

“You usually are, bug.”

We head into the kitchen together, the energy already shifting.

Zara starts pulling things together, moving easily through the space. Lily climbs onto a stool, swinging her legs like nothing out of the ordinary happened today.

“Can I have the crusts off?” she asks.

Zara glances at me. “Of course you can.”

I lean back against the counter, watching them, and it hits me how quickly Lily settles again.

Later, the three of us end up back on the couch.

Lily wedges herself between Zara and me, fitting perfectly into the space like it was made for her.

She leans against me, her hand reaching out blindly for Zara’s.

Zara takes it without hesitation, her fingers curling gently around Lily’s.

“I like when we’re all together,” Lily murmurs, already half-asleep.

I glance at Zara.

She looks back at me.

And something settles deep in my chest.

“Me too,” I say.

Lily shifts closer, her breathing evening out.

Zara leans into my shoulder.

I wrap an arm around both of them, pulling them in just slightly.

Holding them there.

Safe.

Epilogue - ZARA

Blanket Fort

Afew months later

The first thing I hear when I wake up in warm sheets that smell like Jaxon is the soft clink of dishes.

And underneath that—Lily’s voice.

Bright. Awake. Animated. Sometimes I wonder where she gets all that energy from.

Listening to her now, something warm spreads through me, slow and deep.

I push myself up, pulling one of Jaxon’s shirts over my head, the fabric falling loose against my thighs.

It still smells faintly like him, clean and warm and something that makes my chest tighten in the best way.

As I step into the hallway, I pause for a second, just listening.

“…and then Mia said I could come over this weekend, and I told her I’d have to ask first, but I think it’s fine, right? Because we don’t have a game then—do we have a game then?”

“No game,” Jaxon says, his voice calm, steady, threaded with that quiet amusement he never quite hides around her. “But we do have to check schedules. You know the rule.”

“I know,” Lily groans dramatically. “Schedules are ruining my life.”

“Tragic,” he deadpans.

I lean against the wall for a second, just watching them through the doorway.

Jaxon stands at the counter, sleeves pushed up, moving with that easy confidence that’s so completely him.

There’s a pan on the stove, something sizzling, and he flips it one-handed while holding his phone in the other, glancing at it briefly before setting it aside.

Lily sits on one of the stools, swinging her legs, her hair still a little messy from sleep, talking a mile a minute.

Jaxon glances up, and the second his eyes find mine, a small smile tugs at his lips.

“Hey,” he says.

I step into the kitchen. “Hey.”

He crosses the space between us in a few easy strides, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and presses a quick kiss to my mouth.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Morning.”

“Ew,” Lily says immediately. “You guys are so gross in the morning.”

I laugh, pulling back, and Jaxon just smirks.

“You’ll survive,” he says.

I move to stand beside her, brushing my fingers through her hair lightly. “You okay?”

She leans into the touch without even thinking about it. “Yeah.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“Good,” I say softly.

Jaxon turns back to the stove. “Grilled cheese.”

“For breakfast?” Lily perks up.

“For today? Yes.”

“Best day ever,” she declares.

I meet Jaxon’s eyes over her head, and he gives me the smallest shrug, like what can you do?

I smile.

Some things don’t need fixing.

We fall into the rhythm of it without thinking. I grab plates. He finishes the sandwiches. Lily narrates her entire life in between bites of air and anticipation.

At some point, I glance at the calendar on the fridge.

There’s a note scribbled there.

Lily – Mom visit (Saturday)

I pause for a second, looking at it.

Rachel has been… better.

More consistent. More present. Showing up when she says she will. Leaving when she’s supposed to.

She broke up with her venture capital fiancé shortly after the school incident, and it seems like she’s trying to get her life in order. She’s making an effort.

I think that day came from sheer desperation. She’s not the villain I turned her into in my head. But I haven’t forgiven her either.

We’ve found a way to exist in the same orbit without everything crashing into chaos.

We’re not friends, and we never will be. But we’re… cordial.

And for Lily, that’s enough.

“Do we have anything after school?” Lily asks, already halfway through her sandwich.

Jaxon wipes his hands on a towel. “You have reading.”

She groans. “I always have reading.”

“That’s because you like books,” I point out.

She narrows her eyes at me. “That doesn’t mean I like homework.”

Jaxon leans back against the counter, watching her with that look that still makes something in my chest twist.

Pride. Love. A kind of quiet awe he doesn’t try to hide.

He catches me looking at him and arches a brow.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say, smiling.

He doesn’t buy it, but he lets it go.

“I’ll be home early today,” he says. “More voices from the staff reached management—they made it clear they expect a family-friendly workplace and a healthy work-life balance.”

Lily looks up from her plate, chewing thoughtfully. “Does that mean you’re not working later?”

“Exactly,” he says.

Her eyes light up instantly. “So you’re home-home? Not just like… quick-home and then back to work-home?”

Jaxon huffs out a quiet laugh. “I’m home-home.”

Lily straightens on her chair, excitement practically vibrating through her. “Can we do something then?”

“What kind of something?” he asks.

“Something fun,” she says, like that explains everything. Then she looks between us, hopeful. “All together.”

Something in my chest softens immediately.

Jaxon glances at me, then back at her. “What did you have in mind?”

She thinks hard for a second, her brows furrowing. “We could… go get ice cream. Or go to the park. Or have a movie night. Or build a blanket fort. Or—” she gasps, like she’s just had the best idea ever, “—we could do all of it!”

I laugh softly. “That sounds like a full schedule.”

Jaxon leans back slightly, watching her, that same softened look in his eyes. “Let’s start with the park and ice cream. What do you think?”

“Oh yes, Daddy,” Lily agrees. “But we also have to build a blanket fort.”

He considers her for a second. “Okay. You’ve got some time before school. Maybe you can draw a plan for the fort, and we’ll build it together when we get back home.”

Lily pumps her fist in the air. “Yes! I’m going to design the best blanket fort ever.”

She slides off the chair, already buzzing with energy again. “I’m going to get paper.”

She’s halfway to the hallway when she suddenly stops.

Slowly, very slowly, she turns back around, a sly look creeping into her eyes.

Uh oh.

Lily walks back into the kitchen, paper completely forgotten, studying us with narrowed eyes.

“What?” I ask carefully.

She tilts her head.

“Now that you’re, like… married-married,” she says, gesturing vaguely between us, “can I get a baby brother or sister?”

Okay. Where did that come from?

Jaxon and I just stand there, staring at each other, each silently hoping the other will answer.

When he doesn’t, I try.

“Wow,” I say faintly. “Okay.”

Jaxon clears his throat. “That’s—uh—that’s a big question, bug.”

Lily shrugs. “Not really. Maria has two. And Noah has a baby brother and a sister and a dog, which is kind of too much, but still.”

“Too much,” Jaxon echoes.

“Yeah.” She nods seriously. “I don’t need a dog.”

“Good to know,” I murmur.

She looks between us again, waiting, expectant.

Lily leans forward on the counter. “So?”

I glance at Jaxon, and he looks right back at me.

I turn to Lily.

“Well,” I say gently, “that’s not something that happens right away.”

She nods like she already knows. “I know. Babies take a long time.”

“That’s correct,” Jaxon says.

“But,” I continue, stealing another quick glance at him, “it is something we’ve… thought about.”

Lily’s eyes light up instantly. “Really?”

Jaxon huffs out a quiet breath, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now. “Yeah,” he says. “Really.”

She beams. “So I might get one?”

“Maybe,” I say, smiling. “Someday.”

She considers that for a second.

Then she nods decisively. “Okay.” A beat. “But just so you know, I’m not sharing my room.”

“Noted,” Jaxon says.

She seems completely satisfied with that.

“Okay,” she adds, like the matter is officially settled.

Then she turns and runs off again. “I’m still making the fort plan!”

We stand there for a second in silence.

Then we both start laughing at the same time.

Quiet at first. Then a little helpless.

“Well,” I murmur, “no one can say we don’t talk things through in this family.”

Jaxon grins and winks at me. “You said yes, so there’s no backing out of this crazy now.”

“Don’t I know it.”

A moment later, Lily comes racing back with paper in hand.

And for a moment, the three of us just… are.

Planning blanket forts.

Like it’s the most important thing in the world.

And right now—

It kind of is.

THE END.

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Did you like this book? Then you’ll LOVE Pucking Hitched.

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One wild night in Vegas and I’m married to Jake Morrison, the Metro Raptor’s team captain and my dad’s greatest asset. Our wedding night turns out to be a full-contact sport. Only the morning after he’s colder than the rink. He plays by his rules: no rings, no babies, no attachments. One failed annulment later, we double down and fake the relationship. Now we have to convince everyone we’ve been dating all along… instead of getting pucking hitched. Except I fall for the man who swore he didn't need anyone. And just when I’m all in, the puck drops. I'm pregnant.

Read chapter 1 on the very next page!

Sneak Peek

I accidentally married a grumpy NHL captain. Coach Daddy is going to kill me.

One wild night in Vegas and I’m married to Jake Morrison, the Metro Raptor’s team captain and my dad’s greatest asset.

Jake looks like he was carved for sin and slap shots.

Our wedding night? A full-contact sport.

But the morning after he’s colder than the rink.

He plays by his rules: no rings, no babies, no attachments.

I’d rather swallow a puck than confess this disaster to my dad.

One failed annulment later, we double down and fake the relationship.

Now we have to convince everyone we’ve been dating all along… instead of getting pucking hitched.

Except the more time we spend together, the less I can pretend this is nothing.

I fall for the man who swore he didn't need anyone.

And just when I’m all in, the puck drops.

I’m pregnant.

Click here to get Pucking Hitched

Chapter 1

TALIA

Vegas Vows

The neon pulse of Las Vegas isn’t a heartbeat; it’s a migraine in a tuxedo.

Everything about this city offends my sensibilities.

I like structure. I like the predictable physics of a puck hitting the back of the net and the rigid discipline of a morning skate at 5:00 AM. I like systems.

But here, in the VIP lounge of Omnia, the only system is chaos, and the only physics involve how much expensive champagne you can drink.

"Captain! Drink!" Connor Hayes, our rookie forward and a man who possesses the impulse control of a golden retriever on espresso, shoves a glass into my hand.

"I’m good, Connor," I say, my voice straining to be heard over the bass that’s currently vibrating my ribcage.

"You are not good. You are boring!" Connor shouts, throwing an arm around my neck.

"It is Rhys’s bachelor party. The 'Rocket' is getting launched into holy matrimony. You must celebrate or I will tell Coach you are actually a robot programmed only to calculate puck possession percentages."

I sigh, taking a sip of the liquid fire. It’s top-shelf scotch, but in this heat, it tastes like regret.

Rhys is across the booth, looking deliriously happy and spectacularly drunk, Elara’s name probably tattooed on his heart and—given the state of him—possibly about to be tattooed on his ass if we don’t keep an eye on him.

I’m the Captain of the Metro Raptors.

It’s my job to keep an eye on everyone. I’m the designated adult, the one who ensures the rookies don't end up in a desert ditch and the veterans don't blow their signing bonuses on a single hand of blackjack.

But tonight, the air is thick with the scent of ozone and expensive perfume, and the scotch is starting to blur the sharp edges of my discipline.

I feel... restless. It’s not just the noise. It’s the weight of the ‘C’ on my jersey—metaphorically speaking—that never seems to come off.

"I need air," I mutter, untangling myself from Connor’s bear hug.

"Air is for people who aren't winning!" Connor yells after me, already distracted by a tray of sliders.

I push through the crowd, my height acting as a prow.

People part for me, mostly because I’m built like a brick wall and currently wearing a look that suggests I might demolish anyone in my path.

I find the exit toward the terrace, my head spinning slightly.

Maybe I’ve had more than two drinks. Maybe it was four.

I’m halfway to the door when the world tilts.

Oof.

A blur of bright, aggressive yellow slams into my chest.

It’s like being hit by a rogue winger, except this winger smells like vanilla and wild strawberries.

My scotch—the one I didn't even want—decides to migrate from my glass to the front of my white button-down.

"Watch it," I snap, my hand instinctively reaching out to steady the person who just tackled my sternum.

"Watch it yourself, Hercules," a sharp, melodic voice fires back.

I look down.

Standing there, clutching a tiny gold clutch and looking entirely unbothered by the fact that she’s currently wearing a dress the color of a highlighter, is a woman who barely reaches my chin.

She has a halo of blonde hair that’s slightly windswept and eyes the color of a frozen lake in mid-January.

"You ran into me," I say, gesturing to the dark stain spreading across my shirt. "This was custom-made."

She looks at the stain, then up at me, popping a bubble of gum. "And I’m sure your tailor will be devastated. But you were walking like you owned the hallway, Mr. Grump. Some of us are just trying to navigate the minefield of bachelor parties out there."

“Mr. Grump?” I echo, a dry huff slipping out. “I’m allowed to be grumpy. You ruined my shirt.”

“And I’m the one with a bruised shoulder,” she shoots back, stepping closer like she’s ready to present evidence.

She doesn't look intimidated. Most people, when faced with six-foot-three of annoyed hockey player, tend to apologize.

She looks like she’s contemplating poking me with a stick just to see what happens. "You’ve got a very serious forehead, you know that? Very... structural. You need to let a little sunshine in."

"I don't need 'sunshine,'" I say, my voice dropping an octave. The scotch is definitely hitting now, because the way her blue eyes are dancing is making it very hard to stay annoyed. "I need a dry cleaner."

"Well, Sunshine is standing right here," she says with a wicked, dimpled smile. "And Sunshine thinks you look like you haven't had a single bit of fun since the Clinton administration."

"I have fun," I lie. My idea of fun is a clean sheet and a well-executed power play.

"Liar." She tilts her head. "You’re one of those 'controlled' guys, aren't you? Everything in its place. Perfect hair. Perfect scowl. I bet you even fold your socks by color."

"It’s efficient," I grunt.

She laughs, and the sound is dangerous. It’s light and infectious, and for a second, the heavy weight of the Raptors’ upcoming season feels like it’s lifting.

She doesn't know who I am. She doesn't see the Captain; she just sees a guy in a stained shirt.

"Tell you what, Hercules," she says, grabbing my wrist. Her skin is warm, and the contact sends a jolt straight to my gut. "I feel bad about the shirt. Not really, but let’s pretend. Let me buy you a shot to fix that attitude."

"I should go back to my friends," I say, though I make zero effort to move.

"Your 'friends' will survive without their babysitter for a while. Come on. One shot. Unless you’re scared of a little tequila?"

I should say no. I should turn around, find Rhys, and go back to the hotel. But the way she’s looking at me—like I’m a challenge she’s already won—grates against my competitive nature.

“I’m not scared of anything, Sunshine,” I say, leaning down until we’re eye to eye.

“Prove it.”

She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

She spins on her heel and leads me deeper into the neon belly of the club, toward a secondary bar tucked away from the main dance floor.

She signals the bartender, orders two shots of something clear and lethal-looking, and before I can object, she slides one toward me.

“To the shirt,” she says, clinking her glass against mine.

“To the shirt,” I mutter, tossing it back. It burns all the way down, a searing trail of liquid confidence settling in my chest.

She watches me over the rim of her own glass as she downs hers without even flinching.

“You do that a lot?” I ask.

“Do what?”

“Order drinks like you’re issuing a challenge.”

She shrugs. “Only when the company looks like it needs loosening up.”

“I don’t need loosening up.”

Her gaze drops to my hand, where I’m crushing the napkin like it personally insulted my bloodline.

“This napkin would disagree.”

I glance down, then deliberately relax my grip, smoothing it out on the bar like that proves a point.

I rest one elbow against the counter and turn toward her. “So who are you here with?”

She studies me for a beat, then smiles slowly. “No one.”

I frown. “No one?”

“I’m here alone.”

I glance toward the dance floor, the crowd, the drunk guys hovering like moths around any woman in a dress. “You came out alone.”

“Yes.”

“To a club.”

“Yes.”

“In Vegas.”

She leans her hip against the bar, clearly entertained. “Your powers of deduction are dazzling.”

I ignore that. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you out alone?”

She traces the rim of her empty shot glass with one finger. “Why not?”

“Because,” I say evenly, “most people don’t come to a place like this alone.”

“I just wanted to have fun tonight.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Do you really think that’s safe?”

“I can handle myself,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Now, let’s find a place where the music doesn’t sound like a construction site. I know a spot three blocks over.”

I should be heading back to the VIP booth and Rhys’s bachelor party. “I really should get back.”

“Come on. Live a little, Hercules.”

“I am living,” I argue.

Her hands slide from my shirt to my chest, fingers splayed over my sternum like she’s checking for a pulse.

“I bet,” she says softly, “you’ve never done anything truly stupid.”

I laugh, offended. “And that’s a bad thing? People rely on me. I have responsibilities. I don’t have the luxury of doing something stupid. It wouldn’t just affect me.”

She studies me this time, no mockery in her gaze. Just curiosity.

“Ah,” she says quietly. “So you’re noble.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re twenty-something and built like a Greek god, standing in the middle of Vegas at two in the morning,” she counters. “You’re allowed one bad decision.”

And because I must be more drunk than I thought, I follow the flash of yellow out of the club and into the night.

The shift from air-conditioned bass-thumping chaos to thick, dry Vegas heat hits like a wall, but Sunshine doesn’t slow down.

A streetlight flickers overhead, casting gold over her hair and that sinful yellow dress that should honestly be illegal in at least twelve states. It hugs her curves like it was stitched with bad intentions.

She weaves through tourists on the sidewalk, occasionally catching my hand to pull me along.

We hit a dive bar, then another, the night blurring together as the tequila and the scotch hold a summit in my brain.

By the time we’re stumbling out of the third bar, my laughter is louder than I’ve ever heard it.

She’s currently doing a terrible, exaggerated version of a dance she saw a guy doing inside, and I’m leaning against a lamppost, watching her with a grin that feels permanent.

"You are a terrible dancer," I shout, the sound echoing off the buildings.

"I am an expressive dancer!" she yells back, stumbling toward me and grabbing my lapels. "You, on the other hand, are standing there like a statue. A very handsome, very grumpy statue."

We turn a corner, leaving the main strip behind for a street lined with flickering pink and blue signs.

Somehow, I don’t feel like myself tonight.

It has to be the mix of alcohol, recklessness, and her laughter, which is its own kind of intoxication.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alive.

We keep walking, and I slide an arm around her, pulling her into my side. She fits there too easily.

She smells incredible. Warm. Sweet. Dangerous.

We’re giggling like teenagers, flirting without restraint, and I know I want to take this woman home tonight. I want to make her forget everything but my name. I want to drag every breathless sound out of her that I can.

And then I see something that derails every single one of those thoughts.

We’re standing directly in front of a small whitewashed building with a neon-lit heart glowing over the door.

L’Amour & Luck 24-Hour Wedding Chapel.

I stop walking.

“Oh, look,” I say, staring at it like it just personally challenged me. “A classic Vegas landmark.”

She follows my gaze, then looks up at me with a grin that’s already forming.

“Do you think they have a ‘Grumpy Groom’ special?” She says it like she’s teasing, like this whole neon chapel thing is just a joke.

But something in my tequila-soaked brain latches onto it like it’s the greatest idea ever conceived by mankind.

We’re standing in front of the chapel window now. Plastic roses. Flashing pink lights. A cardboard Elvis giving a thumbs up like he personally endorses bad decisions and unpaid alimony.

She giggles and leans her head against my arm, nearly taking us both down because neither of us is walking in a straight line anymore.

“I’ve always wondered who actually does that,” she says. “Just… walks in and says ‘I do’ to a stranger.”

“You know what?” I say suddenly, way too loudly.

Her brows lift. “What?”

“I think they absolutely have a Grumpy Groom special.”

“Oh yeah?”

An idea is forming.

Big.

Bright.

Deeply irresponsible.

And instead of shutting it down like I normally would, I nurture it. Feed it. Let it grow.

“You want to know who does this?” I ask, swaying slightly but committed.

“Enlighten me, Hercules.”

“People who are sick of thinking.”

She blinks at me, trying to process through her own alcohol fog.

I grab her hand.

“Let’s do it.”

She bursts out laughing. “Do what?”

“Get married.”

Her mouth actually drops open.

“To each other,” I clarify, because apparently that needs clarification.

She squints at me like she’s trying to read fine print on my face. “You’re kidding.”

“I am extremely serious,” I say, which is hilarious because I am visibly not steady on my feet.

I pull her with me into the small lobby. The air smells like synthetic roses, floor wax, and choices people regret in daylight.

There’s an Elvis impersonator behind the counter who looks like he hasn’t slept since 1997 and possibly fought in a glitter-related war.

I grab her hand tighter—her small, soft hand—and march her right up to the counter with all the confidence of a drunk man who has never once read a legal document all the way through.

“Help you folks?” Elvis asks without looking up from his nails.

“We want to get married,” I say with the steady conviction of someone who just discovered gravity.

Beside me, Sunshine dissolves into giggles.

I look at her.

She looks at me.

This is a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

But my brain is currently operating on tequila fumes and her perfume.

Responsible. That was the word. I used to care about responsible.

Responsible, reschmonsible.

To hell with it.

For once, I want to be the guy who does the crazy thing.

“Yeah,” I double down. “We’re getting hitched.”

Elvis—Gary, according to the name tag—finally looks up.

“Right on,” he says, deeply unimpressed. “Fill out these forms.”

He slides a clipboard across the counter. It makes a loud scraping noise that feels profound for some reason.

We fill out the paperwork one after the other, giggling like teenagers.

At one point she signs her name twice and has to cross it out, which makes her laugh harder, which makes me laugh harder, which makes Gary stare at us like we’re feral.

We hand the papers back, and Gary ushers us through a set of red velvet curtains into a small chapel with a suspiciously stained carpet that has seen things.

“Alright,” Gary says, standing behind a small podium. “You got rings?”

I freeze.

Sunshine turns to look at me in exaggerated slow motion.

I look at her hand.

Then at mine.

Then back at Gary.

I drag a hand down my face. “No. Of course we don’t.”

Gary reaches under the podium and produces a small plastic box like a magician who’s lost faith in magic.

“We sell ’em. Fifty bucks. Rhinestones. Very shiny.”

Sunshine leans toward me, stage-whispering, “Very romantic.”

I squint at the box like it personally offended me.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur quietly, just for her. “I’ll make it up to you once you’re my wife.”

She studies me like she’s trying very hard not to laugh.

Then she turns to Gary.

“Fine,” she says brightly. “We’ll take the sparkly ones.”

Gary beams like he just closed a real estate deal.

He hands us the ringbox with two outrageously shiny rings.

“Okay, Gary, ah—Elvis, I mean,” I correct myself with a solemn nod, “please do your godly given duty now and marry me to this beautiful lady here.” I trail off, trying to remember something important. “To this lady, called Sunshine,” I add triumphantly when I remember her name.

Gary huffs. “Her name is Talia.”

I look at my fiancé. “Talia? Is that your name?”

“It sure is.”

“That’s beautiful,” I whisper reverently.

She folds her arms. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes, just like you.” I squint at her, my vision hazy.

Gary flips open a laminated booklet that has definitely seen more divorces than anniversaries. “Alright. Let’s get this show on the road.”

He gestures for us to stand in front of him.

We shuffle into position, facing each other.

The chapel is tiny. There’s fake stained glass. A plastic bouquet zip-tied to the wall. A speaker in the corner quietly playing instrumental Can’t Help Falling in Love.

This is insane.

This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

I try very hard not to lose it.

“Sir,” Gary says, solemn as a man wearing sideburns glued to his face can possibly be, “repeat after me.”

I glance at Talia.

She looks nervous. Thrilled. Drunk. Radiant.

My pulse kicks.

Gary waits.

“Okay,” I say.

And I don’t think about tomorrow.

I look at the woman in the yellow dress.

“Let’s do this.”

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