REBEL SEASON

HOCKEY BOYS OF LOFT 3B

BOOK 3

LEAH BRUNNER

KATIE BAILEY

LBP LLC & ELEVENTH AVE. PUBLISHING INC.

Copyright © 2026 by Leah Brunner and Katie Bailey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or sold in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 

No AI has been used in the creation of this book, nor may it be used to train AI. 

Thank you for reading!

Formatted with Vellum

CONTENT WARNING

Dear Readers,

We are so excited to be taking you back for a third and final trip to Loft 3B!

Rebel Season is a new adult hockey romance that’s heavy on the romance and funny moments, but there are also some themes throughout that may be triggering to certain readers, or readers might seek to avoid these themes.

To help you make an informed decision before choosing to read Rebel Season, please be advised that this book includes a grief storyline after the recent death of a main character’s mother, as well as featuring toxic and dysfunctional family relationships and manipulation and emotional abuse by family members. This book also contains fade to black scenes with moderate details. If you are sensitive to any of these things, please consider this content warning before reading.

We hope you love reading about Fisher and Lila falling for each other as much as we loved writing these characters—when we say we giggled our whole way through writing this book, we aren’t exaggerating.

Happy reading,

Katie & Leah

To the black sheep, the dreamers, the ones who carve their own unique paths.

Never dim yourself for anyone…and keep on stirring up trouble.

CHAPTER 1

FISHER

Fidgeting in my seat, I struggle to pay attention to what my father is saying to me as he drones on and on about yet another thing I’ve apparently done wrong. My granddad, who’s older than dirt, is slumped in his chair, glaring at me. In his defense, I believe his face is permanently frozen that way from the wrinkles that formed from being a gigantic asshole for the last ninety years.

Not even the ADHD medication I swallowed before meeting my father for breakfast is helping me focus. I’ve heard this same lecture a million times.

Cheerful French music plays around us in the Michelin star restaurant. Music usually helps me drown out other background noise so I can concentrate a little better, but right now, my brain has chosen to fixate on the French lyrics in the song that I don’t understand instead of absorbing any of my father’s words.

There’s a pause in his speech, then a heavy sigh. It’s a sigh I’m all too familiar with, the weighted sound of disappointment. The sound of my childhood. “Archibald, are you listening?” he asks, arching one pale eyebrow.

Only my family calls me by my first name—thank the Lord for that—so I have to make a concentrated effort not to flinch at the unfamiliar sound of my first name as my eyes meet my father’s. It’s always strange to see myself in him, only thirty years in the future. The golden blond hair turning to ash at the temples, the aristocratic nose straight and defined while the skin around it crinkles, but in a distinguished way. Louis Fisher the Fourth is still a handsome man at fifty-five, his fast paced life and constant working hours haven’t appeared to affect him at all. He better say his prayers so that his face doesn’t freeze the way Granddad’s did.

“Of course I was listening,” I finally answer.

He pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, as if biting back harsh words. “What was the last thing I said?”

Oh no, I’ve played this game with him before. And I always lose. I drag a hand through my hair. “Okay, I might’ve missed some of what you said,” I admit.

Another stuffy sigh as my father slides his phone toward me. A photo of myself sandwiched between two blondes as we drunkenly laugh outside of a club downtown lights up the screen. I screw my nose up in confusion as I look at the picture—this is what that whole lecture was about?

“Archibald, you’re a grown man now. You’re not in college anymore,” Father starts, picking up his water glass and taking a drink. “You’re aware that our last name comes with expectations. These photos affect our brand; they hinder a reputation we’ve built over hundreds of years. Do you understand what I’m saying?” His tone holds a condescending edge that I only notice because I’m attuned to all of his various edges.

I’m aware I’ve always been a disappointment to the Fisher family; not that any of them would come straight out and say that. But the sentiment is always there. Every time my father addresses me, I see it resting just beneath the surface of his carefully controlled, regal demeanor. I wish he’d acknowledge that, right now, I’m thriving. I'm a professional athlete who got drafted out of college to play in the National Hockey League for the San Francisco Lions. Not bad for a son who was never expected to amount to anything. But instead of being pleased with me for once, he’s hinting at me ruining the family name over some photos? Ridiculous.

Granddad nods his wobbly head in silent agreement with my father. Sir, if you can’t nod without wobbling, it does not have the effect you want it to.

“It’s only a few photos,” I say as I study my father’s face, trying to work out what his angle is. I’ve done worse in the past to humiliate him than simply be snapped laughing in a photograph, so there must be more to whatever this is.

He rests an elbow on the table, leaning into his hand as he massages his temples. “We’re opening a branch of Fisher Group here in San Francisco.”

My eyes widen. I didn’t have a clue my family’s Atlanta-based property empire was expanding to the West Coast, let alone opening offices in the same city I now live in.

“We need permits from the city to begin work on our first development project here, and unfortunately, the mayor brings up your…activities…every time I meet with him.” He takes a deep breath. “He’s basing his opinion of the Fisher Group on your behavior.”

I close my eyes and remind myself to speak calmly and not allow my mouth to move before my brain catches up. “I don’t work for Fisher Group, so it seems ridiculous that he's judging the company based on photos where I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m not being destructive, I’m not peddling drugs, so I don’t understand what the big deal is. I’m a pro athlete, and I’m always going to receive media attention—both positive and negative.”

My father shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowing in a frustrated scrunch. “Every Fisher has had to deal with media attention. You’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last. But whereas your brother shaped up and matured after college, it seems to be taking a bit more time for you…” He leans forward, steepling his hands on the crisp white tablecloth. “Perhaps this is my fault for being too easy on you. I was understanding when you weren’t accepted into Vanderbilt—the first Fisher son in three generations not to attend.”

I swallow back an irritated response, trying not to roll my eyes. The man staring me down doesn’t even know the meaning of the word understanding. I’ve felt the gut-wrenching twist of never meeting his expectations for the last twenty-three years of my life.

Father levels me with a serious look, then continues. “I didn’t expect you to go for your masters degree, since school is difficult for you.” He’s clearly irritated…like I’m just an annoying bump in the road he travels toward success. But still, he keeps that eerily calm demeanor with his shoulders back and his head held high.

“You’re sinking the Fisher Group name, boy,” Granddad cuts in, using all his strength to point a judgmental finger at me.

Father shoots Granddad a worried glance before turning back to me. “Even though you aren’t actively working at our company, you own stock in Fisher Group and you represent the family name. I’m simply encouraging you to start caring about your reputation and how it affects all of us. It’s time to clean up your image…” He pauses for effect. “I hate to do this, but if you can’t comply, I’ll have no choice but to suspend your trust fund.”

I school my features, not wanting him to know how my stomach just dipped at the threat, but I can’t help but glance down at my Cartier watch and the keys to my G Wagon resting on the table beside my water glass. My NHL salary is good. Most guys feel rich when they get that first paycheck. And I’m grateful for it, don’t get me wrong. But living on that income without my generous trust fund topping it up would require some changes to my lifestyle. My roommate’s girlfriend loves shopping at thrift stores; maybe she could teach me.

Glancing at Granddad, my heart stabilizes…unlike his. “I could easily live on my NHL salary until I receive my inheritance.” I keep my voice low. Granddad can only hear if we’re practically shouting.

Father’s nostrils flare, the first true sign of the anger he’s holding back. My mouth curves up in a smirk. I bet he didn’t see that coming.

“Your granddad is the patriarch of our family, and I expect you to be respectful,” Father says, barely above a whisper.

He’s probably right. But the old man has dished out way worse countless times. Still, for whatever reason, my father is emotionally attached to the horrible old man who raised him. But not me; when Granddad finally dies, I’ll be relieved…like I can finally breathe—actually, I think everyone in the family will feel the same way, but I’ll be the only one honest enough to admit it.

Movement in my periphery has me turning my head, and I find my older brother striding toward us, his perfectly pressed dress shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. He’s wearing sunglasses, looking like the blond version of a Kennedy. Louis Fisher the Fifth is everything my father wanted in a son, everything he hoped would be repeated with me. The son who went to Vanderbilt, who graduated early then went to grad school for his MBA. The son who has a second-nature instinct for real estate and investing and numbers. The son who doesn’t need medication to focus on menial tasks.

Louis smiles and pulls out a seat at the square table we’re seated at by the window overlooking the San Francisco Bay. “Hey, baby brother,” he says. “Sorry I’m late, I had a meeting.”

I smile back, holding his gaze so my eyes won’t roll to the back of my head. “Hey, good to see you. How’s your better half?”

Louis chuckles and my father smiles affectionately at the mention of his beloved daughter-in-law—Natalie Astor, New York society queen, philanthropist extraordinaire…and as of a year ago, my brother’s wife.

Another perfect spouse for a Fisher grandchild that Granddad wholeheartedly approved of.

“Nat is great. She’ll be at the gala tomorrow night,” Louis answers just as the waiter comes and takes his order.

My eyes flit to my father, silently inquiring what gala my brother is speaking of.

Father’s tongue runs along his front teeth, and he takes a swig of his water.

When the waiter leaves, I keep my eyes on our father. “What gala?”

Louis sighs. “Ah, sorry. I figured you’d already told him.” He looks at me and smiles again. “Well, since Fisher Group put an offer on a property here in San Francisco, we’re hosting a gala for investors. It’s the perfect time to show our plans to the mayor in hopes he’ll approve all of our demolition permits.” Louis punches my shoulder. I think he’s attempting to be playful but it feels more condescending. “Our plans for the property will wow our investors, too.”

“Is there a reason you’re just now telling me about expanding Fisher Group to the city that I live in?” I ask, starting to feel like they left me out of this on purpose. “I have summers off, so maybe I could help with the expansion.”

My brother waves his hand like the idea is nonsense. “Oh, no, it’s nothing you’d be interested in, baby brother.”

He’s right. I have zero interest in the flashy skyscrapers my family’s corporation constructs. But being dismissed so readily stings enough that I cross my arms and raise a brow in challenge. “How do you know I wouldn’t be interested when you haven’t told me anything about the project?”

Father’s professional facade falls for a fraction of a second as he tuts a sarcastic laugh. He catches himself quickly, straightens and clears his throat. “If you want to be part of any Fisher Group project, you need to clean up your image.”

Louis looks between me and our father and chuckles awkwardly before he pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts me a link to a property. “Here’s the site we’re hoping to get permission to build on.”

I scroll through the listing, noticing it’s in the art district part of town where one of my favorite galleries is. The listing says the brick building was initially used as a firehouse in the 1800s, and there are only two photos. One shows the front of the building with big white letters painted on the brick that say Art District Firehouse. The second photo is the inside of the building, one large room with exposed brick and wooden beams. It’s a beautiful property. The price is cheap for San Francisco, so the seller must be desperate for quick cash or something.

That’s the thing about Fisher Group, they only care about their bottom line. If they want something, they never back down, never consider the person they’re buying from. To my father and brother, a property owner who’s desperate is always a good thing…for them.

“You’re not going to tear down this historical building, are you?” I ask, setting my phone down on the table. Father and Louis both mentioned needing permits for demo, so I’d assumed they were buying some ugly, eighties style concrete box of a building.

The Fisher Group isn’t known for restoration. They’re famous for their sleek glass high rises, rather than reviving interesting character properties in gentrified areas.

Louis and our father both chuckle, their pretentious golf course laugh…the one that sounds like huh, huh, huh. “Oh Archibald, of course we’ll tear down the firehouse, that’s the only way to make room for our business development. We’ve no use for a crumbling old building,” Louis answers.

My chest squeezes at the idea of tearing down the old firehouse. I’m not sure where I inherited my love for the arts, but it assuredly wasn’t from my father or granddad. I hate to see something beautiful torn down, or underappreciated. Maybe that’s why I love women so much, they’re like works of art—and women are the only thing I’m good at, besides hockey.

“Is the mayor’s problem with me being seen at local night clubs, or with the fact Fisher Group wants him to approve the destruction of a historic property?” I question, raising an eyebrow at my father.

“Perhaps it’s both,” he says. “But he's attending our gala where we’ll wine and dine him. I’ll have him eating out of the palm of my hand and signing off on the permits before he’s even on his second glass of champagne.” He smirks, then frowns at me. “Do you have a tux to wear tomorrow night?”

“To the gala I wasn’t even invited to?” I arch a brow. “Yeah, I’m not going to that.”

My father closes his eyes for a second like he’s calming himself, then his cool gaze falls on me, chilling me to the core. “You’ll be there. And you’ll do everything you can to show the mayor you’re not a delinquent hockey player, but a respectable member of the family.” His tone is deadly serious. “Or the thing we talked about a moment ago, before your brother arrived? I’ll make sure that it happens, effective immediately.”

Before I can process this, the waiter arrives with our breakfast orders, and Father gives me one last cautionary look before turning his attention away from me. Soon, he and Louis are lost in conversation about some business deal or other, and it’s like I’m not even here. Their food grows cold but business is always the most important thing to those two.

Granddad has his eyes closed and is softly snoring. I wish I could shake him awake and lecture him about how undignified it is to fall asleep in front of company—the way he did to me when I was a young boy.

I eat silently, every bite of my caviar and poached egg are tasteless as my father’s threats about my trust fund run through my mind…would he actually cut me off? The look on his face just now tells me that yes, he would. Guess I should have held my tongue earlier before making that comment about Granddad’s will; that might have been the final straw.

My skin prickles at the thought of letting him control me. I love going out and having fun…hell, I love women. I don’t want a damn thing to change. What does my father expect me to do as a young professional athlete, stay home and take up knitting?

But while I might have been all bravado when I said I could just live on my NHL salary, I’m fully aware that my contract with the Lions is only for my rookie year, with no guarantee of being renewed for next season.

My head begins to throb as I attempt to troubleshoot the situation, to find an option that will appease my father, keep my trust fund money flowing, and allow me not to live as a hermit. There must be a compromise. My gaze moves to my father, his back straight, shoulders back, perfect posture. I’m not sure he knows how to compromise…it’s either his way or nothing.

He’s got me backed into a corner right now, and he knows it, so I guess I have no choice but to suit up and attend the gala tomorrow. Be the good little Fisher puppet he wants me to be, one whose strings he can pull all night, until I figure out the perfect play to keep my life the way I want it.

CHAPTER 2

LILA

I stipple my paintbrush on the canvas in front of me, careful to press with the exact pressure needed to add dimension to my cherry blossoms. Satisfaction hums through me as the pale mauve paint smudges ever so slightly, creating an irregular shadow. I lean forward to dip my brush again, this time in petal pink paint. The movement causes my hair clip to loosen and a thick lock of my black hair falls into my eye. I tuck the hair behind my ear, ignoring my paint-caked fingers, not wanting to break my concentration. Gently, I tap my brush over the same spot on the canvas again, and the blossoms I’m painting begin to take on a three-dimensional, textured effect. This might be my favorite part of painting—adding final details that feel insignificant at first, but ends up breathing life into the piece.

I’m so hyper focused on the flowers blooming from the brush between my fingertips, I don’t hear my name being called.

“Li-la! Hell-oooo, earth to Lila!” A voice singsongs its way into my subconscious, and I jolt out of my painting world and into reality…where I’m standing in the middle of the warehouse space with twenty fellow artists looking at me expectantly. I blink in surprise at the sight of them. When I started working on my piece earlier, I had the place all to myself.

“Well, hello there.” Zane smirks at me from where he sits at a nearby potter’s wheel. The thing is ancient, caked with the remnants of clay creations that date back decades before Zane began throwing his Aztec-style pots on it. “Nice to have you back here on earth with us.”

“Sorry.” I’m a little sheepish. “I was locked in and didn’t hear everyone come in.”

“How bad is it this time, Lil? Do we need to ask you what year it is again? Who the current president is?” Alastair points at me with a can of spray paint, grinning.

I laugh. It’s hardly a secret around here at the firehouse Art Collective that I can be a total space cadet when I get absorbed in a piece I’m working on. I’ve been known to forget to eat and sleep when I’m zoned in on a painting, and the guys like to make fun of me about it every chance they get.

“Leave our little Lilabug alone, you two,” Masha chides as she wipes her turpentine-smeared hands on her stained denim shirt. Masha was my mother’s best friend, and she still calls me by the old nickname Mom gave me. A familiar tug of grief mixes with happy nostalgia. I like that she’s keeping a little part of my mother alive. Anything to stop my once-technicolor memories of my mom from fading so fast.

“What’s everyone doing here, anyway?” I ask, pushing away thoughts of my mom and looking around at the circle of familiar faces in the room. The artists who work out of this space come and go as they please. Some of them have families, others have day jobs, so while it’s often busy here in the warehouse, it’s unusual that everyone’s here at once. Unless…

“Shit, did I forget someone’s birthday?” I ask, my eyes widening.

Masha gives me a fond smile. “No, no. Nothing like that. Rebekah asked everyone to come in today; she wanted to talk to us all together.”

“Oh, cool.” My shoulders relax.

Rebekah is the founder of the firehouse Art Collective. She and her late husband bought the out-of-use firehouse for pennies on the dollar back in the seventies and set up the main firehall area as an artists’ warehouse. For over fifty years, this old ramshackle building has functioned as a safe, welcoming space for artists to gather and create. My mom, who was also an artist, joined the collective before I was even born, so I practically grew up in this building.

Rebekah is so frail these days, she doesn't stop by much anymore, but when she does, it’s normally just to check in and admire what we’re all working on. She almost always brings donuts when she comes, too.

At the thought of donuts, my stomach rumbles. How long was I working on that painting? Judging by my current hunger level—practical starvation—I’d guess since early evening.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you all for coming in on such short notice.” We all look up as Rebekah enters the room, her movements slow and careful. She’s gotten thinner lately, her ebony skin hollow beneath her cheekbones. Someone rushes to get her a chair, and she eases into it before handing off the cherry red Donut Factory box that was clutched in her hands to be passed around. She looks up. “Shall we all take a seat?”

It’s a strangely formal request, but nobody questions it. Rebekah is the matriarch around here; we respect her.

A few moments later, a bunch of random chairs are dragged into a sloppy circle, and we’re all sitting, the donut box making the rounds.

Rebekah starts by complimenting a middle-aged woman named Angel on her latest fashion design—a dress made out of scraps of materials she salvaged from dumpsters around the city. The box reaches me, and I study all of the glossy, colorful donuts before I greedily select a huge apple fritter. I sink my teeth into the soft, warm dough right away, tuning back into the conversation.

“There's no easy way to say this, but I can’t afford to keep the lights on anymore,” Rebekah says.

I’m lightheaded when those words land in my brain, and it has nothing to do with my lack of eating today. As she continues talking, my thoughts are such a mess, I can only catch snippets: “Medical bills…crippling property taxes…an offer…can’t refuse, as much as I want to…visit Florida, see my son…thank you for so many amazing years…”

My mouth goes so dry I have to choke down my fritter. I set the rest of my donut down in my lap, my appetite suddenly nonexistent as Rebekah’s words all blur together into an abstract image I can’t make sense of. She’s selling the firehouse, and the potential buyers aren’t interested in continuing to let a collective of broke artists operate in the building.

The pain on her face is evident; she must be desperate. When she finally stops speaking, a loud silence fills the space, and the lines of worry on her face seem to grow a little deeper.

“Is there anything we can do?” Masha asks after a few tense moments. I whip my head around to see she looks as shocked as I feel. Everyone in the room is wearing the same expression.

Nobody saw this coming.

Or maybe they did but chose not to believe it was possible.

Rebekah winces, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry, everyone. The offer was all cash, well over the asking price. It will dig me out of the hole and then some. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to.”

Another awkward silence follows, and hot tears prick the back of my eyes. I force them away. If I’ve learned anything in my twenty-three years on this planet, it’s that crying never changes things. Tears don't bring back what you’ve lost.

“Thank you, Rebekah.” I finally find my voice. “For everything you’ve done for all of us.”

They’re the magic words, transforming the atmosphere in the room from simmering silence to our little art family hugging and crying. The relief on Rebekah’s face is evident.

I stand off to the side, not wanting comfort…but just space to think.

Mom always used to say where there’s a will, there’s a way, and my will to save Firehouse Collective is ironclad.

This is my home. My family. My mom’s legacy—her life’s work took place right here in this warehouse. I can’t lose it…so I need to find a way to save it.

There’s no other choice.

A few moments later, Rebekah spots me at the side of the crowd and makes her way over, taking my hands in hers.

“Lila…” she begins.

I school my features into careful neutrality. “How much time do we have to fix this?”

When I step back from my canvas again, my shell-pink blossoms have ripened to bruise-colored purples. In the world of my painting, the season is turning. The blossoms don’t have much time left.

After Rebekah left earlier, the others all headed out soon after, too. I said goodbye to everyone, then stayed in the main art space of the warehouse instead of going upstairs to the small apartment space there—although apartment is a generous word. It’s more of a single-room-the-size-of-a-shoebox situation. When I said this place was my home, I meant figuratively…but since I lost my mom, I’ve literally been living here, too. Before, my mom and I shared an apartment nearby, but after she passed, the landlord didn’t want the liability of renting solely to a young girl without a credit score. Rebekah, amazing woman that she is, offered to let me rent the space upstairs.

Tonight, I wanted to let myself get lost in my work for a while longer so I could delay being alone with my thoughts and having to face reality, but it didn’t work. Instead, the sky darkened and the blossoms rotted as my distress seeped into my painting and Rebekah’s words from earlier continued to spin in my mind.

One month until the sale closes.

Thirty short days to come up with…something.

Apparently, the prospective buyer is some asshole property development group worth billions. Rebekah said she didn’t know why they wanted the firehouse, or what their plans are for the building, just that they swooped in with an offer she couldn’t refuse and an expedited timeline that would guarantee her cash in hand, fast.

My guess is she didn’t want to know. Knowing would make selling harder.

A sharp series of taps come from the front door, and I almost jump out of my skin.

Nobody ever knocks on the door here; all of us artists have keys so we can access the space twenty-four-seven—because creativity can strike at any hour of the day.

The knock comes again.

Maybe someone forgot their key?

I step forward cautiously, then check my phone. It’s after nine. I’m a woman, alone in a warehouse.

Deciding to play it safe, I open the door just a crack and peek into the darkness outside. My hand is wrapped tight around the handle, preparing to slam the door shut again if I’m greeted with the sight of a psycho Hannibal Lecter-looking type.

“Hi,” the guy on the steps says when he sees me, and I have to press my lips together to stop my jaw hitting the ground, because this guy is…gorgeous.

Like, stupid gorgeous. The type of cheekbones and dimples you rarely see anywhere but in blockbuster movies. So much so, that I forget beautiful people are often the ones we should fear the most. My rational brain short-circuits as the artist in me sighs in satisfaction as I take him in. This man would be a dream to paint. The contrasting angles of his face are nothing short of spectacular: perfectly straight nose, bisecting angled cheekbones, chiseled jaw framing full, almost pouty lips. His dark gold hair is tousled, curling at the tips, and his eyes are forest green. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful frame that teases the potential of thick muscles beneath his casual clothing. Everything about him reminds me of the marble statue of a young Hercules that’s featured in the Met.

“I’m not sure I’m in the right place. My Maps app might be glitching, but I’m also terrible with directions,” Hercules says in a deep voice, smoother than a perfect brush stroke. His tone is casual, almost conversational, but his brows furrow as he looks at me. He drops his voice lower and continues, “Hey, are you okay?”

His question is so unexpected, it snaps me out of my trance. “Me?” I squeak, all the blood in my body rushing to my cheeks as I realize I’ve been standing here silently staring at him all this time. “I’m, um, fine. Totally fine.”

But still not half as fine as you are, Mr. Greek God.

The guy looks skeptical. He frowns, then leans sideways, like he’s trying to get a glimpse into the warehouse behind me. The man before me must frequent the gym based on his powerful shoulders and the fact he’s dressed like a gym bro with a dark red hoodie, gray sweatpants, and sneakers. He straightens back up, and his green eyes meet mine. “Is someone in there bothering you? Blink twice if you need help,” he says quietly, his tone urgent.

I stare at him for another second, and then I figure out what he’s getting at and burst into laughter. He looks at me like he’s worried for my sanity, and I shake my head. “I was actually wondering if I should try and get away from you.” The man looks confused at this statement, so I nod at him. “Stranger at the door after dark and all that.”

“Oh!” Hercules steps back, holding up his hands. “I promise I’m not⁠—”

“A psycho who’s here to take me hostage inside an abandoned warehouse and then gut me like a fish when he’s sure no one can hear me scream?”

“That’s oddly specific.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “But no, I’m not here to murder you.”

“Someone filmed one of those gory horror b-movies in here, once. That was a scene you don’t forget in a hurry,” I explain as I open the door a little wider, letting him see the space.

He smirks. “I imagine not.”

“But if you’re not here for that, what are you here for?” I study the guy’s clothing again. “Did you get lost on your way to the gym?”

He doesn’t seem to hear my question. He’s staring over my shoulder and into the warehouse, his eyes traveling over canvases spattered with paint and tables stacked with sculptures until they finally land on the back wall, where a massive mixed media collage hangs.

“You’re into art?” I ask, because this guy doesn’t look like the stereotypical artsy type, but I’ve never been one to judge on appearances. Plus, art isn’t, and shouldn’t be, exclusive.

Art is for everyone. That’s always been my firm belief, and most of the firehouse Collective members feel the same. Except perhaps Zane, the Aztec potter. He can be a little snobbish with “non-creatives,” as he calls them.

“I love art.” Hercules says eagerly, turning his attention back to me. “But acquir—uh, I mean, looking at it. Not making it.” He glances around the room again, and I almost invite him in to have a better look…then remember he could still be a psycho. Unlikely, I think. But still possible. “Is this place used as an art studio or something?” he asks.

“Yeah. A bunch of artists work here.” My posture droops. “Well, they do for now.”

The guy’s brows knit together once more. “For now,” he repeats, but in a way that feels more like a statement than a question.

I answer anyway. “The owner is selling the building soon. So if you’ve decided to try your hand at making art and you’ve come here to apply for a spot in the Collective, I’m afraid you’ve come at the wrong time.”

His brows knit further together. “Are the artists here going to find another place to work?”

“Don’t think many of us could afford the going rates for rental spaces in this city.” The monthly fee we all pay Rebekah is a pittance compared to what it would be renting from a regular landlord. I laugh humorlessly. “And don’t suggest we just keep renting this space from the new owners, they’re apparently a group of billionaire pricks who’ll probably bulldoze the place. I mean, what the hell else would a huge property group want with a character building?”

The guy winces. “Why’s the current owner selling?”

“She has to. Can’t afford to keep the lights on in here anymore.” I raise a shoulder. “So unless I can come up with millions of dollars to buy the place myself in the next few weeks, it’s bye-bye Firehouse Collective…” I trail off, biting down on my lower lip as I look up at the man again and realize I’m spilling my guts to a stranger. “Shit. Sorry. I don’t know why I’m even telling you this; I’m sure you don’t care one bit. You haven’t even told me who you are, yet, or why you’re here.”

Hercules’ jaw sets. “What if you petitioned to put a ‘no demolition’ clause in the buying agreement? See if there’s anything in writing at City Hall that would protect this place as a heritage building? And if not, you could stir some shit, make some noise. Maybe even get the media interested so there’s enough public support for your cause that the buyer’s hand is forced and they don’t destroy the building.”

I don’t know how this guy—who barely looks older than me—would know any of this stuff, but I have to admit, this strange beautiful man’s idea is better than anything I’ve thought of all evening.

“That’s…actually a good idea, Hercules.”

The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, and he grins.

“Hercules, huh?”

“It suits you,” I say, all nonchalance as I hide my embarrassment behind a smirk. “In fact, if this works, I’ll paint your portrait as Hercules as a thank you.”

“You have yourself a deal.” He laughs, and holds out a hand to shake. I hesitate for a moment, then place my paint-crusted hand in his big, tanned one. It feels warm, solid. A firm handshake from a man carved in stone. Before I can pull back, he gives my hand a little squeeze, his grin widening as he says, “But I have to warn you, I only pose for nudes.”

I swallow, because dammit, now I’m thinking about him naked…and he clearly knows it because his smile turns wicked, leaving me unsure if I’ve just made a deal with an angel, or the devil himself.

CHAPTER 3

FISHER

Glancing in the mirror at my slick back hair and formal attire, I reach up and tug one errant piece down onto my forehead. It gives the look a rebellious edge. Might sound dumb, but that small act of resistance will help me get through this gala tonight with my family. I’m already irritated that my father wants to knock down the historic firehouse—destroying the coolest art space I’ve ever laid eyes on—but having to attend a stupid benefit in support of this idiocy is the cherry on the cake.

It’s okay. I have a plan, I remind myself as I stride out to the common area of the loft I share with three friends, my shiny formal shoes squeaking against the floor.

I rarely dress up in a full tuxedo anymore—I haven’t had any reason to since I moved to California. Penn Matthews and Noah Downsby, my teammates and best buds, stare as I do my best impression of a catwalk then turn and lift the tails of my tuxedo jacket to show off my ass.

“Dayum!” Penn says, whistling at me. “If I wasn’t in love with Hazel, I’d be tempted, man.”

Noah rolls his eyes. “You look good, Fishy. Do we finally get to meet your family?”

I straighten. I don’t want my roommates to meet the Fisher family. Not because I’m embarrassed of them, but because I’m embarrassed of myself for being the laughingstock of my family. My father would no doubt have some remark to make about hockey that would leave us all wondering if he complimented us or insulted us. Sometimes I wonder how he does it…stabs you in the back without you even feeling the knife slicing through you first.

“Nah, I’m meeting them downstairs when they arrive,” I answer.

Noah opens his mouth to ask more, but then Ally—my third roommate, Noah’s girlfriend—walks into the main living area from her room. “Fisher! Whoa!” She fans her face. “You look hot.”

“Hey!” Noah says in mock offense.

She walks over and wraps her arms around his waist. “Not nearly as hot as you.”

He smiles and kisses the top of her head.

A text pings from my phone in the pocket of my tux pants and I pull it out to read the message. “Well, my ride is here, so I better go.”

My roommates hoot and holler for me to have a good time and behave myself, and I grin, flipping them off as I leave our loft. I take the elevator downstairs and walk out the front door of our building, where there’s a sleek black limo waiting for me.

The driver is waiting by the back door and opens it when he sees me. “Mr. Fisher,” he greets me as I slide onto the leather seat.

I thank him, and he shuts the door. When the door clicks shut, I glance around the limo to find more people than I expected.

My mother pats my knee as I sit down. “Archie, you look so handsome.”

“Mother, good to see you.” I place my hand over hers and squeeze. My mother isn’t big on affection so I remove my hand quickly, then nod at my brother and his wife, who are sitting on the long stretch seat across from us.

Granddad is asleep beside them, his seatbelt barely keeping him from slumping over on my sister-in-law. And next to my parents is a woman I’ve never seen before. She looks young, maybe a little younger than me. She smiles widely when I look at her.

“Archibald,” my father says as the limo starts driving. “I’d like you to meet Miss Davidson. She’s the daughter of San Francisco’s mayor, George Davidson.” Father smiles, but then his eyes level with mine, and there’s no humor in them. “She kindly agreed to be your date this evening,” he adds, his eyebrow arched in a way that communicates one thing clearly: don’t screw this up.

My stomach tightens. My family might think I’m too much of a liability to be included in the family business, but apparently they’re not above pimping me out to sweeten up the mayor. And wasn’t I supposed to stop flirting my way around San Francisco?

Now, on top of attending a gala with my family, who act like I’m not good enough to be in their presence, I have to entertain this random girl?

“Hi, Archibald,” Miss Davidson says. She’s got the blonde, shiny hair of a California girl, and blue eyes framed with thick black lashes. Her dress is a classic black strapless number with a white satin band across the top, and her earrings are sparkling Chanel logos with pearls dangling down. She’s pretty, not my usual type. I tend to avoid the society princesses, preferring to go for girls who don’t wear designer labels, or show the subtle signs that they come from wealthy stock.

While there’s nothing wrong with girls who enjoy the finer things in life, I think something deep inside me simply longs to be with a woman who’s the opposite of my family in every way. Someone who will actually accept me…or maybe it’s just that even my subconscious desires to rebel against my family.

“Nice to meet you,” I reply politely.

During the drive my father and brother talk shop while my mother and sister-in-law discuss some charity event they’re attending in New York next week, leaving me to make small talk with Miss Davidson.

“So, what do you do?” I ask her.

“I graduated with my bachelors in political science last May, so now I work at my father’s office.” She tilts her chin proudly, as if she didn’t get that job via nepotism.

“Ahhh, nice,” I murmur as I try to listen in on my father and brother’s conversation. The mayor’s daughter being my date tonight suggests Fisher Group has made headway with the mayor since yesterday, but I can’t hear what Father and Louis are saying over my date’s chatter.

“We watch all of your games, by the way,” she says, leaning forward. “We’re huge Lions fans. I’ve even been to several games, I always sit in the front and try to get your attention.” She bats her lashes.

“Oh, yeah. I thought I recognized you,” I lie. If I have seen her before, I don’t remember her.

She beams at me, showing off her pearly white veneers. “Next game I go to, I'll blow you a kiss for good luck.”

I huff a laugh. “Sounds good.”

“You can call me Kynsleigh, by the way.”

“Okay, Kynsleigh. And call me Fisher, please.”

Kynsleigh nods, then starts talking about the weather just as we finally pull up to the Ritz Carlton. I take a deep breath, thankful for a momentary reprieve from small talk. I’m usually excellent at small talk, at livening up any boring event. But being in the presence of my family makes me feel watered down, subdued. Like I’m performing at a third of my charismatic capacity.

When our driver opens the door, my family files out of the limo one by one. I step out, then turn to escort my date. I might be dull tonight, but I’m still somewhat of a gentleman. Kynsleigh reaches for my hand, and I hear a subtle but irritated groan from my father. It’s the groan that usually means I did something he doesn’t like.

My head snaps up to find him not looking at me but instead at a group of people holding signs. Protestors.

Our driver helps Granddad out of the limo and settles his walker in front of him. The old man follows my father’s gaze and growls. “Damn progressives think everything is a charity case. Bloody California. No one wants to work these days.” He shakes his head, rolling his walker past us.

Ignoring Granddad’s comment, I focus on the protestors and read a few of their signs, trying to figure out who they are and what they’re doing here. An older woman holds one that says MAKE HISTORY. DON’T TEAR IT DOWN. And another that says DON’T DESTROY OUR COMMUNITY.

A smile stretches across my face as I notice they’re the artists from the firehouse, and I search the crowd until my eyes land on a petite woman with straight dark hair and mesmerizing brown eyes. The beauty I met when I visited the firehouse-turned-art space last night after my curiosity got the better of me. My chest ached for the sadness in her eyes when she told me about the art community that had built a thriving culture inside, and how if the building was torn down, they’d have nowhere to go.

I’m so happy to see that she listened to my suggestion, that these artists have come together to protest the Fisher Group tearing down the historic former firehouse. And little do they know, they’re creating the perfect segue into the conversation I prepared to have with my father this evening. I even found other properties with a similar plot size and price that he could purchase instead.

The woman is shouting, “Preserve history, don’t destroy it!” She and her friends chant the statement over and over, her eyes boldly meeting every person who steps out of a limo and skulks inside the Ritz.

Finally, her eyes meet mine. Her eyebrows scrunch as she takes me in, then her face falls. She recognizes me. Of course she does…and now she thinks I’m one of the men out to destroy her community.

I take a step in her direction, but Kynsleigh grabs hold of my bicep. “Fisher, the photographer wants a picture of us,” she says.

Turning my head, flashes of cameras nearly blind me. Then Kynsleigh is tugging me along, following behind my family inside the building.

The bright lights from the cameras still dot my vision, and in each bright spot I see that artist’s disappointed, sad eyes.

Granddad scuttles right into the ballroom, likely in search of a place to sit down. And my father dives right into business mode before we can even enter the ballroom and find our table. He introduces me to a bunch of his investors and tells them I’m coming to work for Fisher Group soon.

I grind my teeth together and play nice, trying to earn as many points from him as possible for when I present him with different properties—even though he thinks I’m too incompetent to bring anything to the table.

Just when I think introductions are over, my date squeals, “Daddy!”

She releases her clutch on my arm to run over and hug a slim man with distinguished gray hair. He hugs her back with a smile. “You look as pretty as ever, Sweetie.”

I wrinkle my nose. A grown woman calling her father Daddy just seems a little odd.

“Come here!” she tells him, looping her arm through his and walking back in my direction. “Daddy, this is Archibald Fisher.”

He holds out his free hand and I shake it. “Nice to meet you. You’re a hell of a hockey player.” The man leans forward and lowers his voice, “You better be on your best behavior with my daughter, or I will hunt you down.”

I nod, releasing his hand and taking a step back. “Yes, sir.”

My eyes move to his daughter to find her gaze dripping slowly down my body, which makes me feel like a piece of meat. Her tongue dips out to wet her bottom lip as her eyes finally land on my face. Knowing I saw her checking me out, she bites her lip and winks.

I blink. It feels gross to have her flirting right in front of her dad…er, daddy, I suppose.

The mayor spots someone behind me and waves, then excuses himself. His daughter suctions herself against my side.

“You want to get a drink?” I ask her, desperate for something to take the edge off this event.

“Oh, yes! I’d love a Chateau Montelena Chardonnay.”

I nod, and stalk through the ballroom doors and toward the open bar to order her very specific wine choice. The guy manning the bar gives me a sympathetic look. “Need something strong?”

“Please,” I answer, then rattle off the name of the wine Kynsleigh wanted.

He pours a generous glass of wine, and two fingers of a top shelf scotch. “Thanks, man,” I say, leaving a twenty in his tip jar.

The bartender gives me a salute. I’ll probably be seeing him several more times throughout this evening.

When I turn back around with a drink in each hand, I find Kynsleigh a few yards away, waving at me from what I assume is our table because Granddad is already seated and sipping a glass of red wine—is he supposed to be drinking?

I move toward the table and hand Kynsleigh her wine, and she intentionally brushes my hand when she takes it from me. And then she winks again.

I force a smile, then tip my scotch up and drain it in one gulp.

When the gala finally gets started, my brother makes a short speech thanking everyone for coming and telling the guests to stop up front to check out the three-dimensional display of the building they plan to construct once the permits are secured and the firehouse is leveled. He smiles at the mayor as he says this, like it’s already a done deal, and the mayor tips his wine glass to my brother in acknowledgment in a way that makes my stomach drop. If I’m going to change my father’s mind about this, I’m going to have to move fast.

After my brother’s speech, the salad course is served. I pick at my lettuce, waiting for the perfect moment to show Father the alternate properties I found. My father is seated all the way across the circular table, so it’s not going to be as private of a conversation as I’d hoped. And worse, the mayor is seated right beside him.

“Mmmm,” Kynsleigh moans after taking a bite of her salad. She chews and swallows, then picks a crouton off her plate and holds it up to my mouth. “Fisher, you must taste these homemade sourdough croutons.”

I open my mouth to tell her I have the same croutons on my own plate, but she takes advantage of my open mouth and shoves the crouton inside. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I chew the dried bread. “Mmmm.” I mimic the sound she made.

When I reach for my water glass, the mayor stands and excuses himself. Kynsleigh starts saying something to me, but I’m out of my seat and sitting beside my father before she can get it out.

“Father, I wanted to talk to you.”

He blinks like he’s surprised to see me in the seat next to him. “Son, shouldn’t you be with your date?” He lowers his voice so the pretentious guests seated around the table can’t hear. “I need you to be extra attentive. Charm your way into her good graces. I’m trusting you with this—you said you wanted to assist with the West Coast expansion, remember?” The condescending lilt is back in his tone as he asks this.

“What I have to say is about the expansion, and it’s important,” I tell him, taking my phone from my pocket and pulling up the tabs I saved with the properties. “Listen, I stopped by the old firehouse last night. I wanted to check it out.”

He raises his eyebrows, impressed for once. “I’m glad to see you taking initiative."

“What I found there was a building filled with spaces rented out by artists. It’s a community, a home for culture and art. It’s a really cool space.” I pause, watching as his face morphs from pride into resignation. “It doesn’t feel right to destroy something that’s being used in such an important way. Something that’s a part of San Francisco history.” I shake my head, pulling up the first property listing. “I found similar listings Fisher Group could bid on instead. These places are abandoned, not being used at all.”

“Archibald,” Father says on a sigh. “I don’t want a different property, I want the one we already made an offer on. It’s in an ideal location for our needs.”

“But those protesters…” I gesture toward the door. “They’re out there because this building means something to them.”

My brother leans in from the chair beside my father. “What’s going on?”

My father waves his hand in the air. “Nothing important.”

My brother’s eyebrows scrunch together, and he shrugs.

I slump back against the chair, wishing I could convince them but knowing they’ll never listen. They have no idea just how far out of touch with reality they are.

My eyes land on the mayor as he makes his way back to his seat, so I stand. “There are three properties I found with the same size lot for a similar price. You wouldn’t need the mayor’s approval to destroy a historic building, and you wouldn’t have to deal with protestors.”

My father purses his lips, I can’t read his expression. I can’t tell if it’s frustration, or he’s thinking about what I’m saying.

“Archibald,” my father says with a tight smile, his gaze drifting toward the mayor walking our way. “Can we please discuss this another time?”

I run my tongue across my front teeth to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret in front of the mayor of San Francisco.

The mayor smiles at me as he pulls out his chair and takes his seat again.

A group of servers move about the room with the second course of our meal, but I need some fresh air, need to step away and calm myself down. My mind goes back to the artist outside fighting passionately for her building, and next thing I know, I’m turning on my heel, and striding out the front doors and toward the protestors like a moth to a bonfire.

CHAPTER 4

LILA

If the news that the firehouse was being purchased by billionaires lit a match inside me, then seeing them waltz into the Ritz clad in thousand-dollar tuxes and priceless diamond necklaces poured gasoline on the flames.

“Smug bunch of rich assholes,” Zane seethes beside me as he takes one last puff of his clove cigarette, then tosses the end on the sidewalk and grinds it beneath his boot. Usually, I’d lecture him about littering. Smoking too; that shit’s so bad for you. But I’m too defeated to bother.

Serves me right for trusting what an attractive stranger told me—especially because I first learned my lesson about handsome strangers a whole lifetime ago.

“You can say that again.” I slump against the wall of the Ritz-Carlton hotel, where the Fisher Group—the corporation buying the firehouse—is holding their gala tonight. Ironic, as the San Francisco Ritz is in a heritage building with protected status…I guess historic landmark buildings mean more to the city when they’re occupied by five star hotel chains, and not rag tag groups of artists.

“Did you see how they looked at us?” Alastair scowls. “Like we’re shit they were trying not to step in.”

“We just have to keep trying. So tonight was a bust, but we’ll keep showing up until someone takes notice. We can petition the city planning office, or alert the media, or someone who works in the mayor’s office, or…” I trail off as desperation clutches at my throat, making it difficult to breathe.

Masha runs a hand through her cropped black curls, worry lining her features as she studies me. “We’ll find a way, Lilabug. Remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she says softly, ever the voice of reason.

But I don’t want reason right now.

I want karma.

“Shall we go get some food?” Masha offers. “Siam House?” She dangles the name of my favorite Thai restaurant as bait, clearly trying to cheer me up.

“I could eat,” I tell her as I force a smile. If I can’t have karma for greedy billionaires tonight, at least I can have khao soi. It’s a curried noodle soup native to the northern provinces of Thailand where my mom’s family comes from, and while not quite comparable to my mom’s home cooking, the version at Siam House is pretty damn delicious.

“Think I could sneak in to pee before we go?” Alastair says as he nods towards the front door of the hotel, which is flanked by two doormen dressed in matching tailed coats and top hats.

“Good luck getting past the penguins,” Zane replies with a snort, just as the door flies open and a man in a tux strides out.

“Ooh look, there’s one of the rich assholes now!” Angel says, then she sucks in a sharp breath. “Good Lord…rich asshole or not, he’s gorgeous.”

I look up, and my stomach twists in a tight knot as Hercules himself jogs down the stairs. His cheeks are flushed and the top button of his shirt is undone; his bowtie loose and draped around his neck. His glowing green eyes are fixed on me. Intently. The whole thing would be hot as all hell…if he wasn’t one of them.

The guy played me like a violin, and I only have myself to blame. I should have guessed. Last night, or when I googled Fisher Group today and read the profiles of the executives there, I should have noticed the resemblance. Should have realized someone like that doesn’t show up on your doorstep unannounced because of damn serendipity.

I narrow my eyes at the beautiful man who’s probably richer than God. “Let’s get out of here, guys,” I say, and we all turn to leave.

“Hey!” the man calls.

We start walking.

“Hey,” he yells again. “Wait up.”

Lenni, a glass blower with rainbow-striped hair and a septum piercing, frowns. “Is he talking to us?”

“No,” I say, sounding a lot more sure than I am.

“Hey, you! The girl in the cream dress with the combat boots.”

“I think he is talking to us.” Zane looks at me, suspicion clouding his expression as he looks me up and down, taking in the crocheted off-white babydoll mini dress that I decided to pair with my favorite leather boots today. “In fact, I think he’s talking specifically to you, Lil.”

Hercules jogs over, reaching us surprisingly fast for someone sporting pointy dress shoes so shiny I can see my reflection in them. Everyone stops walking, turning to look at him instead. I sigh, left with no choice but to spin and face the guy.

He’s standing so close, I catch notes of warm vanilla, sweet tobacco, and wealth from his cologne.

I place my hands on my hips. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” He smiles, a lopsided, bashfully charming smile I’m sure he’s perfected over the years and wielded as a weapon on thousands of unsuspecting women. But how dare he smile at me right now?

“I have nothing to say to you,” I retort. Maybe I thought he was gorgeous last night, but that was before I knew the ugly truth about who he is. And there’s nothing pretty about men so rich and attractive they always get what they want and don’t care who they have to knock down to get it.

Zane looks from me to Hercules and back again. “Wait, do you know this guy or something, Lila?”

“No!” I cry, just as he smirks and says, “We’re acquainted.”

I glare at him, and in response, he raises a challenging brow. “Don’t pretend like I didn’t give you the idea to protest for a ‘no demolition’ status for the firehouse.”

Angel gasps. Alastair swears. I start to feel a bit nauseous.

“Is this true, Lila?” Masha asks.

“Yes.” I look around at my friends, flushing as I explain, “He showed up at the firehouse last night after everyone else left; I had no clue who he was. He pretended he was lost.”

“I thought I might be lost,” Hercules corrects me. The absolute gall of this man.

I look at him and shake my head. “But you weren’t, were you?”

He has the decency to flush. “No,” he admits.

“Were you there to spy on us?” I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. I feel terrible at the very thought that I might’ve dragged all my friends out here tonight, giving them false hope for nothing.“Or was this part of some twisted game?”

He aims that stupid dimpled grin at me. “Like Twister?”

I ignore his joke—and his dimples. “Did you plant those ideas in my head so we’d come and protest here tonight for your entertainment? So you and your rich friends could laugh at us?” I swallow, mortification seeping through me like wet paint. “At me, for being dumb enough to fall for it?”

“No!” Hercules’s golden brows scrunch together, the smirk vanishing from his face. “I was there because I don’t agree with what we—uh, the Fisher Group—are planning to do. I want them to leave the firehouse alone, and I was trying to help.”

I cross my arms. I don’t miss the way he trips over his “we” correction, confirming I can’t trust this guy as far as I could throw him. “Okay, then answer me one thing.”

“Sure.” His green eyes lock on mine again, and they look so genuinely sincere I shudder.

“Is your last name Fisher?”

He hesitates, looking unsure for the first time since he came out here.

Finally, he nods. “It is.”

Probably the first honest thing that’s come out of his mouth since I met him.

I nod at him. “Then we have nothing more to say to each other. Goodnight—” I pause, realizing that I don’t actually know his first name.

“Hercules?” he prompts with a little smile.

“You’re no hero.”

The guy looks almost sad for a moment. Which is impossible; he’s a monster. I tell myself I must’ve imagined the sad look on his face as his smile quickly moves back in place. “Then just call me Fisher.”

“What’s your actual name?” I ask so I can look this guy up later when I get home. I didn’t see him listed as an exec on the Fisher Group website, and I’m curious to find out what his role is there so I can work out why, exactly, he gave me the information he did last night—because there’s no way he’s actually trying to help me. Who knows, maybe he’s fresh out of college, and destroying the firehouse is his first project for the family business.

He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s Archibald.”

My brows fly up. Who the hell calls a baby Archibald? He may be one of the bad guys, but even I have to admit, Hercules suits him much better.

“Archibald?!” Zane hoots. “Of course your first name is Archibald.”

He gives Zane a withering look. “Got a problem there, pal?”

Zane bristles, then takes a step forward so he’s standing just in front of me, almost protectively, and the two men enter one of those bizarre alpha male stare-offs. Archibald Fisher might have the demeanor of a golden retriever who’s been cooped up inside all day, but the man has a good ten inches on Zane, and probably about fifty pounds of muscle as well…art doesn’t really bulk one up like whatever Hercules here must do at the gym. Before tonight, I would have bet money he did something involving physical work as a full-time job, but clearly I was wrong—instead, he probably goes to the gym every night to decompress after spending his days in a humongous glass-walled corner office on the eighty-seventh floor of some high-rise monstrosity, yelling at people on the phone in between hooking up with his secretary.

I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the thought as the two men face off like they’re a pair of damn peacocks.

“Yeah, I have a problem,” Zane says. “You and your family are my problem.”

Fisher stares at him. “You did just hear me saying I’m trying to help you guys, right?”

He looks so perplexed, it’s almost hard to believe he’s a lying dickhead. The only other person I know who was this good of an actor is my dad. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard enough cautionary tales about him over the years to be smarter than to believe whatever this guy is saying right now.

I study Fisher, trying to work out his angle. I’m confused—if he was playing a game, toying with us, why wouldn’t he admit it now? He’s got nothing to lose and everything to gain by letting us know that in reality, we don’t actually have a hope of saving the firehouse.

“We don’t need your help, Archibald!” Zane insists.

“Clearly, you do. And like I said, I go by Fisher.”

“I don’t give a shit if you go by Norman Rockwell.”

Fisher rolls his eyes. “As if I’d opt for anything that cliché.”

“What do you know about Rockwell, or any other artist for that matter?” Zane growls.

“More than you might think,” Fisher snaps back.

“Men,” Masha mutters under her breath.

Angel nods, twirling a long lock of white-blond hair around her finger. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”

“Right now, I’d happily take my chances without,” I say.

“Do you think he could really be trying to help us?” Lenni asks, her voice heavy with hope, and a wave of exhaustion crashes over me. All I want to do right now is eat my body weight in noodles, then crawl into my bed and hibernate for the next three to five business days.

My eyes return to the enigma that is Archibald Fisher, and I shake my head with a sigh. “I doubt it.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but flashing lights create a red shadow across his handsome features. A wail of sirens cuts through the night air, and an ambulance appears behind Fisher, flying down the street towards the Ritz. It screeches to a halt a few feet away from the front doors, and a team of paramedics leap out and begin unloading a stretcher. A second ambulance pulls up a moment later, and as the paramedics all jog towards the front door of the hotel, it swings open, and a red-faced man strides out, his cellphone to his ear. He looks like a middle-aged version of Fisher, but his green eyes are cold and his mouth has a calculating, almost cruel, tilt to it.

“Father?” Fisher’s voice croaks, his face has gone pale under his tan. “What happened?”

The older man shoots a panicked look in our direction, and when he sees his son standing with us, he does a double take. “Archibald, what are you doing out here? Your mother’s been looking everywhere for you.”

“I was just—” Fisher starts, then stops. Shaking his head, he begins walking towards his dad…er, father. The fact that he even refers to him as “Father” is enough to tell me everything I need to know about the older man. “I just stepped out for some air. What’s going on?”

Mr. Fisher looks at his son, for a long, loaded moment, his eyes stony. Then he swallows and says, “It’s your granddad.”

CHAPTER 5

FISHER

Granddad’s funeral is as lavish as I expected…somewhere between a royal funeral and a presidential funeral, complete with a mausoleum and an elaborate headstone standing six feet high. He’d be proud of the large crowd that gathered to pay tribute, and the spectacle of multiple Atlanta news stations parked at the cemetery covering the tragedy of Louis Fisher the Third’s loving family shedding tears over his outlandish grave.

It’s humiliating that my friends are here to witness the behavior of the Fisher family, but it’s also really nice to have them here in Atlanta supporting me.

As we pull up to the lawyer’s office for the reading of the will, I glance over at Noah, who’s driving our rental SUV. Ally, Penn, and Hazel are squished into the back.

“Thanks again for being here, guys.”

“Of course, man,” Noah says, parking the vehicle. “We’re your best friends. We’ll always be here for you.”

Ally leans forward and pats my shoulder affectionately.

“You guys can just pick me up after the reading if you want. I can text you when it’s over.”

Penn shrugs. “We’ll just wait inside. We’ve got nowhere to be.”

Hazel, Penn’s girlfriend, leans against him. “Yeah, we want to be close by in case you need us.”

I nod, guilt coiling in my stomach. My friends all flew here with me thinking I’m heartbroken about my granddad, but I feel nothing…except perhaps a little guilt that I made a joke to my father about Granddad’s will just days before he died.

I wasn’t close to him. The man never even liked me. I was the only Fisher grandchild not sobbing during the funeral, though. Am I as cold-hearted and unfeeling as Louis Fisher the Third? Or was everyone else just pretending; putting on a show for the cameras while they counted down the minutes until the service was over and they could find out what was in Granddad’s will for them?

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” The words feel forced as I unbuckle and slide out of the vehicle.

We head inside the building where we’re greeted with a marble lobby and comfortable seating area. Double doors are open to a large office space with a massive polished desk inside. I can see the rest of the Fisher family gathered around the office. My friends make themselves comfortable in the lobby while I join my family.

As I walk into the room, everyone stares at me, and I know they’re all judging me for being the last to arrive. Although I’ve always felt like the black sheep of the family, the dark splotch on our perfect record, so I’m probably perpetuating my own insecurities onto them.

One of my cousins wrinkles her nose as she looks at me. Okay, maybe I was giving them too much credit. I glance down at my Italian leather shoes and custom black suit and wonder what the hell offends her so much.

My eldest cousin, Gerald, looks down his nose at me—or, up his nose? I’m way taller. “Ahh, Archibald. How’s…what is it you play again? Lacrosse?”

His wife eyes me up and down appreciatively while he’s not looking.

“Hockey, actually,” I answer with my most charming grin, shooting his wife a wink that makes her blush.

Gerald glances at her in time to see her red face and steps forward to hinder her view. “Ahhh, right. Vanderbilt doesn’t have an NCAA hockey team…that must be why I got it mixed up.”

I shrug, knowing he didn’t mix anything up. “Yeah, lacrosse was honestly too boring for me. Anyone can play a sport on the ground…but add ice and everything is more fun.”

“Fun,” he says the word slowly, like it’s a different language. “Interesting.”

My father sidles up on my other side. “Why are you late?” he asks through gritted teeth.

Normally I’d prickle at his tone, but right now I’m just grateful he stepped in so I don’t have to make small talk with Gerald any longer. “Sorry, we ended up at the back of the procession.”

An older man, presumably Granddad’s lawyer, clears his throat from where he’s seated behind the desk. The man is holding a thick stack of paperwork. “I believe everyone’s here now, so let’s get started.”

The room quiets down, and I can feel the tension humming around us as my family members collectively hold their breath, trying to look as calm and disinterested as possible. It would be considered uncouth, distasteful even, to show interest in the billions of dollars that are about to be distributed, but I can tell that inside, they’re screaming for their portion of the money.

I slouch against the back wall, just wanting it to be over so I can go home to California already and put a few thousand miles between myself and this circus.

The lawyer adjusts his tortoiseshell reading glasses and dives right into Granddad’s will. For the most part, there are no surprises. I wasn’t being a total asshole when I made that comment at breakfast a few days ago about my inheritance—Granddad was always vocal about distributing his wealth to all of his family members after he passed. Not to be generous, but because he wanted his legacy to be upheld by keeping as much wealth as possible behind the Fisher name.

My father and his two younger sisters inherit equal shares in Fisher Group, but my father continues as CEO. Granddad’s billion dollar estate will be sold and the profits divided equally between all three of them. And then, onto the grandchildren.

My cousins and my brother will receive multi-million dollar inheritances. The lawyer drones on and on with no mention of me. As the minutes tick by, my palms grow sweaty and I start to wonder if Grandad actually left me out of his will. Did the man hate me that much?

After what feels like hours, the lawyer finally pauses and looks directly at me. “And lastly, Archibald Fisher…your granddad recently added a clause for your inheritance.” The man’s eyes shift away as if he feels uncomfortable relaying whatever my grandad told him. He clears his throat. “He stated you’re only to receive your inheritance after marriage, with proof via marriage certificate.”

My whole body goes numb. Did I hear him correctly? Surely this is a dream—or a nightmare. I glance around the room to find everyone staring at me. Beads of sweat gather on my brow under everyone’s scrutiny, and I turn to look at my father, expecting him to look shocked—but he won’t meet my eye. Instead, he looks ahead, clearly furious that I’ve embarrassed him yet again.

“That’s not all.” The lawyer clears his throat, at least having the decency to look awkward. “Archibald, your granddad’s will also states that you need to be married before the next NHL season begins in October.” He pauses and swallows, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

My body goes completely numb. That only gives me six months.

“And if you haven’t met the requirements for your inheritance before then, that money will be donated to your cousin’s Georgia state representative campaign.”

My eyes fly back to Gerald Ephraim-Fisher, and the smug prick stares back at me with a cocky smirk on his face. He thinks he has this in the bag.

I don’t hear anything else the lawyer says, my mind still processing this new information. Just like I don’t need my trust fund, I don’t need the inheritance…but I want it. If that makes me a terrible person, sue me.

Listen, no one would say no to millions of dollars. Especially not when their future in their career is as uncertain as mine is right now. And the thought of all that money going to fund my cousin’s stupid vanity campaign irritates me even more. Which I’m sure was a purposeful move on the old man’s part.

I should know by now that he’ll do whatever it takes to get what he wants—to manage and control everyone else—even from beyond the grave. Granddad has perfectly orchestrated the conditions for me to receive my inheritance. I need to sell my soul to Satan…uh, I mean, pledge my allegiance to the family’s expectations and stop being an embarrassment.

As if on cue, my cousin Sloane titters behind her manicured hand. “How mortifying for you, Archie,” she whispers, her sugar-sweet tone laced with poison. “I’ll be checking the mail and waiting for my invitation to your unholy matrimony.”

I ignore her, my mind whirling…they all think I'm a screw up? They don’t even know how unhinged I can be. Hell, maybe I’ll marry a stranger just so I can donate my inheritance to fund an art program at a state college, or any university besides Vanderbilt. I could donate it to Penn’s youth hockey team—they’d hate that. I don’t care where the money goes, as long as it doesn’t further line the pocket of Gerald, who has absolutely zero knowledge of politics. He probably just wants a damned flag pin.

When my family begins to filter out of the room, I know the meeting is over, and I sigh in defeat. I turn to leave, but my father blocks my exit by standing directly in front of me and pressing a hand to the center of my chest. “You’ve brought this upon yourself, Archibald.”

I huff out a disbelieving laugh.

My father drags a hand down his face before groaning in frustration. “Your granddad didn’t even tell me about these added stipulations. I thought threatening your trust fund in front of him was going to be enough to pull you back into line, but clearly your granddad decided the situation called for a contingency plan.”

“Maybe I could go on The Bachelor and find a wife quickly?” My attempt at lightening the mood falls flat, and I’m met with an icy glare.

“Son, this isn’t a joke. This is an embarrassment to you. To all of us. With everything going on, I’m needed here in Atlanta, which leaves your brother flying back and forth between here and San Francisco to wrap up closing on the property and securing the right permits.” His stern gaze meets mine. “And in order for us to get those permits, you need to show everyone that you’ve got your life under control and your priorities in order. No more partying.” He unbuttons his suit jacket, settling his hands on his waist. “And on that note, I meant what I said last week. There will also be no more trust fund until you show me you can handle things like a mature adult.”

“Fine,” I reply. Even though my heart’s racing, because nothing is fine.

No trust fund, no inheritance, and a contract that expires when the playoffs are over…nevermind that it feels like my family is abandoning me. It’s a lot to process at once. “I live in San Francisco, why don’t you just let me prove myself by helping?” I poke the inside of my cheek with my tongue, waiting for his answer.

“Because I don’t trust you yet,” he says dryly, like he’s telling me he’s heading to the supermarket after this. “All that nonsense last week about heritage properties and finding new sites to build on, not to mention you failed to complete the simple task of sweetening up the mayor by spending time with his daughter. This isn’t just a game like hockey…it’s a multi-million dollar sale.”

When I was a boy, it was crushing when my father would casually dismiss hockey—the only thing I was ever good at, ever passionate about pursuing—like this. When I grew into a teenager, it only bolstered my rebellious nature. But now that I’m a man, it just pisses me off.

I’m not about to act like I’m not privileged. I haven’t wanted for anything financially. But I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve achieved. I made it through college, kept my grades up so my coach wouldn’t bench me. My dedication got me an NHL contract…but nothing I do will ever be good enough for Louis Fisher the Fourth.

“Understood,” I finally answer.

“Good.” He claps my bicep. “The Fisher jet is waiting at the airport to take you back.” My father glances down at his watch with a sigh then leaves without so much as a goodbye.

I stand there for a minute before my feet finally move, carrying me out of the office. My steps are robotic as I move into the lobby toward where my friends are sitting in a row quietly, wearing matching uncomfortable expressions. That’s when I realize the doors of the office stayed open the entire time.

“How much did you hear?” I ask, unsure if I really want the answer.

The four of them glance awkwardly at each other but none of them answer my question.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say, turning and walking out the front doors into the fresh spring air. Inhaling a deep breath, I try to let the tension in my shoulders roll away.

Penn steps up next to me and drapes an arm across my shoulders. “You okay?”

“Never been better,” I snort a laugh, forcing a grin. “Let’s get to the airport. The sooner we step onto the Fisher Group’s private jet, the sooner we can get shit-faced.”

He arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond.

As we drive away, I don’t look back. I’m the picture of relaxed and cool. I loosen my tie and joke around as usual, but inside, my mind is spinning at a million miles per hour. My family thinks I’m a screw up? I’d like to show them just how much of a black sheep I really am.

CHAPTER 6

LILA

It’s chilly tonight. The early April air feels cool and damp against my face as I sit down on the front steps of the firehouse with my iced pink milk. I wrap my oversized cardigan tighter around my shoulders as a cool bay breeze hits me, and for a moment I wish I’d made myself hot tea instead. But then I take a sip. It tastes like nostalgia; a rush of memories filter through my mind of a trip to Thailand when I was eleven. I loved seeing the country, but complained constantly about the sticky, humid heat. Mom bought me one of these ice-cold milky drinks from a street vendor and teased me for not being able to stomach the weather. “Miss American Thai,” she called me, singing it to the tune of “American Pie,” and I giggled and thought how lucky I was to be both of those things.

I loved growing up in San Francisco, and I also loved having a Thai mom who’d cook incredible food and tell me fairytales about brave demon slayers and princesses trapped in magical boxes. I knew my dad was white, but never much cared what, or who, he was. To me, he was just the dickhead who abandoned us before I was even born.

Being Thai was always part of who I was, but now that Mom’s gone, everything’s different. Not only did I lose my mother and my best friend, I also lost the biggest connection to my heritage and its culture. And if the firehouse gets destroyed, I’ll lose yet another huge part of my mom, and also of the life I’ve been trying to carve for myself since she passed.

A knot tightens in my chest and I place my knuckles there, trying to knead it away. Everything will be fine. I will figure this out…I have to.

“Lila?” A deep voice cuts through my thoughts and I jerk my head up so quickly, my drink sloshes in my hand, causing a river of pink liquid to run down my arm.

“Who’s there?” My heart thuds in my chest as I look around, squinting in the direction the voice came from. After a moment, my eyes make out the form of none other than Archibald Fisher standing in the shadows nearby. I breathe out a sigh of relief. I don’t like the guy, but he seems harmless enough…I mean, at least I know he’s not here to murder me.

Our eyes meet—his widen, mine narrow.

I went to City Hall a few days ago to learn about the process of registering a property as a heritage building or landmark. When the clerk heard I was talking about Fisher Group’s new potential acquisition, she basically laughed me out of the place. Since then, I've been clinging to a shred of hope that the recent turn of events in the Fisher family might somehow change their immediate plans for the firehouse—but it’s a hollow hope at best. Made even hollower by him being here right now. It’s like he thinks he already owns the place, stopping by to scope out his property.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Fisher winces. “Again.”

I set down my glass and shake the excess liquid off my arm. “How long have you been standing there? And how do you know my name?”

“Not long.” Fisher takes a step forward, out of the shadows and into the glow of a nearby streetlight. He looks different. Unshaven, with his hair sticking up in multiple directions, and dark circles under his eyes—although somehow, the bruise-purple color makes his eyes appear even greener. There’s an ornate glass bottle clutched in his hand that looks like expensive whiskey. If I were to paint him right now, I’d depict him as a fallen angel. Still beautiful, but slightly broken…Hercules at his lowest, after being tricked into surrendering his strength.

“And as for your name, I heard your friend use it last week, outside the gala,” Fisher adds.

“Ah.” I’m amazed he remembered hearing that, especially with everything that’s happened in the few days since the gala. That night, the ambulance sped off with the Fisher family limousine following, and by the next morning, every news outlet in the city was reporting the same headline story: Billionaire Real Estate Mogul Louis Fisher the Third Dead at 92 After Suffering a Heart Attack.

I let my gaze sweep over Fisher’s disheveled form again, and wonder if he’s really cut up about losing his grandpa. “Are you…okay?” I ask hesitantly. I feel bad for the guy, but I still don’t trust him.

“Sure am.” Fisher smiles, revealing a perfect row of white teeth and one of those charming dimples. His eyes are flat, though, not twinkly like last I saw him.

“I thought your family would all be in Atlanta right now.” After I read the news about the Fisher patriarch passing, it didn’t take a lot of googling to find out more about the family. Old money, with southern roots as deep as a Georgia pine, plus a multi-billion dollar property empire with an array of good looking, clean-cut blond men at the helm. As I expected, Louis Fisher the Fourth will now take over as Chairman. His eldest son—Louis the Fifth, of course—is the new COO. Most unexpected was finding out that the younger son, Archibald, doesn’t work for the family company at all, but plays for the San Francisco Lions. I know zilch about hockey, but even I’m aware this must not have been the obvious career choice for a man born into a family like that.

“The rest of my family is still there.” Fisher nods now, his expression impassive. “The funeral was earlier today, so I got back a couple hours ago.”

And he came straight…here?

I frown, my distrust growing again. For all I know, the Fisher Group could be expanding into San Francisco because the youngest grandson wanted a brand new skyscraper for his birthday. It’s not like I’m well-versed on how the world of billionaires operates, but I do know one thing: if Fisher is here right now, on the same day of his grandpa’s funeral, it must be business as usual. Nothing has changed and the sale is still going ahead as planned. Hell, Archibald here is probably the one spearheading it; a fun little side project for him to toy with now that hockey season is almost over. Maybe City Hall filled him in on my hilarious visit, and he’s out here drinking that whiskey to celebrate, not drown his sorrows.

My lips twist. “Did you come here to gloat?”

Fisher swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I…don’t know why I came here.” He looks tired. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

I’m about to agree with him that no, he definitely shouldn’t have come here, yet for some reason, I bite my retort back.

I don’t know if it’s the look on his face, or that I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts any longer, but I find myself meeting his eyes. “Well, you’re here now.” I nod at the bottle in his hand. “And since you made me spill my drink, the least you can do is share.”

Fisher’s green eyes flicker in surprise, but he holds the bottle out to me without hesitating. “Be my guest.”

I take it from him and glance at the label, confirming it’s whiskey. Ugh. I unscrew the lid. It smells like warm vanilla and bad decisions. I wince, then dump some into my half-full cup of pink milk. Who knows, maybe the sweetness of my drink will counteract some of the whiskey’s nastiness. I take a tentative sip, and somehow, it’s actually pretty good. I take another, bigger gulp, and look up to find Fisher watching me in amusement. “Did you just mix a Macallan Vintage with…strawberry milk?”

“With Nom Yen, actually,” I correct.

“Ah, yes. Of course. Nom Yen. That world-famous whiskey mixer.” There’s another smile playing on Fisher’s lips, but this one is accompanied by a gleam in his eye that makes him look more like himself again. Which is weird to think, because I barely know the guy.

“It’s a common drink in Thailand,” I explain as Fisher sits down on the step below the one I’m sitting on. He’s so tall, we’re still practically at eye level. I pass the whiskey back to him.

“Cool.” Fisher looks thoughtful as he sets the bottle down on the stoop next to him without taking a sip. “I don’t think I tried that when I was there.”

Of course he’s been to Thailand. He’s probably been on a first class trip to every country on earth.

I shrug. “It’s mostly popular with kids there, I guess. But I thought it might make the whiskey taste better.”

“Did it?”

“Anything tastes better than whiskey, so yeah.”

I wait for him to start mansplaining proper whiskey-tasting etiquette to me, but instead, he laughs. It’s a great laugh; sandpaper-rough with soft edges. “I agree.”

“You do?” I fail to keep the surprise out of my voice. I assumed men like Archibald Fisher all had a hard-on for sitting in boardrooms, smoking cigars while sipping thousands of dollars worth of liquid and talking about how great they are. I’ve seen Mad Men. “But isn’t this a MacArthur Vintage?”

“Macallan. All tastes the same to me, though. So much bullshit about notes of oak and caramel, but no matter the whiskey, I just taste sewer water—much to my family’s eternal embarrassment.” Fisher looks at me and grins. “In fact, I’m sure my granddad is rolling in his grave as I say this while drinking an eight-thousand dollar bottle of the shit.”

I almost spit out my drink. “Eight thousand dollars?”

He lifts a shoulder as he looks at the bottle, his nose wrinkling. “Says it’s a thirty-year-old double cask, so probably.”

That’s more than I pay Rebekah in rent for six months, for goodness sakes. “Why the hell would you spend that much money on something you don’t even like?”

Another smile. “I stole it from the plane.”

“You stole it from…” I trail off, and then the penny drops. “Wait, you have your own plane? That’s wild. I’ve never met anyone with a plane. Hell, I hardly even know anyone with a car.”

“I don’t have a plane,” Fisher insists. I raise a brow in challenge, and he sighs. “The Fisher Group does, though.”

I smirk. “Last time I checked, your last name was Fisher.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t really help who your father is, can you?”

A little flicker of empathy stirs inside me as Fisher’s expression flattens again, and I recall the angry man outside the gala last week. The obvious contempt he had for his own son was almost frightening. Fisher’s family might have more wealth than a small nation, but at what cost? Just because Fisher grew up rich doesn’t necessarily mean he grew up loved.

“No,” I agree softly. “You can’t.”

Moonlight catches on Fisher’s face as our gazes catch and hold for just a moment too long to be comfortable. He seems to glean something from my expression, because he reaches for the bottle on the step beside him and taps it against my cup in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Don’t.” I put my hand on his arm, my fingers grazing the soft cotton of his sweatshirt as I stop him from raising the bottle to his lips. He looks at me again, and I hold out my cup to him. “If you’re going to drink, you might as well drink something that tastes half-decent.”

A funny look moves over Fisher’s Herculean features. Almost like he’s touched by my gesture. But the look is gone as quickly as it appeared, his smirk back in place as he accepts the cup from me, and I shake off the idiotic thought. Clearly, the whiskey’s already going to my head.

“Well in that case, I propose a change of toast,” Fisher drawls as he accepts the cup from me. “To pissing off my granddad by mixing his finest booze with pink milk.”

He lifts it to his lips and the strong golden column of his throat works as he drinks. Despite all my efforts to not give a damn what this guy thinks, I’m gratified when he smiles. “Okay, that’s actually pretty damn good.”

I toss my hair. “What can I say, I have great taste.”

“I bet you do, Lila,” he says, his gaze lingering on me in a way that feels purposeful. Too purposeful. Much to my horror, my skin prickles with heat under his intent gaze.

“Because you’re an artist, right?” Fisher asks.

“Oh! Right!” I snatch the cup back from him and drink quickly to hide my blush. Of course that’s what he meant. He wasn’t flirting—and if he had been, it would have just been a power move to sweeten me up. The more compliant us artists are, and the more peacefully we roll over and give in, the easier his job is. Plus, I’m sure he only actually shows interest in women with trust funds and miniature dogs that fit in their Birkin bags.

Fisher grins cheekily. “Are you any good?”

“I think art might be the only thing I’m truly good at,” I admit as I pass him the cup again.

He nods like he understands. “That’s how I feel about hockey.”

“What? You don’t expect you’ll be good at running the family empire one day?” I tease, but Fisher remains unsmiling.

“My father doesn’t think so.” He takes another drink, then stares down into the cup as he says, “The Fisher family has their own plans for me, but they’re mostly about keeping up appearances. Allowing me to work for Fisher Group isn’t on their agenda—I’m a liability, not an asset.”

I tut. “They can’t think you’re that much of a liability if you play in the NHL.”

“How do you know that?”

“I looked you up. Looked up your whole family, actually. The more you know about your opponent, the better your odds are for beating them.” I raise a brow. “Right, Hercules?”

“I wish. What the Fisher family wants, they get. No exceptions. And what they want is for me to sit still, look pretty, and not cause them any more grief.” He looks sheepish as he raises his eyes again. “I know it’s laughable—me with my first world, poor little rich boy problems when so many people out there are going through so many struggles.”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t make what you’re dealing with any less real.”

“I’ll get over it.” Fisher lifts a big shoulder. “I’ll stay focused on being a great hockey player. The ice feels more like home to me than any of my families’ properties, anyway.”

“That’s how I feel about this place. It’s my home.” I reach back and place my hand on the door of the firehouse behind me. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s gone. And once the firehouse is destroyed, I’m sure the surrounding buildings and businesses will be next.” There’s no vitriol in my tone, just the truth, but Fisher frowns at my words all the same.

“I know it doesn’t mean anything coming from me, but for the record, I really am sorry this is happening, Lila.”

He sounds genuine. So genuine that everything inside me wants to believe him—although I probably shouldn’t.

“Thanks,” I say cautiously.

He offers me a half smile. “It seems like a really cool place. This whole neighborhood does.”

“It is,” I reply.

Despite all my reasons not to trust what he’s saying, Archibald Fisher genuinely does seem like a half-decent guy. A guy who understands what it feels like to lose something you love. Maybe if I show him that this is way bigger than just the firehouse—that the livelihoods of many people who live and work in this neighborhood will be affected by Fisher Group’s plans—there’s a possibility he might come up with another idea about how to get his family’s company to reconsider, or make them think twice about what they’re doing.

I finish my drink, then get to my feet. “Well, before it all gets bulldozed and replaced with luxury apartments, bougie wine bars, and pet spas…why don’t I show you around the place?”

CHAPTER 7

FISHER

Lila leads me around the neighborhood, each of us taking turns passing the bottle of whiskey back and forth as we walk.

All the shops are closed, but we look in the windows. She shows me two of her favorite galleries, a non-profit coffee shop that has after school art classes for kids, and when we pass a Thai restaurant, she smiles. “Siam House. Home of the best khao soi in the city.”

I stop to peer in through the darkened window. Lila stands next to me, pressing a hand to the glass. Her wrist is stacked with delicate gold bracelets, and her fingernails are painted pink. I like her style—tonight, she’s dressed in a bohemian outfit my mother would hate. Baggy cargo pants, strappy sandals, and a sleeveless flowing top that shows off the delicate floral tattoo on her forearm.

“I’ll have to come back and try it sometime,” I reply.

“Ask for Lek, and tell him Lila sent you,” she says as we step back and keep walking together. “He’ll give you free mango sticky rice.”

Lila is one of those people who gets chatty when she’s drinking, and I’m glad she seems to be warming up to me a little…even if it is alcohol-induced warmth. I enjoy listening to her talk about the community here, about her art. She’s effervescent, passionate about everything. Lila’s emotions and joy seep through her skin, her smile, and probably her art too. I haven’t seen any of her paintings yet, but deep down I know I’ll like them.

We walk a good seven blocks together, Lila’s voice filling the silence as we peek inside semi-dark windows. The street lights, benches, and public garbage bins along the street are painted in bright colors, each with a different pattern. It gives the whole street a bit of flare and personality.

Fisher Group’s sleek high-rise is going to feel dark and ominous amongst the quirky shops and bright colors. Like the villain in a cartoon. The small independent businesses will exude joyful songs while the modern corporate build echoes in evil laughter.

I snicker at the visual and Lila whips her head to look at me. The tiny gold hoop through her nose catches the light, and so do her dark eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

She arches one eyebrow, but keeps walking.

Faint jazz music tickles my ears, echoing through the dark. Lila smiles at me and waves a hand. “Follow me, I have one more thing to show you.”

She grabs my wrist, her warm hand on my skin sending a shiver down my spine, then pulls me onto cement steps that lead to a lower level beneath a pottery studio. As we get lower and closer to a solid black door, the music grows louder.

Lila lets go of my wrist and knocks a pattern on the metal door, it might be morse code, but I’m not sure.

When she’s done knocking, there’s a pause, then the door swings open and warm light fills the stairwell, the colorful sounds of saxophone, piano, and drums move against my body and I relax into it, letting my shoulders move with the beat.

A tall Black man dressed in a suit looms over us, he tips his chin to Lila. “Welcome to Tommie’s,” he says in a deep voice, stepping back so we can enter.

He stares me down, and for a second, I think he’s going to kick my ass…but then his gaze flits to the bottle in my hand. “I’m afraid I’ll have to confiscate that.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and hand him the expensive bottle, because I’m pretty sure he could easily kick my ass.

As he takes the bottle, he winks at me.

Lila waves. “Hurry up! You’re slow for someone who’s supposed to be an athlete.”

I gasp in mock horror, but rush to catch up to her.

We pass through a dark hallway only lit by a few crystal wall sconces, until we reach a large room with brick walls and exposed duct work, antique crystal chandeliers hanging throughout the room. Each chandelier is different, but somehow they all complement each other. There’s a massive bar along one wall, and it has a 1920s vibe with gold shelves above the bar and ornate polished wood below. A stage fills the center of the room, and it’s filled with musicians playing live music. The jazz instruments thump through the space, making the crystals on each chandelier vibrate and twinkle in the lights.

Small, round tables surround the stage, with plenty of room for dancing left around them.

“Whoa, this place is awesome,” I say, unable to disguise the awe in my voice.

“Isn’t it?” She says, her eyes bright. “It’s an old speakeasy, built in the twenties. One of my favorite places.”

“I can see why,” I tell her, following her toward the bar even though I’m tipsy and don’t need another drink.

“Lila,” the bartender, a gentleman who’s probably in his sixties, calls out to her. “The usual, hon?”

She slides onto a barstool. “That’s right, a Dirty Shirley on the rocks.”

Lila likes her drinks sweet. I smile and sit beside her. “Make that two.”

“It’ll be right up.” He studies me. “You new here?”

“Yep, I’m a Tommie’s first timer.” I shrug. “I’ll definitely be back though, this place is incredible.”

“Thank you,” he says with a grin.

“You own this place?” My eyebrows climb up my forehead.

“Yes, sir. My great grandpa, Tommie, opened it in 1921. It's been in the family ever since.” He fills two glasses with soda, vodka, and a splash of grenadine, then adds several cherries.

I blink, wondering why my family’s business couldn’t be something cool like this. A small family business, something with a legacy, a heritage.

“So what brings you to Tommie’s tonight? You Lila’s new man?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer his question, looking at Lila as he adds, “Zane’s going to be awfully jealous; this one’s handsome.”

I don’t have a clue who Zane is, but for some reason, I’m a little jealous of him right now.

“Oh Robert, would you stop with that already! Zane and I are just friends.” Lila chuckles, and my irrational flare of jealousy subsides. “And this is Archibald Fisher. I’m showing him around the neighborhood.”

He brings the glasses over and settles them in front of us, his expression hardening. “Fisher, as in Fisher Group?”

The music seems to fade as everyone sitting at the bar turns and looks at me with less than friendly expressions.

I scratch the back of my neck. “I’m afraid so. But I’m doing everything I can to convince my father not to demolish the firehouse.”

He sniffs through his nose. “Well, you better hurry up because I heard they’ll close on the property in two weeks.” Robert glares, then turns away from me.

I can feel the heavy looks from Tommie’s patrons around the bar, so I keep my focus on the Dirty Shirley in front of me and take a sip. I’ve never had one before, but it’s not half-bad.

“Sorry,” Lila whispers, leaning in to speak. Her jasmine and honey scent wafts around me, and I’m not sure if I’m drunk on the whiskey or her. “I should probably just keep calling you Hercules, it would probably raise less questions around here than the name Fisher.”

“I feel like an asshole even being here.”

“Don’t. It’s just that this neighborhood means a lot to the people who live in it. We’ve always managed to keep it small with family-owned operations and small businesses. This street holds memories.” She sighs, sadness moving over her dark eyes.

“You grew up in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah.” She nods, still leaning in so we can hear each other. “My mom raised me here…the art collective was her family, and now they’re mine.”

She used the word was. Past tense. “She passed away?”

Lila nods, one piece of dark hair falling into her face. She tucks it behind her ear. “Almost a year ago.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I mumble, knowing the sentiment is stupid, but without a clue what else to say. I should be better at this, since I just lost my granddad…but I didn’t have the same connection to the man that Lila obviously had with her mom.

She gives me a small smile of acknowledgement. “the firehouse carries so many good memories, losing it feels like losing her all over again.” Condensation runs down the side of her glass, and she absently stops it with her finger. “After Mom passed, all of the artists took care of me. I don’t know what I’ll do once we all disperse to new studios.”

My heart sinks. the firehouse is home to her, to their whole collective. It’s a piece of her heart. This is her family the same way the 3B crew has become mine.

“I may not be a fan of Fisher Group, or anything they stand for, but on a personal level, as someone who has gone through loss…I am truly sorry about your grandpa, Fisher,” Lila says, spinning in her seat to face me. Her eyes are glossy from her alcohol-induced buzz, but her words are honest.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s those gorgeous brown eyes…but I blurt something that I’ve never voiced out loud before. “Don’t be. My granddad was an asshole.” A goofy laugh and a hiccup bubbles out of me.

This makes Lila laugh too. We both start cracking up like my granddad’s assholery is the funniest damn thing on the planet.

“And what, exactly, made him an asshole?” She asks, her cheeks pink. “Outside of demolishing people’s livelihoods to expand his billion dollar empire, of course.”

I take a sip of my drink and slow my laughter. “He was verbally abusive, manipulated everyone he supposedly loved, and only cared about himself. Oh, and he put a stipulation in his will. But only for me…none of the other grandchildren.” I shake my head, chuckling. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear the sob story of a spoiled little rich boy.”

Lila’s eyes widen. “Don’t kid yourself, I’m nosy as hell, I want to know! What’s the stipulation?” She sips her drink through a straw.

I laugh again. “Okay, get this. I can’t receive my—very large, mind you—inheritance unless I get married.”

She grabs hold of my arm, nearly spitting out her drink. Lila swallows, then bursts into laughter again. Her drink is nearly gone, so I know she’s feeling good right now. “Stop it! That’s horrible! You weren’t lying; your grandpa really was an asshole.”

I smile at her reaction, even though the ultimatum is anything but funny. “Right?”

She takes another sip, her eyes bugging out like she just had an idea. Her small hand slaps my shoulder repeatedly until she finally swallows and can say what’s on her mind. “You should just marry me. Then we can buy the firehouse with your inheritance!”

Our eyes hold for two seconds before she peels into a fit of giggles again. My mind is fuzzy, my vision blurring, and I laugh, too. It feels good to laugh.

“Problem solved!” I say, clinking my glass with hers.

“Next up, ending world hunger.” She points her index finger in the air as she says it.

“We’ll save the entire world by the end of the night at this rate,” I tease. The thought has me glancing down at my watch, though. Shit, it’s late. “I have practice early tomorrow; why don’t I walk you home?”

She nods, a bit unstable as she gets down from the high stool. I reach around her waist with my left arm to stabilize her, then grab my wallet with my right hand and throw a fifty down on the bar. Robert the bartender gives me a parting glare that suggests he’ll string me up by my balls if anything happens to Lila under my watch, and I tip my chin in his direction in acknowledgement, glad to see she has people looking out for her wellbeing.

Once we’re back outside—the bouncer never does give my whiskey back—the cool air feels great on my skin, my face hot from all the alcohol. “Okay, you need to tell me where you live so I can walk you there.”

“Hmmmmm,” she hums, screwing up her nose and pointing the direction we walked here from, the lacy strap of her top slipping off one shoulder as she does so. “That way.”

She’s adorable when she’s drunk…and when she’s not drunk. I had fun with her tonight, just talking and sharing about our lives. She’s really cool, completely different from the girls I usually meet in bars, who only flirt with me because they know my last name or want to hook up with a hockey player.

We walk along the sidewalk, her arm looped through mine, until she stops in front of the firehouse. “Okay, this is me.”

My brows scrunch together. “Lila, this is the firehouse. Where do you live? I can’t leave you here alone.”

She tuts. “Fisher, this is my home. I live in the apartment upstairs.”

Holy shit. When Fisher Group demolishes this building, she’ll not only lose her community, but her home. This is so much worse than I thought.

“Come inside and I’ll show you around,” she slurs. “You can’t drive home anyway. I have a couch you can sleep on.”

I was going to just order an Uber to take me back to the loft, but I really don’t want to leave her here alone, not when she’s drunk. Not when my family is taking so much from her. I don’t know why it feels like if I stay close to her, I can somehow protect Lila from her troubles, but guilt keeps me from reaching for my phone.

“Okay, yeah,” I say. “I’ll crash here.”

Lila tugs me inside and locks up for the night, then leads me up a set of old, wooden steps to the tiniest apartment I’ve ever seen. I can barely stand, the ceiling is so low. Was this space supposed to be a storage closet or an attic?

“It’s just temporary,” she says, using the wall for balance so she can kick off her shoes.

I look around, wondering how anyone could actually live in this claustrophobic space. There’s a small twin-sized bed along the wall, and a kitchenette on the other. She’s decorated the room with a colorful floral rug and white curtains. Pottery lines the kitchen countertop.

My eyes land on a love seat in the corner. Is that the couch she spoke of? Does she think I’m three feet tall?

As I was looking around the room, feeling like I might pass out from worry for this woman, Lila was apparently crawling into her tiny bed. She’s already snoring as she lies facedown with one arm dangling down to the floor.

Shaking my head, I cross the room with one step and cover her up with the fluffy blanket that’s folded at the foot of her bed. Then I make myself as comfortable as humanly possible on the soft rug, hoping I won’t wake up regretting my decision to spend the night.

CHAPTER 8

LILA

I wake up to a pounding headache and the sight of Archibald Fisher sprawled on my floor.

Foggy memories of last night take shape as I prop myself up on an elbow and take in his sleeping form. His face is peaceful; mouth soft and slightly open, breathing slow and heavy. In contrast, his long limbs are stretched out at odd, almost unnatural angles, like a chalk outline of a body at a crime scene.

Which is fitting, because right now, it kind of feels like I committed a crime last night—betraying both myself and my art collective. What the hell was I thinking, getting drunk with Fisher like we’re the best of friends, bringing him to all my favorite neighborhood spots. Then, to top it all off, showing him where I lived and inviting him to spend the night.

The firehouse isn’t zoned for residential occupancy, so if Fisher tells his family I live up here, they could have me evicted…and I’d only have myself to blame. My penance for being dumb enough to let my guard down with a man offering me expensive booze, a dimpled smile, and those yummy carved-from-marble muscles.

“Mmhpf,” Fisher moans, making me jump. He stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes, still caught in the limbo between sleep and waking as he rolls onto his side and brings one hand under his shirt to scratch his chest. His shirt creeps up, showing off abs that are even better than the Young Hercules sculpture. He mumbles something incoherent, and I quickly smooth my tangled bed-hair and run my fingers under my eyes to rid them of as much crusty mascara and eyeliner as possible. Not because I care what he thinks of my looks, but because I don’t want to terrify the guy when he wakes up.

Maybe if I sneak off to the shower, Fisher will wake up while I’m in there and let himself out, and we can avoid an awkward hungover conversation.

I’m debating how I might make it to the bathroom without stepping on him—he’s quite literally taking up my whole floor right now—when he cracks open one eye. His gaze goes blurry with confusion until it finds me, sitting close by on the bed. When he sees me, both of his eyes widen, and he smiles a sleepy smirk.

“Morning,” Fisher mumbles, sitting up to reveal an angry streak of rug burn on his cheek.

“Hello,” I say, feeling shy now that I’m sober again. It’s weird having him here, in my space. He’s so big he makes everything look comically smaller than it already is, like he’s in a dollhouse.

“I read somewhere that sleeping on the floor is good for your back, but the author of that article was obviously a liar,” Fisher says as he lifts his arms above his head to stretch. The bottom of his T-shirt—somehow still pristinely white and clean after drinking and sleeping in it—rides up, and I’m treated to another glimpse of his taut, golden stomach.

All the blood in my body rushes to my cheeks, and I turn away—but not so quickly that I don’t see Fisher’s grin as he clocks me blushing over him like some lovesick fangirl.

Get it together, Lila.

“Did you spend the whole night down there?” I ask.

“You told me to sleep on the couch, but I didn’t fit.”

I glance at the little loveseat in the corner, trying to imagine him sleeping on it. He’d have to curl up like a cat, and even then those long legs of his would be hanging off the side. “I guess you are pretty big.”

“Not the first time I’ve been told that,” Fisher replies with a wink. And though he’s clearly kidding around, there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that makes something stir deep in my stomach.

I roll my eyes. “Obviously not what I meant.”

“But now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Yes.

“No!” I squeak, but I can’t help but laugh. Despite my best efforts not to, I actually kind of…like the guy. He’s funny, and surprisingly down to earth for a billionaire.

A loud banging noise comes from downstairs, and Fisher jumps to his feet in an instant. “What was that?” he asks, glancing at the door, then at me. There’s something endearing about the way he does this—from the way he refused to leave me on my own last night and insisted on walking me home, Fisher seems naturally protective in nature. Looking out for other people seems almost like a reflex for him, and it makes me feel safe. Which is probably the opposite of how I should feel with him. He might be the family pariah—at least, according to him—but he’s still one of them, at least in blood.

“It’s just one of the artists letting themselves in for the day—the front door bangs when you close it,” I tell Fisher, and his body language relaxes.

“How the hell do you sleep through that?”

“Well, for one, I’m usually awake long before…” I glance down at my phone. “Nine a.m.”

His eyes widen. “Shit, it’s nine already? I have to be at practice soon.”

“Okay.” I slide off the bed and stand up, smoothing my wrinkled shirt. “I’ll sneak you out the back.”

I don’t bother to elaborate why this is necessary. Fisher’s smart enough to read between the lines and understand that my friends will have questions if they find out he stayed here last night.

“Wait, Lila,” he says, stepping in front of me. “Before I go, I want to talk to you about something.”

I tilt my head up to look at him, but his expression gives nothing away. “Sure.”

“Did you end up going to City Hall?”

I snort a little laugh. For a moment, I thought he actually wanted to talk about something serious, but of course he’s just trying to make me blush again. The guy is relentless. “Yes, and I’m not painting you naked, Hercules,” I say with another giggle.

Fisher’s face twists in confusion, and he gives me a clueless look. “Sorry, what?”

“Your idea of petitioning them to get the firehouse heritage status so the sale would have to have a no-demolition clause didn’t work. So the deal’s off—no life painting of you and your, um, package.”

Fisher stares at me incredulously for a long moment, before he bursts out laughing.

“Shh!” I beg. “They’ll hear you downstairs.”

“Shit, sorry.” He smacks a hand over his mouth, his eyes dancing as his shoulders shake. Then, still chuckling, he lowers his voice and says, “I’d forgotten all about the deal we made the night we first met…but now that you’ve reminded me, I must say I think you should reconsider. I’d make a magnificent subject to paint. Both me and my package, as you say.” Fisher grins, but then his expression grows serious. “So, they wouldn’t approve the heritage permit?”

“They wouldn’t even entertain the idea,” I answer. “I think your family has already won the mayor over.”

He nods slowly, his eyes moving around the room as his internal wheels spin. “We had a conversation last night, not sure if you remember, about my granddad’s will?”

“Of course, I wasn’t that drunk.”

He leans back against the kitchen counter, running a hand through his messy hair as he studies me. “Do you remember making a joke about us getting married?”

“I wasn’t hitting on you, promise.” I hold my hands up. “It was just a stupid joke.”

“Okay. But what if we actually did it?”

I cough. “Had sex?”

“Get married,” Fisher corrects, then grins. “Not that I’m ruling out sex, of course.”

I try my best to ignore the way that comment makes my stomach react. “Ha,” I say, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, I gape at him. “Wait, are you serious?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but it might actually work.”

“In what universe would us getting married work?”

He shrugs. “In order to get my inheritance, I have to get married.”

“So…you’re proposing we have some sham marriage so you can collect all your millions?”

“Exactly.”

The warmth I’ve been feeling towards him since last night shifts, evolving from appreciation to annoyance. Is he so used to getting everything he wants that he thinks because he can make me blush, he can also make me think it’s a good idea to commit an actual crime with him?

He seems to sense my change in mood, because he looks at me and adds, “There would obviously be something in it for you, too.”

I shake my head, disappointed. I was right to be cautious of him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, because here it is.

If he thinks he can buy me, he’s got another thing coming.

“To you, this apartment might look like a shithole you assume I’m dying to move out of, but like I told you last night, it’s temporary while I find a new place.” I straighten my spine so I’m at my full height, which is unfortunately about a foot shorter than he is. “I might not be rich, but I have everything I need, and I make enough from my art to get by. I’m not so poor and pathetic that you can tempt me with a paycheck to play a part in this—I don’t want your money, Fisher.”

“But you do want the firehouse.”

I look at him sharply. “What’s that got to do with this?”

“I know you don’t trust me, Lila, and you’ve got a good reason not to. But you have to believe me when I say that I’m not trying to pay you to help do my dirty work so I can get a bunch of money. This isn’t about the money itself…I don’t want it for me.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, staring into his green eyes. They’re clear. Earnest. Eyes I want to trust, but don’t know how to.

“I mean, of course I want it, but I refuse to be a pawn for my family. I’m not going to let them force their expectations of how I should live my own life onto me.” He smirks. “But granddad would hate the idea of a fake marriage.”

“Why not just walk away from the inheritance and be done with this whole thing?”

“Because if I don’t get the money, the money goes to my jackass cousin, to further line the pockets of some vanity political campaign he’s running for in Georgia…so if we do this, it could be better used for an actual good cause. Like saving this incredible neighborhood.”

I blink at him, hardly daring to believe what I think I’m hearing.

“What are you saying, Fisher?” I ask carefully.

He grins. And then, he drops to the floor so he’s down on one knee in front of me. “I’m saying, marry me, Lila. Marry me so we can get my inheritance, and stick it to my family by using the money to buy this firehouse before they can.” He reaches for my hands, his expression turning serious. “If your petition at City Hall didn’t work, then they will destroy this place after the purchase goes through. And we can’t let that happen.”

My hungover mind is swimming, his words making no sense…yet so much sense at the same time.

“You really don’t want the money for yourself?”

He shrugs. “Like you said, I already have everything I need. What I want is to be free of my family’s constant desire to control me and how I live my life—and if I can do that while also stopping their assholery from negatively affecting all the people who live and work in this neighborhood, that’s just a bonus. Not to mention I’d also be sort of saving the state of Georgia from my cousin. It’s a win-win.”

“How would this even work?” I can hardly believe I’m entertaining this crazy idea.

“I don’t know. But I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out. I have a matinee game on Saturday, but we could pay the courthouse a visit afterwards to tie the knot; make it official. Then I’ll send the marriage license to my granddad’s lawyer, and get my inheritance. In the meantime, you could talk to the building owner and tell them not to close yet, because another offer is coming. We could match whatever Fisher Group is offering, but add a no-demolition clause to our proposal.”

“That actually sounds like not a terrible plan.” I bite down on my bottom lip, considering. “And once the sale’s complete, we’d get a divorce?”

“We’d have to stay married long enough to make it seem legit, otherwise I wouldn’t put it past the Fisher family to contest the validity of our marriage. ” Fisher’s eyes look distant as he thinks. “So I guess we could stay married on paper and just go on living our separate lives the way we usually do, then get a divorce after a year.”

I cross my arms and look down at him, still on one knee in front of me. “What about other women?”

“What about other men?” He smirks. “From what I hear, Zane might be jealous.”

“There’s nothing between me and Zane. And I can go a year without dating. I don’t date much to begin with. But you, on the other hand…”

“What, you don’t think I can’t keep it in my pants for millions of dollars?”

“Jury’s still out, I’m afraid.” I snort a laugh. “But I guess if you do ‘cheat’ with other women while we’re married, it will make our eventual divorce seem more believable.”

“Would you be okay with that?” He asks, then laughs as he clarifies, “I mean, be okay with us getting divorced in a year, not me sleeping with other women while we’re married. I’m not going to do that.”

I consider this for a moment. The sanctity of marriage isn’t something I’ve ever given too much thought. My dad was married…but not to my mom. She was young when she got pregnant with me unexpectedly. When she told my dad the news, he panicked. It turns out that he wasn’t the eligible bachelor my mom thought he was, he was actually a married jerk who had been cheating on his wife—with her. Which made Mom the other woman; pregnant with his illegitimate child. And no matter how much hush money my father offered my mother to “deal with it,” she refused. Mom decided to have me on her own, and wouldn’t take a penny of my dad’s dirty money.

My mom never married, or even dated much, when I was growing up. We had each other, and that seemed to be enough for her. She dedicated her whole life to me, sacrificed so much of her budding art career to raise a daughter she hadn’t planned for.

“I’m okay with getting divorced after,” I say.

Delight dances across Fisher’s features. “So we’re really doing this? It’s a yes?”

This is so insane, it just might work. “I…guess so.”

“Great.” He grimaces. “Because my knee’s really starting to hurt.”

CHAPTER 9

FISHER

My performance during practice is abysmal. Coach Anderson—AKA Noah’s brother-in-law who acts like he can’t stand me most of the time—has already yelled at me more in ten minutes than he usually does in a whole practice, while Penn and Noah keep staring at me like I grew a second head.

Not only am I nursing the hangover from hell, but my mind is back in the firehouse with Lila. Me on my knee, asking her to marry me so we can save the building she loves and screw with my family. Two birds, one stone.

Half of me thinks it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. What have I got to lose, besides millions of dollars? The other half is blaring a red siren and screaming abort mission.

The memory of Lila’s wide, dark eyes looking at me like I was an evil genius is something that will stick with me forever.

A puck slides between my skates and I glance up to see Noah raising his arms in the air. “You’re supposed to catch the puck with your stick, Fishy,” he grumbles.

One of our team veterans, Sandine, who’s wearing a gold practice jersey marking him as an away player for the sake of practice, snags the puck instead. He shoots it past our goalie and celebrates by flapping his arms like a giant bird. Noah groans and shoots me a dirty look, but I barely notice.

When Coach Anderson finally blows a whistle to signify the end of practice, I breathe a huge sigh of relief and rush towards the ice exit…but I’m not quick enough.

“Fisher, a word.” Coach Anderson calls me over to where he’s standing at center ice with Coach Slater. By the time I skate over to them, we’re the only three left on the ice.

“Listen, Fisher,” Coach Anderson begins. “I know you’re going through a lot right now with your granddad’s passing…but I need you to try to focus.” He pauses with a sigh. “Playoffs are starting next week, and I’m confident we can at least make it past the first round. But only if every player is focused.”

Coach Slater jumps in, always the peacemaker. “You’re an excellent forward, Fisher. You bring a lot of energy to the game, and we need your energy now more than ever.” He slaps my shoulder pad.

I nod. “Okay, I hear you. Sorry about today. I’ll be focused and ready for our next game, I swear.”

They both seem appeased by this, and I head to the locker room. Once I’m in the shower, my mind spins with how terrible I was out there on the ice today. My father may not have been entirely wrong—I do need to get my shit together and my priorities in order. Maybe it’s time I stay home more, eat better, and focus on playing my best game. Do everything I can to ensure I get a contract extension at the end of the season. Now that I don’t have my trust fund or inheritance to fall back on at the moment, the stakes are even higher.

By the time I’m showered, Noah and Penn are ready to head home. They drove separately today since I came here straight from Lila’s.

Penn stops in front of my cubby as I’m getting dressed in some clean clothing I luckily had in my gym bag. “You okay, Fishy? I texted last night and you never responded.”

I drag a hand through my damp hair. “Yeah, sorry. Went out with a girl and crashed at her place.”

Noah nods. “Ally called it.”

The fact they automatically assume I hooked up with someone makes me nervous about this whole scheme. It seemed like a great idea this morning, but I think I might’ve still been a bit drunk, because as my hangover worsens, so does my anxiety.

My roommates will never believe I’m getting married for real so I know I’ll have to tell them the truth. But my reputation as a man who frequently enjoys the company of women will make it a challenge to convince my family—and Granddad’s lawyer—that this marriage is real.

Penn’s brow wrinkles as he studies me. “Dude are you okay? You look a little⁠—”

“Hey, are you guys free Saturday after our game?” I blurt, cutting him off.

If I’m going to tell my friends the truth about what I’m doing, I may as well have their moral support at the courthouse—after I left Lila’s this morning, I called ahead to book us a Saturday slot. Apparently, they usually only open on the weekends in special circumstances, but after some heavy flattery to the lady on the phone, she was able to find us an officiant who agreed to come in on Saturday if we paid him double.

Noah and Penn glance at each other.

“Yeah, I think so, why?” Noah answers.

I blow out a breath. “I’ll fill you in at the loft.”

When I walk inside the loft twenty minutes later, Noah, Ally, Penn, and Hazel are all seated at the bar in silence.

I drop my gym bag onto the floor and cross the room to stand in front of them on the opposite side of the island. “Please don’t tell me this is an intervention,” I joke.

Nobody laughs.

“We can tell something’s going on, man. So out with it,” Noah says, crossing his arms.

With a deep breath, I rest my elbows on the countertop. “Hear me out, okay?”

The four of them nod.

“I know you all overheard the reading of my granddad’s will yesterday,” I say, my tone matter-of-fact as I wonder how that could have only been yesterday. It feels like a lifetime of shit has happened since.

“We did,” Hazel says softly. “And we’re sorry, Fisher.”

Ally reaches over the counter and pats my hand, her big brown eyes almost pitying. “But we’re glad you’re talking to us about it now. We were worried when you took off right after we got home last night.”

I smile at the girls’ concern, then shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I just needed to think about my next move. You all heard what the lawyer said, which means you understand my options—or lack thereof.” I pause, making sure they’re still with me. “Well, I refuse to let my dumbass cousin get my inheritance without a fight.”

Penn snorts a laugh. “So, what are you going to do? Get married?” He chuckles, and the rest of my friends begin to laugh, as well.

I wait in silence.

Noah meets my gaze and abruptly stops laughing. “No.”

“Yes,” I reply. “I’m getting hitched, and using my inheritance money to purchase the firehouse that Fisher Group wants to buy. I’ll make sure the building is saved and gets a heritage permit so no one can tear it down.” I huff a humorless laugh. “This way, I’ll use the money for a very worthy cause…and best of all? I’ll get the last laugh in a family who’s done nothing but laugh at me my entire life.”

“Dude.” Penn stares at me blankly. “This is insane. You can’t just randomly get married.”

“Seriously, we can’t let you do this, man.” Noah shakes his head slowly from side to side.

“It’s honestly not that big of a deal. I just need a marriage license.”

Noah’s head swivels to look at Ally, who’s been abnormally quiet this whole time. “Ally, talk some sense into him.”

A slow smile spread across Ally’s face. “It’s kind of brilliant, actually.”

Noah gapes at her. “You can’t be serious.”

She shrugs. “Fishy, no offense…but your family sucks. I don’t want your cousin getting your inheritance, either.”

I grin. “None taken.”

Hazel clears her throat. “Who, exactly, are you going to marry, though?” she asks, always the reasonable one.

“Her name is Lila Chen. She’s an artist who rents a space in the firehouse, and she has sentimental attachment to the property. She’s willing to help.”

Ally’s cat, Harry Styles, jumps up on the counter top and starts rubbing his head against my chest. I pet him as he purrs, feeling like a Bond villain. “We’re going to stay married for a year, then get divorced. That way it looks real.”

Hazel worries her bottom lip. “You need to protect yourself, draw up a contract and have her sign. Also a pre-nup.”

Penn gawks at the girls. “You two can’t seriously be encouraging this!”

“Fisher, you’re going to have a wife!” Ally claps her hands together, and I try not to balk at the word. “When do we get to meet her?”

Hazel grins. “Yeah, what’s she like?”

We ignore the groans of protest from Penn and Noah.

“She's awesome. Seriously, the coolest girl ever. You guys will love her.”

“Invite her for dinner tonight!” Ally suggests.

“Great idea,” Hazel agrees. “I’ll make a reservation at that new sushi place on the water.”

“What is even happening right now?” Noah asks in disbelief, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“We’re going out tonight to celebrate Fishy getting married, duh,” Ally says with a giggle. “Keep up.”

I smile, grabbing my phone out of my pocket. At this point, Noah and Penn might be looking at me like I grew a third head, but Ally and Hazel’s reaction to my news has soothed my worries. Or put a Band-Aid on them for the time being, at least.

“Okay, I’ll text her now.”

CHAPTER 10

LILA

Walking to my favorite coffee shop on the corner, it would feel like any other normal spring day…if it wasn’t for the blazing hangover I’m nursing. Without the stomach-churning nausea, I’d almost be able to convince myself last night was just a fever dream, and I didn’t sneak Archibald Fisher through my back door earlier this morning.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Glenn greets me as I step inside the coffee shop and breathe in the heavenly scent of roasted coffee beans and sugary, freshly-baked pastries. “Medium toffee-nut latte with extra caramel drizzle?”

“Yes, please.” I smile at the barista and slide my sunglasses off. The fluorescent light above the counter is brighter than I expect, and I wince, quickly putting them back on. “Actually, better make that a large. I think I’m going to need the extra caffeine today.”

“Rough night?” He turns the card machine to face me.

“Just had a few drinks with…a friend,” I say as I add a tip and tap my card.

“A friend, or a friend? Spill the tea.”

“No tea.” Only that I got completely wasted with the billionaire whose family’s trying to destroy the firehouse last night, and then I agreed to marry him to help him commit fraud. “Just one too many Dirty Shirleys.”

Glenn laughs as he hands me my receipt, and then his gaze moves past my shoulder to the window. I glance in the same direction to see Zane and Alastair outside on the street, walking towards the coffee shop. They smile and wave in our direction.

I wave back, then hurriedly turn to Glenn, nodding at the purple mug in his hand. “Um. Maybe I’ll take that latte to go, too.”

I love my friends, but I can’t have coffee with them right now.

Not until I can think straight.

“Ahh, so that’s what happened.” Glenn smirks knowingly as he looks Zane up and down once more. He drops his voice to a theatrical whisper as he adds, “I love this for you. He’s cute.”

Ha. If Glenn thinks Zane’s cute, imagine what he’d think if he saw my future husband.

“Oh no, noth—” I start to protest.

“Don’t worry, I got you, girl,” Glenn interrupts me with a wink as he sets the mug down and grabs a large paper cup instead. I don’t bother to protest further. What he assumes went down last night is a lot more believable than what actually happened.

Glenn starts making my coffee as Zane and Alastair step inside the shop.

“Morning,” Alastair says.

Zane gives me a teasing grin as he leans against the counter. “What’s with the sunglasses inside, Li?”

“Just a headache,” I say. It’s the first thing that pops into my mind, and not a total lie.

Glenn grins at Zane over the espresso machine. “If you’re feeling similarly fragile this morning, I can put an extra espresso shot in your Americano?”

“No, just the regular is good. Please,” Zane tells him with a puzzled frown. “Did you take some painkillers?” He asks, his eyes shifting in my direction.

It takes me longer than it should to realize this question is addressed to me. “For what?”

“Your headache?”

“Oh…right. That.” I’m a deer in headlights. I don’t usually lie to my friends or keep secrets like this. Or do shady shit like agreeing to marry random men I just met.

Alastair chuckles as he waves a paint-stained hand in front of my face. “Uh oh, is Lila off in space again?”

“From what I heard, she definitely saw stars last night,” Glenn says, winking at me as he sets my finished coffee down on the counter. I’m going to kill him.

Zane’s frown deepens.

“He’s joking!” I try to laugh, but the sound that comes out of my mouth is borderline hysterical, even to my own ears.

“You’re acting really weird right now, Li,” Zane says.

Way to state the obvious.

“I’m just in a rush. Gotta go, uh…buy Tylenol. For my headache.” I wave a vague hand as I start backing up, making my way towards the front door. “Thanks for the coffee, Glenn.”

Alastair chuckles, but Zane gives me such an unnerving look, for a moment I’m worried he’s somehow aware of my and Fisher’s whole plan, and he’s about to call my bluff.

“I’ll see you later, then,” Zane finally says with a confused expression.

“Yeah, maybe. I’m kind of busy today, so, uh…” I trail off, shooting one last smile in my friends’ direction as I duck out of the shop.

“Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen, baby,” Glenn calls after me, little shit stirrer that he is.

The door closes behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I can only hope Zane will buy that my mind is lost in an art project, and Glenn’s mind is well…just lost in general.

Tilting my face towards the warmth of the morning sun, I take a sip of my coffee, trying to figure out what on earth to do next. I can’t go back to the firehouse, because eventually Zane and Alistair will head back there, and I don’t want to field any more questions right now.

I decide to walk over to an upscale gallery downtown where I sold a painting a couple months back. Yesterday, they left me a message saying my check is ready to be picked up. I need the money, and hopefully some fresh air and exercise will help me think.

I can’t tell my friends the truth, because they’ll all try and talk me out of it. They’ll tell me it’s not worth it; that we’ll find a new building for our collective. Plus, if Rebekah found out I was marrying Fisher to save the firehouse, she’d blame herself, and I don’t want her to feel guilty when none of this is her fault. The woman already has enough on her plate.

So I either need to spin a story—lie—to everyone I know and love, or avoid them all for the next whole year.

Or maybe I just have to admit this is a terrible idea and accept defeat.

Call the whole thing off.

By the time I walk into the gallery, I’ve got a blister forming on my heel and a million more “what ifs” to back up how stupid and reckless this whole marriage plan is and why I can’t possibly go through with it. Like what if the authorities somehow find out? Or what if Fisher changes his mind after we say “I do” and decides he wants his inheritance for himself? Or what if that’s secretly his plan, anyway…

“Can I help you, Miss?”

I startle as I look up to see a middle-aged gallery curator peering down his long, thin nose at me. He’s wearing a slim-fitting tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses, and when I glance around and see how bougie this gallery is, I know his image was carefully curated to match the vibes here. He looks like a walking stereotype of someone you’d expect to work in a fancy art gallery—well-groomed and just the right amount of snooty.

“I’m just here to pick up a check.”

His brows rise, but he doesn’t reply.

“For a painting I sold here a while back, at one of your art shows,” I add.

“Sorry, kid,” he says, sounding anything but sorry. “You must have the wrong gallery. I know all of our artists by both face and name.”

I’m not offended by his attitude. In a way, I get it. I’m some random young girl who’s just stepped in off the street in a threadbare Grateful Dead T-shirt, last night’s whiskey still radiating from my pores. If he’s a snobby gallery stereotype, I’m a starving artist stereotype, giving him every reason to believe there’s no way someone like me could be selling my art at a place like this.

I offer the curator what I hope is a professional-looking smile. “My name is Lila Chen, and the check I’m here to pick up is for my painting Waking Dreams.”

The man pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, blinking rapidly at me. “You’re Santi?”

“I…guess I am.” I started using the signature Santi on my paintings shortly after my mom died. It means peace, or serenity, in Thai, and it felt appropriate because painting is the one thing that’s brought me peace amidst the chaos of my life in the last year since.

“Your work is in high demand,” the curator says with a thin smile. His demeanor is friendlier now, but edged with disbelief.

I can hardly believe it either, if I’m being honest. Statistically, most artists never make real money from their art in their lifetimes, and my semi-surrealist, dreamy style of work isn’t for everyone. I’m grateful to whoever that mysterious buyer was who scooped up my painting of Alone by the Sea last summer. It was for sale in some random art space in Monterey that reluctantly agreed to hang it near the back of their unit, and it was clear the staff there thought nobody would ever buy it…but somehow, someone did. The sale of Alone by the Sea generated enough buzz for more local galleries to start taking interest in displaying my pieces, and allowed me to quit my waitressing job and start making a modest living doing what I love full time.

“Let me get your check,” the curator says as he crosses over to an ornate desk at the edge of the room and retrieves a crisp white envelope from a drawer.

“Thank you.” I take the envelope from him and tuck it into my purse, and his eyes follow my motion.

“It’s more than double what you asked,” he says dryly.

Freezing in place, I’m sure I misheard. I turn to look at him to confirm.

He nods. “A young man who attended the show seemed so determined to add it to his art collection that my fellow curator, Carmila, was able to get a much higher price than expected.”

My mouth falls open.

“Like I said, you’re in high demand.” He smooths his tie. “In fact, Carmila was interested in speaking with you about featuring more of your work here; perhaps even a dedicated Santi series. She’ll be sorry she missed you today.”

“Wow. I’d love that.”

Love that is a serious understatement—it’s the chance of a lifetime. The opportunity to go from a little buzz around my name to making an actual name for myself in the art world. I can’t believe my ears.

“She was looking at penciling that in for June—we had a cancellation we still need to fill.”

“June?” I squeak. That doesn’t feel like anywhere near enough time to conceptualize and create a decent, sellable series of paintings.

“The art world is fickle, and she’ll move on to the next up-and-coming, shiny new artist on the block unless you act quickly to make a lasting name for yourself while there’s some interest in you. I recommend striking while the iron is hot, or fade into irrelevance.”

He says this like he’s speaking from experience, and my heart goes out to him while simultaneously, my desire to seize my opportunity and make it a success doubles down.

“I really appreciate the advice. I can definitely deliver in whatever timeframe she needs.”

“Good luck,” he tells me, sounding sincere. “I’ll tell Carmila you’re expecting her call.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” My heart is buoyant, bobbing wildly in my chest as I dash out of the gallery. I rip open the envelope and almost keel over when I see the check is for five thousand dollars.

What idiot paid five thousand dollars for my interpretation of the Palace of Fine Arts at dawn? Whoever they are, I could kiss them.

I feel electric. Crackling with an energy I'm desperate to channel into creativity. I’m on the verge of running all the way back to the firehouse so I can throw myself into finishing the cherry blossom piece I’ve been working on…and then I remember. There might not even be a firehouse to work out of soon. And while the check I just received would cover a deposit and first month’s rent on a new place to live, it wouldn’t stretch to cover going rates for renting studio space elsewhere. Nevermind buying all the materials I’d need to paint a whole series.

Plus I still need to eat.

I sink onto a nearby bench and bury my head in my hands. My phone buzzes in my bag, and I pull it out, blinking in surprise when I see the name Hercules on my screen before I laugh. When we swapped numbers this morning before he left, Fisher must’ve saved his contact information as that. But I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to hear from him so soon.

Hercules

Getting cold feet yet?

I stare at his message, wheels in my brain spinning. Ten minutes ago, I’d have said yes and told him I’d changed my mind.

Now, I’m not so sure.

Lila

I’d say more lukewarm than cold.

I’m on the precipice of real success with my art career. So close, that suddenly lying to my friends seems like the least of my worries—because this isn’t only about me. It’s a long shot to be successful in the art world to start, and without the firehouse, the shot gets impossibly longer for all of us to make.

By saving the firehouse, I’d be helping them out as much as myself.

Hercules

Does that mean we’re still doing this? Because it turns out when you tell your roommates you’re getting married, they all want to meet your future wife.

Lila

I’m not sure what’s weirder, being referred to as someone’s future wife, or marrying a man with roommates.

Hercules

Definitely the wife part. My roommates are awesome; you’ll love them.

I let out a long sigh, wondering how on earth Fisher broke this news to his roommates. If they think he’s crazy, or if they see it as one big joke. Another message comes through a second later.

Hercules

Only if you want to meet them, of course. Totally up to you.

Deep down, I know that this is my shot, and if I’m going to take it, I need to fully commit. I set my jaw as I tap out a response.

Lila

I’m in.

Hercules

Great! I’ll pick you up tonight at six?

Lila

Just send me the name of the place and I’ll meet you there.

Less pressure that way. And if I’m not relying on him for a ride, I have a better opportunity to dip out early if the dinner is too awkward to bear. I put my phone back in my bag and stand up from the bench, telling myself it’ll be good to learn more about the man I’m going to marry. Meet his friends. And as for my friends, I just won’t tell them anything until after the wedding. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

In a year, once all is said and done, I can explain to them why I did what I did, and they’ll understand. We’ll still have our firehouse, and each other, and it’ll all be worth it. Something we can (or will) look back on and laugh about one day…that one time I married a billionaire.

CHAPTER 11

FISHER

I wait outside the sushi restaurant for Lila. She seemed hesitant to come, and though I offered to pick her up, she said she’d rather meet me here—my guess is she was concerned one of her artist friends would see her getting into a vehicle with public enemy number one. Which I understand. Plus, my G Wagon’s not exactly subtle.

The breeze from the bay blows through my hair and chills my skin through the linen button down I’m wearing. The sushi place is right on the water, with a pretty view of the Bay Bridge, with wrought iron tables for outdoor seating. The sun is setting, casting oranges and pinks against the water.

Lila strides into view, her hair coiled up with a few pieces blowing around her face. She’s wearing a flowy black sundress that looks beautiful against her light brown skin. She acts shy as she walks to stand in front of me, playing with the stack of gold bracelets that rest against her wrist, just under her tattoo. “Hey.”

“There’s no need to be nervous. Just because our marriage is only for looks doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?” I smile.

Lila rolls her eyes with a resigned sigh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Why not be friends with my…husband?” She snorts an adorable laugh.

“Exactly,” I agree. “Plus, you’ll love Ally and Hazel.”

“Ally and Hazel?” Lila’s mouth drops open. “I didn’t realize you lived with girls. I was expecting to meet half a team of hockey players.”

“You’ll meet a couple of those, too,” I assure her. “Come on, I’m hungry.”

I lead Lila to the outdoor table where my friends are already seated sipping their drinks—waters for us guys tonight so we’re in our best form for playoffs. Last night was my last taste of alcohol for the foreseeable future.

“Guys, this is Lila,” I say as four pairs of eyes drink in the petite woman standing next to me. “Lila, these are my teammates, Noah Downsby and Penn Matthews, and their girlfriends, Ally and Hazel.”

Ally jumps up from her seat and rushes over to pull Lila into a big hug. I have no idea if Lila is a hugger or not, but Ally doesn’t give her a choice. “Oh my gosh, I love your dress!”

“Thanks,” Lila says with a nervous smile. “Nice to meet you all.” Her eyes move over my teammates. “Whoa, you’re all huge, huh?”

Hazel almost spits out her water, coughing as she swallows, and Penn pats her back. “Right? You should see how much the three of them eat.”

“Hey! No athlete discrimination, please,” Penn teases.

Lila chuckles and takes the empty seat beside Hazel.

“It’s good to meet you, Lila.” Hazel tips her head, earning a smile from Lila as her shoulders visibly relax.

As I slide into the seat next to Lila, the server comes over and asks what we want to drink. We both order water.

“No Dirty Shirleys today?” I tease as the server walks away..

“Pretty sure I drank enough last night to last me a while,” Lila says with a cringe.

I grimace. “Same.”

“Wait,” Noah says, his eyebrows creasing. “Lila is the girl you were with last night?”

“Yeah, I thought this wasn’t going to be a real marriage.” Penn eyes me warily.

I groan. “I slept on the floor, cool it. Lila showed me the neighborhood around the firehouse, introduced me to the community. That’s how our whole brilliant plan was formed.”

“Brilliant isn’t the word I’d choose.” Noah rolls his eyes.

“Agreed,” Lila says, and Noah looks at her in surprise.

The server drops off our waters as Lila shrugs, reaching for her glass and taking a sip. “You’re right, though. I’d say it’s more insane than brilliant.”

I chuckle to myself as I register the approval in Noah’s shrewd, dark eyes. Of all my friends, I figured he’d be the toughest nut to crack, and I like that Lila’s already impressed him.

The server quietly waits beside our table for us to order, and we each tell him what we want. After we’ve ordered enough rolls to feed twenty people with regular appetites, he leaves again.

Ally pulls a three-ring binder out from her canvas bag and plops it onto the table with a thud. “Okay, so I did some planning today.”

“What the hell is that, Ally?” I ask as she flips the heavy book open.

The first page shows a formal wedding ceremony complete with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background and a floral awning around the bride and groom. “I know we only have a week to plan, but I’m here for you. I’ve been dying to plan a wedding.”

I raise my eyebrows and shoot Noah a pointed look. He’s too busy smiling that goofy twitterpated smile at Ally to notice.

“Uhh, wow. That looks really fancy,” Lila says, rubbing the back of her neck as her eyes find mine. “I thought we were just going to go to the courthouse and then call it a day?” An uncomfortable laugh bubbles out of her.

“So did I,” I say, shaking my head. “This binder is a surprise to me, too. But nice to see you had such a productive day, Ally.”

“Oh.” Ally’s face drops. “That’s no fun.”

“It’s not a real marriage, so we don’t need a real wedding, remember?” I ask.

Ally pouts, and despite myself, I have to laugh. What a brat.

Hazel clears her throat. “Okay, so what if we simply add some flair to the courthouse ceremony?”

“I’m listening.” Ally leans in, back in serious wedding planner mode.

“We could find some dresses and tuxes at thrift stores,” Hazel offers.

Lila’s head whips between the two of them. “I wasn’t really expecting anyone to be there for the ceremony besides me and Fisher…”

My friends look at her, aghast—even the guys. “Oh, we’ll be there to see our boy getting married. You can’t keep us away,” Penn says.

Noah grumbles in agreement.

Lila looks at me, her expression full of panic. I rest a hand on her bare shoulder, trying not to notice the way the contact sends a shiver through my body. “Sorry, I sort of already invited them. My bad.”

I look at her, trying to read what’s going on behind her troubled expression. After a few moments, she nods. “I guess we’ll need witnesses, anyway.”

I smile.

Ally cheers. “When are we going shopping?”

Lila shakes her head at Ally’s exuberance. “Listen, I’m fine with you all coming, but I’m not wearing a wedding dress. That would feel…wrong.”

I understand where Lila’s coming from, but if we do this, it has to actually seem legitimate. “We’ll need some wedding photos if I’m going to convince my family we really got married,” I explain. “So whatever you wear, it has to look real enough for our announcement in the newspaper.”

A strangled squeak comes out of Lila. “Newspaper announcement?”

“It’s a rich people thing.” I shrug.

Hazel’s mouth pulls into a conspiratorial smirk. “Fisher, you want to annoy your family, right? What if you wore something that’s technically totally wedding-appropriate, but…grotesque?”

“Tell me more.” My eyes glint as I put my elbows on the table and lean forward.

“Like, dress for a wedding, but make it tacky and tasteless. Ugly. An embarrassment to your family when they see the announcement.”

The thought of my parents opening The New York Times and finding a ridiculous, tacky picture of me, Lila, and the gang has me grinning like an idiot. They already think of me as an embarrassment, so why not play into it.

“You’re a genius.” Penn drops a kiss on Hazel’s shoulder. “I’m picturing Fisher in a Dumb and Dumber style orange tuxedo.”

Noah’s head falls back as he laughs.

Ally giggles too. “As much as I wanted to plan a beautiful wedding, I love this idea.”

I look over at Lila, because her opinion is the only one that really matters here. She’s the one who’s going to be front and center of this charade. More than anything, I want to make sure she’s comfortable, fully on board with every step of the plan.

My eyes meet hers. “What do you think?”

Lila holds my gaze as her worried expression slowly morphs into a grin. A wicked gleam flashes in her eyes that makes her look sexy as hell, and without her saying a word, I know I’m watching the very second her brain gets on board with this ridiculous idea.

CHAPTER 12

LILA

To my delight, dinner is actually shaping up to be…fun. Fisher’s roommates are nothing like I expected.

The guys, Penn and Noah, looked intimidating at first with their huge, hulking statures and obvious reservations about my upcoming wedding to Fisher, but it didn’t take me long to work out they’re good guys who are just concerned about their buddy’s questionable life choices.

Which I understand. I’ve been so worried about what my loved ones are going to think, I hadn’t considered how this whole thing might look to the people who love Fisher. For all they knew, I could have been a gold digger looking to make an easy buck. Or million.

I’m glad Fisher has good friends who are looking out for him, and the fact that he told them all this is a fake marriage makes me happy, because he clearly trusts them fully. Also, it makes things much easier for me, because I don’t have to pretend to be head over heels in love all evening.

As we all eat and chat, I find out Ally lives with the three boys, while Hazel lives just across the street. Despite coming on strong with the wedding planning, Ally’s a sweetheart. She’s dating Noah, and has known Fisher since they attended college together back in Georgia. Hazel’s more reserved, but her eyes are kind and warm. She’s dating Penn, and definitely the mother hen of the group.

“And now you see why I really needed to get married,” Fisher says. “I’m the permanent fifth wheel of the group these days, and hitching my wagon to a hottie who’d impress my friends makes me feel less like some loner loser.”

Penn snorts. “Loner? Try telling that to the multiple women you’ve—ouch!” He yelps as Hazel digs her elbow into his ribs. He looks at his girlfriend like a sad puppy. “What was that for?” Hazel widens her eyes at him, and sudden realization dawns in Penn’s expression.

“Shit.” He winces as he turns to me, sheepish. “Sorry, Lila. Ignore me.”

“Please do, everybody else does,” Fisher drawls, and Penn gives him the middle finger, but they’re both laughing.

“All good.” I smirk. “It’s not like Fisher’s kept his dating history a secret from me.”

Penn grins at his friend. “And didn’t I tell you that you’d settle down once you found the right woman, Fishy?”

“A fake marriage to swindle millions from a billionaire’s will; the very definition of settling down,” Noah adds, but he’s smiling. Or, at least, he looks like he wants to smile.

“I need to pee,” Ally says suddenly, pushing her chair back and standing from the table.

“Thank you so much for that announcement,” Fisher replies.

Ally ignores him and looks over at Hazel, widening her eyes at her. A moment later, she shoves her chair back, too. “Same. Want to come, Lila?”

Both girls turn to me, and I jump up without hesitation at the chance to talk to the girls alone, and hear whatever it is they clearly want to say to me. “Definitely.”

“I will never understand why women do that,” Noah mutters as the three of us walk toward the door to go back inside the restaurant to find the bathrooms, and we all giggle. It makes me feel strangely accepted, part of something.

Once we’re inside the ladies’ room, Ally grows serious as she tucks a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear and faces me. She’s only a couple of inches taller than I am, so we’re almost eye to eye.

“Fisher’s a good guy,” she says.

I’m unsure how I’m meant to react to that statement, so I nod.

Ally bites her lip. “Like, a really good guy. Under all of his bravado and sarcasm, he’s one of the best people I know. And he might not be a relationship guy, but he treats the women he spends time with respectfully. He'd never do anything to hurt anyone.”

I swallow. A moment ago, I felt like one of the gang, the six of us in on a crazy secret together. Now, I feel every inch the outsider I am. For the millionth time, I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. But then I remind myself of what’s at stake.

“I’m not going to hurt your friend either, Ally,” I say gently. “I promise I’m not trying to steal his money or anything like that. I just want to save my art collective’s building.”

“Ohmygosh, I didn’t mean that!” Ally puts her hands on my arms and squeezes them. “I was just worried you were going to back out when you realized just how much of a reputation Fisher has.”

“I already knew Fisher wasn’t the commitment type in the past,” I assure her, phrasing it as nicely as I can.

“Penn used to be a total playboy, too,” Hazel joins in on trying to convince me, apparently not having heard what I just said. “And now he’s the most loyal boyfriend ever. People really do change, and deep down, Fisher is already a sweetheart, like Ally said…we think he just needs the right partner.”

I look at the two women standing in front of me, their expressions sweet and earnest as they try to reassure me it's still safe to marry their friend now they’ve reiterated what a manslut he has been, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me. I might not know these girls, but this is a prime example of girlhood at its finest.

“You’re both really kind,” I say through my laughter. “And good friends to Fisher. I appreciate your concern for both of us, but this is one hundred percent a business transaction. No feelings are, or will be, involved. No need to worry about either of us getting hurt. Fisher’s dating habits aren’t my business—because we’re not really together.”

Ally’s mouth twists in disappointment.

“Are you sure you don't have any feelings at all for him?” Hazel asks.

I think back to his protectiveness when he thought I was in danger when we first met. His enthusiasm when I showed him around my neighborhood last night, and his vulnerable confession about how his family views him. The way he smiled at me when he was down on his knee in front of me this morning. The wicked gleam in his eye as he made me blush with his stupid comments about his big package.

I push all of this out of my mind. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, that sucks.” Ally pouts.

“We can still plan the ugliest wedding in history together. Have you guys heard of Wharf Market?” The girls both shake their heads, and I smile at them. “It’s a pop-up market near where I live, and they have a secondhand store full of old costumes and props from movies and musicals and stuff. Why don’t we all go there this week?”

Hazel grins. “Girl, now you are speaking my language.”

“My friends loved you,” Fisher tells me later that evening as we stroll along the pier together. The moonlight above dips his hair and skin in gold. “Even Downsby.”

After dinner, Fisher announced to the others he was walking me home—which was news to me—then made a big fuss of passing the keys of his G Wagon to Noah. He even made him swear on his NHL career that he’d treat the vehicle like it was his baby. Well, he tried to make him do that. Noah just rolled his eyes and grabbed the keys from Fisher’s hand while muttering about what an idiot he was.

Both of the girls hugged me goodbye as we made plans to meet up on Friday at Wharf Market to go ugly wedding shopping. Then, to my surprise, Penn hugged me too and announced he’d love to go shopping with us. Even Noah said he’d come—although he just nodded at me as he left. But according to Fisher, that means I won him over, so I’ll take it.

“I thought they were pretty great, too.” I look up at him teasingly. “Much to my surprise.”

“What, did you think they were going to be a bunch of meat heads who use way too much hair gel and Axe body spray?”

“Yes,” I reply without missing a beat.

“Glad to have proved you wrong, then,” Fisher laughs as he reaches over and pokes my side. The contact is brief and playful, but it sends a strange shiver through me all the same. He mistakes my shiver as my being cold, and shrugs his jacket off.

“Oh, no⁠—”

“I insist.” He drapes it over my shoulders, and I breathe in the mingling scents of his incredible cologne and laundry detergent. “Whoa, you’re drowning in that.”

“Are all hockey players as huge as you and your friends, Hercules?”

Fisher huffs a laugh at the nickname. “Why, are you in the market for a tall, buff guy?” he shoots me a flirty smile, flexing his arms. “Because I could hook you up.”

“Nah.” I grin back at him. The spot on my side where his fingers scraped the thin fabric of my dress still feels warm. “I’m already betrothed to another.”

“Sounds like a lucky guy.”

“Oh, he is,” I reply, making him laugh. I really like his laugh.

“I don’t know if I believe you’re engaged, though.” Fisher reaches for my hand, wrapping his big callused fingers around my wrist and then he holds my hand up and acts like he’s inspecting it. “I don’t see a ring.”

“I didn’t even think about a ring,” I tell him, imagining how strange an engagement ring would look next to my chipped rainbow nail polish and collection of mismatched jewelry from flea markets.

“I did,” he says quietly. I look over at him, and he’s looking at the ground, kicking at a rock with his sneaker.

“Did you…want me to wear one of my rings on that finger?” I go to slide one off my middle finger, but he puts his hand on mine, stopping me.

“No, I got you one.” He looks almost nervous as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a green velvet jewelry box. Fisher passes it to me. “Just to make everything look more real between us, of course.”

“Of course.” My hands shake as I ease the box open to find the prettiest and most understated ring I’ve ever seen. I stare down at the shimmering opal set in vintage silver, and suck in a sharp breath. Opal’s my birthstone, and has always been one of my favorite gemstones. “It’s…”

“Not much, I know.” He makes a face. “I’ve been on a bit of a budget lately. But if you hate it, I have the receipt from the vintage jewelry store where I got it. You can exchange it for anything you like. I don’t mind—you’re the one who has to wear it.”

“I was going to say it’s stunning, Fisher. I honestly never gave much thought to what kind of wedding ring I’d want…but this looks like something I’d pick out myself. You really didn’t need to get me a ring.”

Fisher’s shoulders sag in relief. The moon has disappeared behind a cloud, and in the absence of its light, Fisher’s green eyes look darker. The color of dense forest. “It’s the least I could do for what you’re about to do for me.”

“This benefits both of us,” I remind him.

He raises a brow. “So you’ll wear it?”

“Of course. And I’ll give it back so you can sell it when we get divorced.”

“We’ll see.” I give him a look, and he snorts a laugh. “Okay, fine. After the year, you can do whatever you want with it. Throw it in the ocean for all I care.”

“How very Titanic of you.”

“You know in that movie, he paints her naked.”

I smack his arm. “In your dreams, Fisher.”

“Every night,” he replies.

We keep on walking and laughing together, and by the time we reach the firehouse, I realize I don't want him to go. I don't want the night to be over yet.

I’m not sure how that makes me feel. But he said we should be friends, so I suppose it’s not that big of a deal.

CHAPTER 13

FISHER

I’m walking through the art district near the infamous firehouse, wondering what the hell my life is and how I got here. My roommates stroll down the street in front of me, Hazel and Ally on either side of Lila like they’re three old friends who’ve known each other forever.

“Hurry up, slowpoke.” Lila—er, my fiancée—glances back at me with a smirk on her face. She seems much less nervous this evening than she did the other night when she met everyone for the first time.

It’s wild that she fits in so well with our group, and I can’t help but wonder what it’ll feel like once she’s not in it anymore. Will Lila carve a spot into our hearts, then leave us feeling a hole where she used to be? Or will she drift away as easily as she came into our lives, and everything will feel like she was never here?

Do I keep using our and us instead of I and me to keep this whole charade from feeling personal? Of course not…our hearts will be just fine.

“This is so cool! Why have we never come here before?” Ally asks as she looks around the street, which is lined with tents for the local market that’s happening today, each providing various products, art, and artisanal foods. We pass a booth selling different flavors of honey, each jar with a small piece of lace covering the lid, then tied up with twine.

“Mmm,” Penn hums, licking his lips. “Hazel, I want some honey.”

She glances at him with a heavy sigh. “I can’t take this guy anywhere; he’s always hungry.”

Ally snorts a laugh. “Maybe we should start calling him Pooh.”

Penn rubs his belly—which is actually a six pack. “Hey, my guy Winnie had the right idea with the honey. It’s delicious.”

“We’re here for wedding fanfare,” Hazel says, walking toward him and tugging him away from the honey booth.

“Let me go! I’m supporting small businesses.” He pulls his arm away, and we wait while he purchases five jars of honey and a dozen honey sticks.

“If you leave a sticky mess in the kitchen with that, I’m hauling your ass to the Hundred Acre Woods so Winnie the Pooh can deal with you, Matthews,” Noah grumbles.

Penn ignores Noah and pinches open a honey stick, tipping it to his lips.

We make it barely ten steps before reaching a booth that sells matcha powder. Noah immediately heads over to peruse.

“We’re going to be here all night at this rate,” I tease.

“Sorry, Fishy. Are we not giving enough attention to your wedding prep?” Penn mumbles around the honey stick.

“Duh, I live to be the center of attention.”

Lila shakes her head. “Once Noah is finished, I know a booth that sells vintage clothing.”

Ally claps her hands in excitement. “Hurry up, Noah!”

He waves a hand at her, purchasing a small bag of green powder then making his way back to our group.

Noah grabs hold of Ally’s hand, and Penn sidles up beside Hazel, snaking an arm around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.

I glance at Lila, unsure. She grins at my obvious indecision and reaches for my wrist so I’ll follow her. Looking down where her hand touches my skin, I see the vintage ring on her hand. The ring I gave her. Something in my chest swells at seeing it on her finger. She didn’t have to wear it this evening, but she did. I like that she’s wearing it. I probably like it too much.

I can’t resist checking her out as she pulls me along behind her. Lila’s onyx hair is pulled back in a loose braid, and she’s wearing slouchy ripped jeans with a fitted long-sleeved top that shows how tiny her frame is. I could probably fit my hands around her waist. The desire to do just that has me stretching my fingers and sticking my free hand in the pocket of my jeans while allowing Lila to drag me through the street by the other.

She’s smiling and energetic, and I have the overwhelming desire to keep that smile on her face. To make sure she spends whatever time as my wife, however long we’re helping each other out, happy and content.

Lila stops in front of a white tent with racks of clothing and shelves lined with bags and shoes.

“Lila! Good to see you,” a Chinese woman who looks about sixty calls out to her.

The man beside her, who looks like he must be her husband, smiles. “It’s been a while,” he says.

“I know, things have been busy.” Lila drops my wrist, and I try not to pout. She hugs the couple, then gestures toward the group of us. “These are my friends.”

The couple says hello, then Hazel and Ally are off rummaging through the racks.

“Whoa, check out this vintage Burberry coat!” Hazel lifts up a plaid trench that my mother would love. Not that she would ever be caught dead in a thrift store.

“I thought we were supposed to be finding ugly clothing?” I ask.

Hazel’s shoulders fall, and she hangs the jacket back on the rack. Her hands move across the rest of the rack before she gasps. “Fisher, I think I found your wedding suit.” She grins as she shows me a two-piece brown and orange tartan leisure suit. The pants look like bell bottoms.

“That is possibly the most hideous outfit I’ve ever seen.” Lila snickers.

A slow smile spreads across my face. “It’s perfect.”

Reaching for the hanger, I remove the jacket and shrug it on over my shoulders. It’s a bit snug on my arms, but the sleeves are long enough.

I look at the tag on the pants. “I think it’s a sign, the bell bottoms are 32x36.”

I usually have to special order pants that are long enough for my height, so whoever originally bought this ugly-ass suit had some height on him.

Noah’s jaw drops, he’s the same height as me so he understands what a big deal this is. “You’re kidding.”

Ally squeals. “Guys! There are two more leisure suits! They’re all the same size.” She’s holding two suits. One is mustard yellow, and the other is baby blue and has a vest instead of a jacket.

Penn shoves past Noah. “I call the vest!”

“You couldn’t pull off the yellow with your skin tone, anyway.” Noah shrugs.

Penn gasps in mock offense. “I so could.”

“No way,” Noah says. “You’re clearly a cool winter.”

Penn gives him a blank stare. “The hell are you talking about, Downsby?”

Ally’s head falls back as she laughs. “I’ve been on a color analysis kick, and apparently Noah’s been paying attention to the reels I watch.” She hands the ugly yellow suit to Noah. “But he’s right, you’re a deep winter so the blue will enhance your skin tone, while Noah is an autumn and will look dapper in the yellow.”

Lila pumps her eyebrows. “What season is Fisher?”

I give her my best smolder. “I can be whatever season you want me to be.”

“So, the season I lost my mind and agreed to marry you?” she fires back, resting a hand on her hip with sass…but I don’t miss the start of a blush creeping up her neck.

I hold her gaze for a few seconds too long, simply because I enjoy making her squirm. Finally, I look away, clearing my throat. “In all seriousness, guys—and I hate to be the bearer of bad news—but all three of us are going to look ugly in these no matter what season we are, or whatever the hell Ally was saying.”

The girls laugh.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Noah admits.

“I still think I could pull off the yellow if I wanted to,” Penn mutters.

Hazel pats his shoulder. “I’m sure you could.”

“It appears they’re fresh out of wedding gowns,” Ally says, turning to Lila. “But at least the guys are covered.”

“I’m sure I’ll find something that works.” Lila shrugs. She seems totally nonplussed about the whole thing. She might be the least fussy person I’ve ever met, and nothing like other women I’ve dated. Most women I date want to be with me for my status as a pro athlete. Or back in high school and college, they wanted me for the Fisher name and the weight it carried in Georgia. I never really cared—they gave me what I wanted, I gave them what they wanted.

Lila, on the other hand, has made her derisive feelings about my family clear, and she hasn’t asked me about hockey, or getting free tickets to a game, even once. I’m unsure she even knows what a puck looks like.

“No way!” a voice shrieks as we step onto the street, purchased suits in hand, and I look up to see a group of middle-aged women rushing toward us, as if my thoughts conjured them. “You guys play for the Lions,” the blonde says.

Penn smiles politely. “We do.”

“Can we get a picture?” Her red-haired friend asks, batting her eyelashes at me even though she’s wearing a wedding ring.

“Uh, sure,” I say reluctantly. Whether we like it or not, this is part of the job. Usually I love interacting with fans, but I was enjoying my evening with my friends…and Lila.

Noah grumbles behind me but moves to get in the picture too, the three women standing in front of us. Ally snaps a few photos with one of their phones.

The red head rests her hand on my back, a little too close to my ass. Once the photos are taken, I quickly remove myself from her orbit. Even if I wasn’t supposed to be a happily engaged man, I’ve never been one to toy with married women. That’s a hard no for me.

The blonde takes her phone from Ally, barely acknowledging her existence before she and her friends are scrolling through the photos and giggling.

“Thank you so much,” the blonde one says. “And congrats on making the playoffs.”

“Thank you,” Penn says, grabbing onto Hazel’s hand.

We quickly move away from the women and Ally sighs, turning to look at Lila. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I can’t imagine being in the public eye,” Lila says. Something moves across her features so quickly I can’t decide what it was…apprehension, maybe?

“Does that happen a lot?” Lila asks, looking up at me as we walk. “I don’t really keep up with sports, but are you guys like, super famous?”

Hazel and Ally crack up laughing. “Oh, Lila…I like you,” Hazel says. “Have you ever been to a game?”

Lila grimaces. “Like a hockey game?”

“No, a baseball game,” Penn teases. “Yes, of course a hockey game!”

She laughs. “Sorry, no. But if it makes you feel better, I’ve never been to any sports type events.”

“Sports. Type. Events,” Noah repeats slowly.

“Don’t worry, Lila,” Penn says with a smug smile. “We’ll teach you all about hockey. You’ll be a true fan in no time.”

“Puck yeah,” Noah agrees, using puck in place of the f word. It’s a stupid superstitious thing we do for good luck that dates back to the other guys’ college days…we have a chart and everything for when we slip up.

Lila wrinkles her nose, scrunching her pretty features adorably. “Honestly? I’d rather learn about that color analysis stuff.”

Noah and Penn look offended, but I laugh.

Is this what it’s like to have a girl in your life you enjoy hanging out with…even without anything physical going on? Is this how Noah and Penn feel having girlfriends who are a part of their everyday lives, meshed seamlessly into their friend group? I’ve been involved with a lot of women, but they’ve all been situationships. Mutually beneficial arrangements with no strings or emotions attached.

I was always happy that way…or so I thought. But being around Lila makes me question if maybe something was missing, something more that I never cared to look for.

A few minutes later, we arrive at another booth, this one lined with rectangular tables with clothing folded neatly on each of them and one rack in the center with dresses. Classic rock plays from a small Bluetooth speaker, and the woman working the booth has dreadlocks and is wearing a tie dye dress.

The girls head straight toward the rack of dresses. Lila’s slim fingers move each hanger, her hands sliding across the fabrics like she’s reading each gown, trying to connect with them. Her movements are graceful, artistic. I’d love to watch her paint. I bet she gets so focused and everything around her fades. Maybe she bites her full bottom lip as she adds details and shading to the canvas.

She looks up and smiles at something Ally says, her eyes bright, her smile wide. Her skin glows under the twilight sky, making it look soft.

Her hands were smooth and warm when she clutched my wrist earlier. I wonder what the rest of her skin feels like.

Hazel pulls out a white silk gown. “This is gorgeous.” She holds it up to Lila, but Lila shakes her head.

“It’s too pretty. I’m thinking this one.” She reaches for a ruffly 1980s style gown. The monstrosity has beading galore and puffy sleeves.

Ally stifles a laugh by slapping a hand over her mouth. Hazel snickers. “Those ruffles will swallow you up, but it’s definitely not Fisher-family approved…so it’s perfect.”

“Try it on!” Ally insists, jumping up and down. She turns toward me abruptly. “Fisher, you have to leave. It’s bad luck to see your bride in her dress.”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at Lila as she interacts with my friends’ girlfriends and barely listening to the words they’ve exchanged.

Noah nudges me with his elbow. “Uh, Fishy, you okay?”

I roll my shoulders back. “Yeah, I’m good.”

My eyes move back to Lila, who’s being shoved toward a makeshift dressing room by Hazel and Ally.

Penn huffs a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, this is about to get interesting.”

“Yep,” Noah agrees, blowing out a breath.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Are you talking about the wedding clothes?”

Penn tilts his head and smirks. “No, we’re talking about the fact that you like Lila.”

“Of course I like her.” I tut. “We all like her.”

Noah slaps me on the back, hard. “We do not like her in the same way you do. We like her as a fun addition to our friend group…you like her like you want to stare at her forever and make babies with her.”

Penn sighs like the thought is adorable. “Little Fishers, can you imagine?”

Groaning, I walk out of the booth away from them, but they follow me. “You both are ridiculous. I can admit I find her attractive…but my feelings for Lila are totally platonic. We’re friends, and we’re both in this to save the firehouse."

Penn and Noah give each other a knowing glance.

I roll my eyes, striding forward to put some distance between myself and the two romantics behind me. They’re reading too much into this. I was watching Lila because she was holding that poofy dress, nothing more.

Developing feelings for Lila would make a mess of this whole charade…so it’s a good thing I’m not developing feelings. Nope, I have my feelings completely under control.

CHAPTER 14

LILA

I never thought I’d attend a professional sporting event.

I also never thought that if I somehow ended up at a packed arena watching men hit a rubber disc around a sheet of ice, that I’d pop that particular cherry on my damn wedding day.

But somehow, this is what my life has come to, because here I am: sandwiched between Ally and Hazel behind a sheet of plexiglass, a beer clutched in my engagement-ring accessorized hand and a FISHER jersey on my back, mere hours before Fisher becomes my last name.

Well, could become my last name…today, I’m a lot of things I never thought I’d be, but I sure as hell am not becoming Lila Fisher after I say “I do” later.

The thought of saying those words out loud makes my stomach feel queasy. I take a sip of my beer, hoping the alcohol will settle my nerves as I search the sea of turquoise and purple jerseys on the ice until I find number 60. Fisher’s already huge to begin with, but on skates, he’s a mountain of a man—broad shoulders, gloves covering his big hands, and muscular glutes that strain against his hockey pants. I watch as he shoulders a guy on the other team out of his way, snagging the puck deftly with his stick. He dodges around another opponent and slaps the puck further up the ice to another giant of a man, who neatly knocks it into the back of the net. Their second goal of the game, putting the Lions in a comfortable lead.

“Yesssss,” Hazel screams as the whole stadium jumps to their feet, yelling and applauding.

I stand, too. The buzz of energy in the crowd is contagious. Out on the ice, Fisher throws his gloved hands up in celebration before hugging his teammate. Then, he looks our way, and when his eyes meet mine, he winks.

I smile. My husband to be, ladies and gentlemen.

“Isn’t this fun?” Ally squeals, clutching my arm as she jumps up and down. “That was such a smooth play.”

“I’m more impressed by how you can jump around like that in those heels,” I tease as I look down at Ally’s sparkly gold platform sandals. The hockey game is actually way more entertaining than I imagined it would be. The crowd is rowdy, the players are fast and aggressive, and the girls have been explaining the rules to me as the game goes on.

But best of all, it’s taking my mind off how nervous I am. My stomach was in so many knots last night, I didn’t sleep a wink.

“I think Ally’s favorite thing about being a hockey WAG is all the glittery-themed outfits in team colors she gets to wear to games, ” Hazel says.

Ally wrinkles her nose before conceding a nod. “It’s a close call between that and how hot it makes me to see Noah out there being all sexy.”

“Mmm, like when Penn got in a tussle with that Houston player a couple of weeks back,” Hazel says, her pale cheeks flushing. “Usually I don’t condone violence, but the way he laid that guy out was just…” She trails off, a dreamy look in her eyes as she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. I bite back a laugh.

“Hockey really does it for you two, huh?”

“It does it for every red-blooded straight female on the planet.” Ally smirks at me.

On the Jumbotron overhead, the image of the goal-scorer, someone named Derek Carver, appears, and I look up at the image of his smiling face. He’s not as handsome as my fiancé—I’m not sure anyone is—but he’s an objectively good-looking dude. “I guess the players are all pretty attractive,” I say with a shrug.

Ally grins. “We don’t call it the boy aquarium for nothing.”

I sputter with laughter as my mind conjures up a perfect image of a surrealist painting with this description: a plexiglass fish tank in shades of icy blue, a million pairs of wide eyes peering through it at the players inside, their jerseys made from shimmering rainbow-hued scales.

“Whether we like it or not, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that hockey’s hot—both the players and the game itself,” Hazel adds.

As she says this, I let my gaze zero in on Fisher again. His green eyes are focused as he moves up the ice at breakneck speed, incredibly agile for a man of his size. Sweat glistens on his face, flushed beneath its golden tan. A part of my brain short-circuits and I get a sudden, primal urge to lick the skin on his neck. I bet his sweaty skin would taste hot and salty beneath my tongue.

“You’re blushing,” Ally says, snapping me from my sexy little daydream. I blink, then take a hurried sip of my beer—my mouth has gone dry.

Hazel smiles knowingly and adds, “Because you’re as hopeless for hockey’s hotness as the rest of us.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Okay,” Ally says, raising her brows in challenge. “Look me in the eye and tell me you weren’t just having sexy thoughts about Fisher after watching him out there in action.”

I shake my head as I take another sip of my beer.

“See. You can’t,” she taunts.

“Fine, you win.” I laugh. “I’m not sure what witchcraft this is, but I can sort of understand the appeal of hockey…I guess.”

Ally nods in smug satisfaction. “As I thought.”

“I’ve never dated an athlete before. In the past, I always dated more creative types.”

“Other artists?” Hazel asks.

“The last guy I was seeing was a poetry major at USF.” I snicker. “I ended it after he wrote me a poem with the line Lila Chen, you’re a goddess among men.”

“Noooo,” Hazel says with a cackle. “Poetry’s sexy, but that is not poetry, that’s an abomination.”

“I’d get the ick so fast.” Ally gags. “A hockey player is a huge step up from that.” She grins and pats my shoulder. “And now look at you, your debut visit to the boy aquarium…and you’re here to see our Fishy.”

“Now that’s poetic,” Hazel quips, and we all crack up laughing.

I take another sip of my beer. And another. It’s flat at this point, but it’s liquid courage so I keep drinking it. The more I drink and giggle with the girls, the more loose and relaxed I am about today being my wedding day.

Fisher looks over at us as he skates off the ice for the end of his shift, as the girls told me it’s called. When he sees us laughing together, he smiles. And when his eyes find mine, his smile gets a little wider.

“You good?” he mouths.

I nod.

We’ve already signed a contract that his inheritance will be used to save the firehouse, and a prenuptial agreement protecting the rest of his assets.

All we need to do is complete the ceremony…just two words, I do. Three letters, the deed is done, and the firehouse is safe.

I can do this.

I can’t do this.

An hour later, I’m squished into a stall in a public restroom at the courthouse, trying not to panic as I shimmy Fisher’s hockey jersey over my head. Goosebumps prickle on my skin, and I can’t tell if they’re from the building’s sub-arctic air conditioning, or the fact that this whole thing feels surreal—like I’m living out a scene from a movie, but I can’t tell if it’s a rom com or a horror yet.

The ruffly monstrosity that is my wedding dress is thrown over the stall door, and I lift it down and step into it slowly, trying to avoid it dragging in the pink wad of gum on the tile floor as I go. Pulling the poofy sleeves up over my shoulders, I’m seriously considering climbing up on the toilet, wrenching open the tiny window, and attempting to wiggle myself through it—runaway bride style. But when Ally and Hazel’s cackles of laughter prickle my ears, I stop in my tracks.

“Lila? Are you dressed yet? You have to come see this.” Hazel’s in stitches.

Curious, I unlock the door and step out, my panic dissolving into giggles. Ally and Hazel are wearing matching eighties style prom dresses with frothy lace skirts and large satin bows on the sleeves. Ally’s is yellow, and Hazel’s is blue, matching with their groomsmen boyfriends’ leisure suits. They’ve both combed their hair into side ponytails with big orange silk flowers pinned on top, so their outfits coordinate with Fisher’s suit too. It’s incredible.

“We special ordered them with rush shipping from an online vintage boutique,” Ally explains as I step in between them in front of the mirror. Hazel hands me a bouquet of orange and yellow silk flowers that match the ones in their hair.

“This is so hideous, it’s actually kind of amazing,” I say to our reflections.

“That’s the beauty of it.” Hazel claps her hands. “It’s the ugliest wedding ever, yet it’s coordinated to look intentional. And just vintage enough that nobody will be able to tell if you and Fisher are blind, or so ironic that you’re actually cooler than everyone else. Therefore, his family won’t be able to write it off as a joke.”

“Genius.”

I let out a shaky breath. Hazel’s right. This whole thing is so absurd, we might actually pull off convincing everyone it’s real while simultaneously making Fisher’s family want to die of embarrassment.

“You girls decent?” Penn’s deep voice calls through the bathroom door, accompanied by a knock.

Ally laughs. “Don’t know about decent, but we’re dressed.”

Penn pokes his head around the door. He’s wearing his hideous suit, and his dark hair has so much gel in it, it looks like it’s soaking wet. His eyes move over the three of us and he grins. “Well, you all look terribly adorable…or adorably terrible?”

“Thank you.” Hazel does a curtsy.

“Fishy’s going to love it.” He smiles at his girlfriend fondly, then glances at me, his blue eyes searching for…something.

“Are you ready, Lila?” His tone is careful, like he’d help me escape out the bathroom window if I said the word.

I swallow and look at myself in the mirror one last time. “There’s no going back now.” I sound much braver than I feel.

Penn looks at me for another moment, then nods. “Okay. See you all out there.”

As the bathroom door closes, I look at Hazel, my panic rising again. “Is he worried about me? And if so, should I be worried?”

Hazel shakes her head. “Penn worries for all the people he cares about. He sees you as a part of our group now, so I think he was just checking on you…the same way he’d do for Ally if it were her wedding day.”

“Which it will be, next,” Ally says with a dreamy look in her eyes.

Hazel waggles her brows at her friend. “We’ll see about that.”

We walk out of the bathroom together, and as I listen to the girls banter back and forth about who’s going to catch my hideous bouquet, I find my nerves giving way to a new emotion; one I’ve kept tamped firmly down until this moment.

One I haven’t let myself truly feel in a long time.

We reach the door to the ceremony room, and Ally looks at me. “This is it.”

I force a tight smile. “You guys go on in, I’ll see you in there in a moment.”

Both the girls hug me, squeezing tight before they duck inside, leaving me alone in the drafty hallway.

Well, almost alone.

A woman in a janitorial uniform steps out of a nearby office, mop and bucket in hand. Her face splits in a smile when she sees me. “Well, don’t you look lovely, dear. I had almost the exact same dress for my wedding almost fifty years ago.”

“Thank you,” I say, unsure whether her comment makes me want to laugh or cry.

I know this is all a means to an end, but I’m still about to get legally married, and none of my people are here to witness my ugly wedding. Or joke about how insane this all is. I really like Ally, Hazel, Penn, and Noah, but ultimately they’re here for Fisher. They’d be sitting in that room right now no matter who the bride in this wedding was, and Penn would have checked on that girl the same way he did me just now.

None of these people really know me, and it’s left me feeling oddly alone.

I steel myself against the thoughts, straightening my spine as I death grip my ugly flowers and remind myself that I’m not alone. That I’m doing this for the people who truly know and love me. Better to get married alone for the good of everyone I love than risk losing the community I have.

And that’s the thought I carry with me as I let out a shaky breath and push the creaky door in front of me open.

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, bile rising in my throat as I look around the ceremony space. The room isn’t large, just big enough to house a center aisle laid with a faded red carpet, a scattering of folding chairs—all empty, save for the four in the front row occupied by Fisher’s roommates—and a mini platform at the front. On the platform, a bored-looking man wearing a golf shirt two sizes too small for him stands next to Fisher, who looks uncharacteristically agitated. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. When he hears me come in, he looks up, and his face pales.

For a moment, the silence in the room is deafening ringing in my ears as I stand frozen on the spot. Do I just…walk up there? I didn’t even think about music. Or the fact that I have to walk down a literal aisle without anyone by my side.

I swallow, forcing back tears that feel dangerously close, but then Fisher’s eyes meet mine. He holds my gaze for a long moment, then his whole body visibly relaxes as he hops off the stage and strides down the aisle towards me.

The officiant blinks after him as he adjusts his too-tight shirt, and the sick feeling in my stomach intensifies. Is he…leaving? Did seeing me give him cold feet?

“Hey,” Fisher says when he reaches me, still standing in the same spot at the end of the aisle. The simple greeting seems too casual for someone who’s potentially about to ditch his own wedding. His forest-green gaze rakes over me slowly, clinging to the lines of my body in my dress before sliding upwards so his gaze meets mine. “You look amazing, Lila. I mean, the dress is…something. But you manage to make it look beautiful.”

“Uh…what are you doing, Fisher? Did you change your mind about marrying me?”

“Hell, no.” He looks beyond offended. “I’m all in.”

I’m not sure why him saying those words in such a confident, authoritative tone makes me feel so much better, but it does.

“If that’s the case, then I’m pretty sure you’re at the wrong end of the aisle right now.” I nod across the room at Fisher’s roommates—who are all staring at us—and the waiting officiant. The officiant clears his throat loudly when he sees me look in his direction, then makes a big show of checking his watch.

“Give us a second, would you?” Fisher snaps, giving the guy a dismissive wave before he turns the full force of his attention back to me. “You looked really nervous when you walked in here, Lila. So before we start, I want to give you a last chance to change your mind.” His expression is earnest as he holds my gaze.

It’s so thoughtful of him. More than thoughtful, actually. And it’s enough to make my jangling nerves fade into background noise in my mind. “I’m all in, too.”

Fisher smiles, looking relieved, but he makes no move to go back to his position at the front. Instead, he extends an arm to me, one corner of his mouth slanting upwards.

I laugh, mystified. “What are you doing now?”

“Walking you down the aisle…if you want me to, that is.”

My chest tightens. How did he know?

“When I came in here and saw it was an aisle situation, I was worried it might be difficult for you,” Fisher explains when I don’t answer him. He glances at me before he continues, “You know, to walk down the aisle alone, without your mom beside you. So I thought I’d try to make it easier for you—and I find everything easier when I have my friends by my side. I guess what I’m saying is…I’ll be your friend.”

I stare at him. It’s a level of consideration I’ve never seen in someone I’m dating for real, and I’m touched.

He mistakes my silence for hesitance. “If you don’t want that, I’ll just⁠—”

“I’d like that,” I say softly, and we stare at each other for a long, loaded moment.

The officiant clears his throat again, louder this time.

“Oh, relax already. We’re coming.” Fisher rolls his eyes. Then, he turns to me. “Ready to get married, Lila?”

Instead of responding I loop my arm through his, and his solid bicep beneath my fingers makes more of my nerves fizzle away. His face melts into a smile, his green eyes shining, and for a second, I forget myself. Forget what this is. Until I realize I’m staring at him, and I snap out of my trance and smirk. “Oh yes, it’s just what every little girl has always dreamed of for her wedding day.”

Fisher smirks right back at me. “I aim to please.”

I don’t doubt it.

“Okay, we’re ready to begin!” Fisher calls.

The roommates all cheer.

“About damn time,” the officiant mutters. He hits a button on an ancient speaker system. The wedding music swells and Ally, Hazel, Penn, and Noah all stand as Fisher and I walk down the length of the aisle and onto the platform.

We might not really be in love, but we’re together in this. I’m not alone. And that means the world right now.

By the time the music fades, the officiant is grumpier than ever.

“Now that we can finally begin…” he says before rattling off all the legal stuff about marriage.

Fisher takes my hands in his. They’re warm and reassuring. The combination of his steady touch and how he took all the pressure off my bridal entrance helps me breathe through it all.

When it comes time to the vows, he squeezes my hands tight as he repeats the officiant’s words with polished confidence.

And then it’s my turn.

“I, Lila, take you, Fis—uh, I mean, uh Archibald, to be my lawfully wedded husband…” I stumble through the vows, slurring my words like I had seven beers at the game instead of one, but then Fisher begins to run his thumb back and forth along the edge of my hand. I focus on the steady, reassuring movement as I exhale a shaky breath and then keep going, my voice finding confidence as I meet his glowing emerald eyes. For a moment I even let myself imagine what it would be like to look into those gorgeous eyes and really promise these things. To vow to let him have and hold me for real, all the days of our lives.

My stomach flutters again, this time less with nausea and more with…anticipation. Not for me, obviously, but for someone else being in this moment with him in the future. Fisher’s going to make a damn good husband to a lucky woman one day, that’s obviously what I’m thinking. Nothing more.

“I do,” Fisher says.

“I do,” I echo blindly.

“Under the authority vested in me by the state of California, I pronounce you husband and wife.” The officiant looks at Fisher like he almost wants to smile. Almost. “You may now kiss your bride.”

My stomach bottoms out as Fisher sweeps me in his arms and dramatically dips me. His roommates cheer as raucously as the crowd at the hockey game earlier. Penn puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles.

Fisher looks down at me and smiles. Not his usual boyish dimpled grin, but something else. Something new, complicated and layered. Like the smile was tailor-made just for me and this moment. Before I have time to unravel his expression, he leans forward and grazes his lips over mine. It’s brief. Fleeting. A slice of a second of his mouth on mine. Yet it sends an electrical current pulsing through me, lighting up every nerve ending in my body.

The first coherent thought I have is that I’m glad he’s holding me up right now because my legs feel too shaky to stand on.

The second is oh shit. Because we did it, we really did it. We’re married now, so I need to find the off switch for whatever the hell that was that I just felt.

And I need to find it fast.

CHAPTER 15

FISHER

Walking out of the courthouse, I tilt my head to stare at Lila—my wife.

She’s smiling, and her arm is looped through mine. Her ridiculous puffy sleeve is pressed against my ugly leisure suit.

My friends follow us out of the government building, whooping and cheering as we exit. They're raucous, which is unnecessary since our outfits are loud enough by themselves, but I’m here for it. It’s my wedding day, after all. Penn and Noah hold the doors open for us, and on a whim, I sweep Lila up into my arms and carry her as we step outside into the sunshine.

Laughing, Ally pulls out her phone and takes a few photos of us. Lila sticks her tongue out and holds up a peace sign, and I act like I’m going to lick her face.

Ally puts her phone away, and I place Lila back on her feet. The sun rests in the sky just behind her, making the outline of her body glow. She looks beautiful, even in that frumpy gown. Her smile is enough on its own. I don’t think anything she wore could have taken away from her pretty smile.

“So…what now?” she asks, blinking up at me with big doe eyes.

“I’m starving,” Penn says, interrupting my perusal of Lila’s beauty.

Hazel rolls her eyes. “What else is new?”

“I could eat.” Noah rubs his stomach over his scratchy wool suit. “Actually, I know a great Mexican place a few blocks away.”

“Let’s do it,” Lila says. “It’ll be our wedding reception.”

“Nothing says holy matrimony like tacos and frozen margaritas,” I add with a grin. Honestly, I want to spend more time with Lila. It would feel weird to just pack up and head home by myself after marrying her.

The six of us start walking down the hill toward the supposed Mexican restaurant Noah mentioned. The couples walk hand in hand, while Lila and I stand beside each other, not touching. It shouldn’t feel awkward; we’re not married married. And yet, my spine prickles. I flex my hand at my side, willing it not to reach for hers.

I said I wanted to be her friend, and friends do not hold hands.

We walk for several minutes, the sun warming our backs as the cool bay breeze cools our front. Ally stops abruptly in her tracks, and I nearly crash into her.

“Oh. My. Gosh.” She presses her hands against a storefront and stares inside. “It’s one of those boudoir photo studios.”

Noah’s face turns beet red. “Ally, I’m not doing that.”

She turns and narrows her eyes at him. “Not for you! For Fisher and Lila!”

Lila chokes on air. “I’m sorry? What?”

Ally crosses her arms with a sigh. “We can’t have your only wedding photos be ones that I snapped on my phone. We need proper professional photos. For your wedding announcement in the paper, remember?”

“Ally, I’m not sure how your family rolls, but I doubt mine would take kindly to an X-rated national newspaper spread of their youngest son and his new bride. We’re trying to piss them off, not give them actual heart attacks.”

“You all are such prudes! I bet the photographer would be willing to take some quick photos. Nudity isn’t a requirement for boudoir; these places do tons of lingerie shoots, too."

Penn waggles his eyebrows at Hazel. “I could get behind a lingerie shoot.”

“Keep dreaming,” she retorts, crossing her arms. But I don’t miss the telltale flush creeping up her neck as she glares at Penn. Hazel clearly likes the idea more than she’s letting on.

I glance through the window and see a middle-aged woman inside looking through a magazine. She doesn’t appear to have any clients.

“It’s worth asking if they’d take some fully clothed pictures,” I suggest, opening the door before anyone can stop me.

A bell above the door jingles, making the woman jump and hold her magazine to her chest. It’s a copy of Sports Illustrated with a shirtless hockey player on the cover.

We all step inside and her jaw drops as she takes us in. “You guys play for the Lions!”

Lila breathes a sigh. “Here we go again.”

Ally snorts a laugh.

The woman shakes her head. “Sorry, it’s not every day professional hockey players walk into my little photo studio. How can I help you?” Her eyes roam from me, to Penn, to Noah, her expression hopeful as she adds, “Male nudes?”

I step forward, shaking my head as I try not to laugh. “Well, you see, this little lady and I…” I tug Lila against my side. “Just got hitched. Could you take some wedding photos for us?”

The woman smirks. “NSFW?”

“No!” Lila says quickly, attempting to cover her disdain of the idea with a laugh. “We’d just like some cute photos to remember this special day.”

“Of course!” The woman says, grabbing a large black camera off a shelf and looping the strap around her neck, then removing a flier from the same shelf and crossing the room to hand it to me. “These are the packages I offer.”

My eyes graze down the flier until I spot one that says fifteen-minute mini shoot. I point to it. “We’ll do this one.”

“Perfect, come on back!” The woman waves for us to follow her. “I’m Laurel, by the way.” She opens a curtain that separates the lobby from a well-lit space with a tufted baby-blue sofa and a clean white backdrop. Two silver umbrella lights sit facing the sofa.

“Is there a certain backdrop you’d like to use?” Laurel asks. “I have roses, Paris, black, white, and one that looks like a strip club.”

“I’m good with the white,” Lila answers.

“Me too,” I agree. “Although, I’m intrigued by the strip club option.”

Lila elbows me in the ribs, and I snicker.

“Okay, let’s start with a few of you both with your wedding party, then we’ll take some of just the two of you.” Laurel grabs a hair tie from her wrist and ties her brown hair up in a messy bun.

The six of us are ushered into the frame and the photographer tells us where to stand, then takes several different shots. We take some serious photos, then some posed ones where we’re all folding our hands the same way, and then some silly ones where the three of us guys are putting out the vibe Dumb and Dumber style. Laurel then tells the girls to hike up their ugly dresses to show off the equally frilly garters on their thighs. My gaze lingers on Lila’s thigh longer than necessary.

Laurel clicks through the photos on her camera, nodding in approval. “What a good-looking group. Okay, now let’s capture the love birds.”

“That’s your cue to leave,” I tell my roommates with a grin. I’m met with a bunch of grumbled protests, but they duck out from behind the curtain. Once they’re safely out of sight, I hold my hand out to Lila. “Come, my love. Let’s capture the memory of our passion.”

Lila takes my hand, a rush of heat moving up my arm at the contact. “Let’s. My brain is sure to turn to mush after our passionate lovemaking later, so these photos will be my only memory of today.” She bats her lashes.

My mouth tugs up in a slow smile, happy she seems fully relaxed and herself again now that the ceremony is over. I love that her humor matches mine, that she can tease right back and think on her feet with a witty one liner. I realized long ago that women are often way funnier than men, but when I’m with women, they’re not usually trying to make me laugh, they’re trying to take me to bed. And that was fine by me. But bantering back and forth with Lila is addictive.

The photographer smiles at us like we’re the most romantic pair ever. “I’ll have the groom sit on the sofa,” she directs me, and I take a seat in the center. “And the lovely bride can sit on his lap.”

Lila’s bluster fades as she looks down at me. I stand and grab her by the waist, pulling her back down onto the sofa with me.

“Don’t be shy,” I whisper, looking up into her dark, twinkling eyes.

Lila smirks, sliding her arms around my shoulders. I keep my hands on her waist. I like the way she feels in my arms. I like the way my hands feel against her. Even with all the beading and fluff, the warmth of her skin heats my palms.

I don’t realize how long we stare at each other, frozen in the moment, until the flash from the camera shutters.

“Yes, that’s perfect!” The photographer encourages. “That heated gaze…” she smiles behind her camera. “That’s what you’ll want to remember from this day.” Laurel stands back, worrying her lip as she considers the next pose. “Bride, lean in closer, until your lips are almost touching.”

Lila hesitates, her eyes still on mine. She leans in closer, so close I can feel her warm, minty breath against my mouth. I want to close the distance, to take more than the small peck I gave her during the ceremony. I want to learn how she tastes, study how she likes to be kissed. I was never the best at studying in school, but this is a subject I’d be sure to master.

The photographer snaps more photos, but I barely notice her as I stare at the beautiful woman on my lap.

“Okay, Groom…give your bride a kiss.”

Laurel’s instruction is like a gift from the gods. I look at Lila, and my eyebrows pump once in question, and excitement builds inside my chest when Lila tilts her head in consent. Angling my head toward her, I press my lips against hers. Lila’s mouth is soft and sweet, the scent of her perfume mixing with the natural aroma of her skin in the most decadent cocktail of spice and honeyed sweetness. I lean my head to the side to get a better angle, and she softens in my arms, pressing against me. Lila parts her lips, and I dip my tongue out to taste her bottom lip. She makes the sexiest little sound in her throat as her hands slide from my shoulders to my neck, threading her fingers into the hair at my nape.

I faintly hear the clearing of a throat. Lila pulls back, and I blink the kiss-induced fog from my eyes.

“Um, I got plenty of photos,” Laurel says, staring at us with her camera hanging limp around her neck. “And the fifteen minutes is up, I’m afraid. As much as I’d love to photograph you two all day, I have another client coming in soon.”

I smirk at Lila, trying not to show my disappointment that our photoshoot is finished. I like having her close to me. Something tugs at my chest, a pang of disappointment, perhaps even heartache…that my family will see these photos in the paper and be instantly angry and disappointed. Even if this was real, they’d never give Lila a chance, never welcome her into the family. An artist with no college degree, no high-society connections, and no idea how to network at galas? She’d be an outsider, just like I am. A wish filters through my head, a wish I haven’t dreamt of in a long, long time…that my family appreciated and embraced who I am. That the Fishers were people who’d come to my wedding because they simply wanted to be there for me. A family who’d love Lila and tell me she was too good for me.

Because while I have—had—the padded bank account, Lila has all the goodness. She’s everything bright and light and wonderful. Poetry flows through her every movement and expression.

“How did it go?” Ally asks as we step back around the curtain.

Lila’s hair is mussed, her lips swollen, and she’s smiling. She’s never looked more beautiful.

Penn smirks at me knowingly. “I’d say it went very well.”

I neither confirm nor deny, wanting to keep that moment…that intense kiss…for myself and Lila. Well, and Laurel, of course.

While Lila and my friends wait outside, I fill out a form with my information and pay for our photos. The photographer tells me she’ll email a few sample photos tomorrow after she edits them, and then send the rest in a few weeks.

When I meet my friends outside, they’re all chatting and laughing together like Lila has been part of our group all this time.

“Ready?” Lila asks. She loops her arm through mine, our earlier awkwardness somehow having dissipated. She grins cheekily. “Noah said he’s up for celebratory tequila shots.”

“I said no such thing,” Noah protests, but he’s half-smiling. I can tell he likes Lila.

“Sure, you did,” Penn says.

I shake my head, hating to be the bummer of the group. But I need to play my best during the playoffs if I want a shot at the Lions extending my contract. “I’m not drinking again until after the playoffs.”

Ally groans. “Of course, now that I’m finally twenty-one and can order my own shot, you guys aren’t drinking.”

“Patron’s on me as soon as the playoffs are over,” I promise.

Ally quits pouting. “Okay, deal.”

We continue on our way to the restaurant, and a pang echoes through my chest.

It hits me that these people are my family. That the family I was just longing for, I already have. My friends might not share my genetics, but they’re the ones who accept me, who encourage me. They’re the ones who see how amazing Lila is, who don’t give a shit if she has tattoos and spends her days painting in an old firehouse. My friends see past titles, bank accounts, and fancy college educations. They see someone’s heart.

I smile, blinking away sudden tears that burn my eyes. I didn’t expect to get emotional today, but how could I not? I’m a lucky son of a bitch to have the best friends in the world, and the coolest fake wife I could’ve imagined.

CHAPTER 16

LILA

I swirl the brush along my palette, trying to mix the perfect shade of a spring sunrise and failing miserably. It’s been two days since Fisher and I tied the knot, and he left yesterday for Seattle, where they will play the first two games of the playoffs.

With my new husband out of town, I wanted to finally spend some time focusing on my art. A few days back, I spoke with Carmila, the curator from the gallery downtown who loved my work, and we confirmed I would conceptualize a series of four paintings that will go on display at the gallery in June. I’m beyond excited for the opportunity, but no matter what I try, I can’t seem to lose myself in the painting I’m working on. Probably because my mind keeps getting lost elsewhere…

“Doing okay over there, Lilabug?” I look up to see Masha frowning at me from where she’s stationed at the easel opposite mine and realize I must’ve just sighed out loud.

“Just having some trouble getting these colors right.”

What I don’t say is that the combination of yellow ochre and iridescent gold I’m mixing should be the perfect shade for morning sunshine, but it’s just making me think about how the studio lights caught the golden tones in Fisher’s hair before he kissed me senseless.

Goosebumps break out on my arms for the millionth time at the memory of that heady, intoxicating kiss. The practiced skill with which he touched me had every sensation down to my core awakening in hunger…in a stupid, reckless craving for more.

“Are you still working on your cherry blossom painting?” Masha asks me through narrowed eyes as she studies my face, which is suddenly feeling very warm.

I do my best to school my expression into neutral indifference. “Finished that one last week; I’m starting a sunrise piece now.”

Angel raises her brows at me as she pins a drape of navy satin around her mannequin. “Judging by how flushed you are, I was half expecting you to say you were experimenting with erotic art as a new medium.”

“No, no. Just another boring old landscape,” I sputter, my cheeks heating again at the thought of switching out golden sunshine for a sketch of the golden planes that make up Fisher’s body—a thought I firmly shove away as fast as I can, because it’s the last thing I need to be thinking about right now. I need to keep my head in the game and my eyes on the prize, which is saving the firehouse and getting a new series ready to hang in a prestigious gallery…lusting after my husband is not going to help me do either of those things.

Obviously, what happened at the photoshoot can’t happen again, because I cannot afford to be distracted from my work like this. Not when the biggest gallery opportunity of my life is lurking right around the corner.

“Well, if you do ever want to move into life drawing, maybe you need to find yourself a muse.” Masha’s eyes twinkle as she looks at me. “Or maybe you already have one?”

“Nope, definitely not.” My phone buzzes in the pocket of the smock apron I’m wearing over my clothes, and I pull it out, grateful for the diversion.

Hercules

Good morning, Wifey.

I dip my head so a curtain of hair falls forward, hiding my grin as I type out a response.

Lila

Good morning, Hubby.

Hercules

Happy two-day anniversary.

Lila

Can’t believe we’re still so happily married after all this time together.

Hercules

Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder…

Lila

I’m more of an out of sight, out of mind kind of girl.

Liar.

Hercules

Well, in that case, here’s a little something to remember me by.

The text comes through with a picture attached—it’s a photo from the boudoir studio. I’m sitting in Fisher’s lap, my legs kicked up, and neither of us are looking at the camera. Instead, we’re staring into each other’s eyes, matching naughty grins pulling at the corners of our mouths.

It’s almost scary how real it looks, even the way my eyes look into his. In this picture, we appear to be kindred spirits. A perfect match.

Lila

We make a very cute fake bride and groom.

Hercules

Speak for yourself there, Lila. I’m not cute, I’m handsome AF.

Lila

Modest, too.

Hercules

Modesty is overrated. winking face Anyway, I was just texting to tell you the officiant filed our marriage license, so I’ll send that to Granddad’s lawyer today. Tomorrow, our announcement should be in the paper, and my family will find out. So if you can, it might be a good idea to talk to the current owner soon.

Lila

Okay! Rebekah’s here at the firehouse right now, so I’ll talk to her today.

Hercules

If she agrees to pull out of the Fisher Group sale and sell to us instead, I’ll make sure our OTP is sent to her immediately, so she has it before my family even realizes I got married.

Lila

OTP?

Hercules

Offer to purchase. Real estate acronym, sorry.

Lila

Don’t be. I kind of like it when you talk douchey to me.

Hercules

Noted winking face

I can practically hear his smirky, innuendo-laden tone through the text. I swiftly change the subject because I don’t need anymore sexy distractions.

Lila

You ready for your big game tonight?

Hercules

Of course. If you’re a good girl and watch it, I might even score a goal for you.

My pulse picks up, and I hurriedly stuff my phone back in my smock. When I look up again, I find Masha still looking at me.

“Still sticking with your story about not having a new muse?”

“Yes.”

I expect Masha to tease or pry more, but instead, she shakes her head. Her expression grows soft. “Well, muse or no muse, I love how happy you looked while you were texting just now. Happier than I’ve seen you since before you lost your mom. It’s good to see you really smile again, Lila.”

I meet her misty eyes, and a lump forms in my throat. I swallow, then smile. Because it really does feel good to have something to smile about again. For the first time since my mom died, something in my life is within my control. And by saving the firehouse, I can do something meaningful for the people I love and repay them for all the kindness they’ve shown me, to thank them for how they’ve looked after me during this difficult past year.

“Thanks, Masha,” I say, while wondering what on earth she’s going to think when my marriage announcement is covered in a national newspaper tomorrow. I can only hope she’s not going to think any differently of me.

“Anytime, Lilabug.”

As Masha goes back to work on the gorgeous still-life oil painting she’s working on, I decide that since the world is going to find out tomorrow, there’s no time like the present to go and see Rebekah. I slip off my apron and then make my way across the warehouse to her office and knock.

“It’s open,” she calls.

I push open her door to find her sitting at the ornate wood-carved desk, surrounded by paperwork.

“Oh, hi, Lila, honey, come on in.” She looks equal parts frazzled and frail, and I can only hope what I’m about to propose won’t somehow add to her stress.

“Are you okay?” I ask, twisting my hands in the flowing fabric of my burnt orange maxi skirt.

“Sit, sit,” Rebekah urges, and I sink into the armchair opposite the desk and sit on my hands to force myself to stop fidgeting as she continues, “I’m fine, thanks for asking—just busy. It’s a lot of work getting all the documents together that the Fisher Group has asked for as part of the conditions of sale. They want so much information, and I must admit, I haven’t always been the best at record-keeping…” she trails off as she waves a hand in the direction of the sheets of paper scattered around.

“If you wanted to pull out of the sale, could you still do that?” I ask.

She frowns, her face pale with exhaustion. “Technically, yes. But like I mentioned before, I have to sell. I can’t afford to keep this place anymore.”

“I meant more like what if you found another buyer? Someone who doesn’t want to flatten the place?”

Rebekah looks almost ashamed. “I’ve been trying not to think about that part because there haven’t been any other offers. I’m so sorry. I feel terrible about all of this, and if I had another option, you know I’d sell to someone who didn’t want to proceed with demolition⁠—”

“Me,” I interrupt.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Me,” I say again, leaning forward on my elbows on her desk and steepling my hands. “Would you consider selling it to me instead?”

Rebekah looks at me with obvious pity. “As much as I love that idea, Lila, I’m not sure you have the collateral to get a loan for such a large purchase.”

“What if I didn’t need a loan?”

“Well, that would be a no brainer, I’d choose you to be the buyer in a heartbeat.” She gives me a wistful smile. “If only, right?”

I flex my fingers, suddenly nervous to have this conversation. “So, here’s the thing, Rebekah. I actually have the money…and well, when I say I have the money, I mean my husband does.”

“Your husband?”

“I got married.” I hold my hand out to her so she can see my ring.

Her brows shoot up. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”

“Because my husband is Archibald Fisher,” I tell her in a low voice, then glance behind me at the door to make sure nobody else can hear me before I continue. “I haven’t told anyone at the Collective yet, because obviously the Fisher family isn’t exactly popular around here right now. But I promise everyone will find out soon.”

“How did this happen?” Rebekah murmurs.

“We fell in love quickly…it was such a whirlwind.” I swallow, then try to mix my lies with as much truth as possible. “And he wants to help me save the firehouse from being demolished—so he asked me to tell you we will offer more than Fisher Group did, if you can agree to let us buy it instead.”

“Us,” Rebekah repeats blankly. It’s clear she’s more than a little shellshocked.

“Archibald’s not like the rest of his family,” I assure her. “You know I wouldn’t marry someone like that. He truly wants to help me save this place; you have to trust me.”

Rebekah stares at me for a long, tense moment before she suddenly laughs in delight. “Oh, my dear girl, if that’s not the most stranger-than-fiction story I’ve ever heard!”

“It’s definitely bizarre,” I agree. That much isn’t fiction.

She clasps her hands together. “I knew there was something different about you lately, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it should have been obvious—you’re in love.”

“Oh, yeah. Totally in love.” I plaster a smile on my face.

“And you’re serious about this? About wanting to buy the firehouse?”

“Yes! Archibald said he can send you an official offer to purchase when he gets home from Seattle later this week. It might take him a little time to free up the funds, but he said he’s happy to sign a contract with a payment plan and agree to whatever terms you wish for—whatever you need from us.” I rattle off everything Fisher explained to me before he left, and I’m delighted that with every word I utter, more color returns to Rebekah’s pallid cheeks.

She leans forward and clasps my hands in hers, moving her bony fingers over my vintage ring in awe. “Lila, my girl, you have no idea what a headache this has all been. Fisher Group is awful to deal with, and I’ve been riddled with guilt about selling to someone I know is going to destroy this place.”

“So you’ll pull out of the Fisher Group offer and sell it to us instead?”

“I’ll have to look at the offer first to make sure everything lines up, but yes. I’d love nothing more than to pass the firehouse and its legacy on to you, Lila.”

She smiles, and my heart picks up speed, barely able to believe what I’m hearing.

“Thank you!” Tears are streaming down my face, and I don’t even care. They’re the best tears I’ve ever cried in my life, a river of relief and gratitude.

“Plus, I was dreading having to tell you this, but now I don’t have to worry about it,” Rebekah goes on. “As part of the sale process, there will be multiple inspections of the building—and if they discovered someone was living here, that would put us in jeopardy with the city because it’s not currently zoned for residential.” Rebekah gives me a huge smile. “I didn’t want you to have to find somewhere new to live, but now you’ll obviously be moving in with your new husband, so I don’t have to worry about that anymore!”

“Oh, no…you definitely don’t,” I say quickly, a nervous laugh bubbling out of me. “Archibald and I are all loved up and ready to live together, so you’ve got no worries there anymore.”

It’s not a big deal, I assure myself. I’ll just have to figure out a temporary place to stay later, because I’m not going to let a little detail like impending homelessness rain on my parade.

“So, I’ll draw up a new contract?”

“Let us know when it’s ready, and we’ll sign it ASAP!”

We shake on it, and the second I leave her office, I text Fisher the news.

Lila

She said yes!!!!

Hercules

Of course she did. Who could ever say no to you?

Hercules

I’ll have the lawyers send our OTP to her this afternoon.

Hercules

And feel free to imagine that last text spoken in my sexiest douchebag voice. I know how much that gets you going…smiling face with hornseggplant

His dumb message makes me laugh out loud, which startles one of my fellow artists, Lenni, whose station I’m walking past. Her head jerks up in surprise, and I wince, mouthing “sorry” before turning back to my phone with a stupid smile on my face.

Lila

Between the real estate dirty talk, the threat of you scoring a goal for me tonight, and the ridiculous emojis, I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on.

Hercules

Ahhh, so you like role play? How about I dress up as a sexy little secretary and come sit on your desk?

Lila

That’s a mildly disturbing visual.

Hercules

You’re right. I should be the boss in that scenario.

Despite the clearly jokey nature of our conversation, my cheeks heat at his words, and I swiftly change the subject.

Lila

Speaking of being the boss, if all looks good with our offer, you’ll be the proud new owner of the firehouse...

Hercules

You mean *we* will be. We’re in this together, Lila.

CHAPTER 17

Hercules

Hey Wifey! Because you watched my game last night, I decided to do something artsy today for you.

Hercules

*photo of a colorful lump of cured clay*

Hercules

Ta-da! I took a pottery class early this morning before practice.

Lila

Oh…wow. Maybe you should stick with the hockey thing?

Hercules

anguished face Wifey, this is our love clay.

Lila

Our love might be doomed.

Hercules

I’ll get better!

Lila

You’re right. You will.

Hercules

Thank you for being delusional with me.

Lila

For better or for worse, right?

Lila

I was today years old when I learned that hockey players can lose eight pounds during one game.

Hercules

How do you think I stay so svelte? You called me Hercules for a reason, remember?

Hercules

Lila

It helped me understand how you guys eat so much.

Hercules

Well, except Matthews. He’s just a pig.

Lila

He’s reading this over your shoulder, isn’t he?

Hercules

Yes, and glaring.

Hercules

Did you see our marriage announcement?

Lila

Yes, we really stood out from the others in our special outfits.

Hercules

I already have about ten missed calls from my father, and it’s only noon.

Lila

Lila

I’ve been fielding a million questions from my friends at the Collective.

Hercules

I’ve gotta nap before our game tonight. But when I get home tomorrow, do you mind if I stop in and see you?

Lila

Yeah, that sounds good. Just ignore the dirty looks from the artists here…they’re not huge fans of the Fisher family and not thrilled with the idea of me being married to one of them.

Hercules

I’m sure they’ll all be Team Hercules by the time I’m done winning them over.

CHAPTER 18

FISHER

Pulling up to the firehouse, a sudden buzz of nerves rolls through me as I parallel park my G Wagon. I haven’t seen Lila since our wedding day, and although we’ve texted, I’m unsure how to act around my fake wife—especially now that everyone knows we’re married, thanks to the announcement in the New York Times.

My father has left me multiple messages, insisting I call him back…each voicemail revealing another crack forming in his calm, composed veneer.

My mother has called once. I answered her call out of guilt, but that soon melted away when all she said was that the announcement embarrassed her, and she was offended that we didn't use her personal designer to coordinate our wedding attire. Oh, and it was all my fault that my father doubled his dose of blood pressure medication.

No questions about my wife, or hint of sadness at not being present for her youngest son’s wedding.

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t help but wonder how Lila’s friends have taken the news in comparison to my family. Even with the exciting news I received this morning, I’m nervous to meet them. It’s important to me that her people like me.

Taking one last glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I check that my hair looks decent and I don’t have any blemishes on my face. My hair is still in place from the gel I used this morning before our flight from Seattle to San Francisco, and my skin is clear despite sweating my ass off this week during the first round of playoffs. We’re tied with Seattle so far, one to one. And the next two games are on home ice, so hopefully we can come out ahead.

“You’ve got this,” I tell myself as I grab the atrocious gift I made for Lila and slide out of my vehicle.

The door to the firehouse is propped open, so I walk right inside before I can think too much. Music hums through the space, Yoyoma I believe, and every artist in the room is fluttering around their station. The large space is lit only by the sunshine coming through the massive windows and the garage door that completely opens up one full wall—probably where the fire trucks used to exit and enter. I can easily see why the artists love the vibe here. The whole room is bright and open, and everyone can see each other and converse easily with their neighbors.

“Can I help you?” A woman asks, her station closest to the door I came in through. She’s carving something into a giant hunk of marble.

“Yes, I’m here to see…” I trail off, my breath catching in my throat as my eyes land on Lila.

Her station is at the back of the room, close to the open garage door. Her back is to me as she sweeps a paint brush across her canvas. Her body blocks what she’s working on. I’m able to take her in without her knowledge. She’s relaxed, her body swaying with her brush, her shoulders sweeping to the music. The breeze drifting in from the open door blows wisps of her shiny black hair around her shoulders.

“Wait a minute,” the woman in front of me says, startling me out of my Lila trance. I turn back to her and she squints, studying me. “Aren’t you Archibald Fisher?”

“Uhh,” my mouth hangs open, stumped for a response, because while Lila said her friends had questions about me, she didn’t tell me how she answered them.

Thankfully, Lila turns to look at us, and before the woman can quiz me further, she scoots off her stool and strides toward me, smiling. “Fisher, you made it back.”

I relax, taking her in. She’s wearing a white apron covered in paint splotches over an indigo blue dress with lace straps. Her hair is down, her face makeup free, and her skin glows with a dewy, healthy shine.

She takes my breath away.

I blink, telling myself to calm the hell down. Lila is my friend; our marriage is fake. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Even the whole time I was traveling, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I’m never like this with women. I enjoy my time with them, and that’s it. Their smiles don’t linger in my mind, I don’t get hints of their scent when I’m walking down the street. Nothing.

Why can’t I get Lila out of my head? What is it about her?

Lila walks right up and gives me a hug. I try not to look as surprised as I feel and wrap my free arm around her with an awkward pat to her shoulder.

She pulls back, crossing her arms and smirking. “What do you have there?”

I glance down where she’s looking and remember the vase I made her during my second pottery class. It’s lumpy, has a hole in the side so it can’t actually hold water, and the sage green I painted it dried in a puke-like color.

“Remember I said I took a pottery class in Seattle? Well, I made you a vase,” I say with a grimace, handing her the misshapen blob.

She grins as she takes it, holding it up proudly. “I love it.”

“Liar,” I tease as my eyes move to the canvas she was painting across the room. “Can I see what you were working on?”

She shrugs, a shy pink flush appearing on her high cheek bones. “I just started, so it’s not much yet.”

I follow her over to the canvas and note the glares I receive from the other artists. Everyone seems to stop their work simply to stare and then narrow their eyes at me in disapproval. I’m used to fielding disapproval—everywhere from playing away games in arenas full of hostile fans of opposing teams, to my own damn family every time they look at me—and usually, I try not to let it get to me. But I find that I care more than I want to about what Lila’s friends think of me.

Lila’s hand slips into mine, distracting me from the questionable glances from her art collective. She squeezes my hand, a show of camaraderie. I look at her and the rest of the people in the building fade away. Lila smiles at me and drags me closer to her station.

When we step into her area, my gaze flies to the canvas I couldn’t see earlier. My eyes drink in the bright colors she’s splashed across a rather large canvas. It’s clear she’s just getting started, so I can’t tell anything about the style of her art. The beginning of the painting already draws me in with the palette she’s using, though.

“What are you painting?”

She tilts her lips to the side as she thinks. “A local gallery requested I do a series for them. I thought I’d do a sequence of scenes around the city.”

I pump my eyebrows, impressed galleries are requesting art from her. That means there’s a demand for her work.

“That’s amazing,” I say, making her blush again.

She rolls her lips together. “Thanks.”

I’m working up the courage to ask if I can see more of her work when a throat clears, drawing me out of my Lila bubble—which is unfortunate because the Lila bubble might be my favorite place right now.

“Um, what’s that you’re holding, Li?” A deep voice asks.

We both turn and look to our left where the voice is coming from. A young man with dark hair stands in the booth beside Lila’s, and I instantly recognize him as the twerp I got locked in a standoff with a couple weeks back outside the gala at the Ritz.

Seeing him again irritates me instantly. For one, I know he’s interested in her. It’s clear in his cocky smirk, his protective gaze, his elbow leaning against the table between them like he’s trying a little too hard to act casual. He’s not a bad looking guy, if you’re into the lanky artist vibe. I could kick his ass in about .002 seconds. But perhaps this man is Lila’s type? They clearly work closely together each day, and he even has a nickname for her—Li. A hint of insecurity sneaks its way inside my head. I hate it and immediately block it out.

Fishers are supposed to be impervious to insecurity. I mean, look at me! I’m handsome, athletic, rich, and I have the shoulders and ass of a model.

I slap some swagger into my expression and stand a little straighter—instantly hating myself for being a douchebag.

“Oh, that’s just a little something I made for Lila.” I chuckle. “Obviously I’m nowhere near your level of expertise with a potter's wheel.” I flit my eyes toward beautiful, expertly made pottery lining his shelves. “But I’m trying to learn a new skill…in between NHL hockey games.”

The man’s eyes narrow so slightly, I almost don’t notice it.

Lila laughs, but it sounds forced. “Well, I like it. It has…character.” She places the lump of hard clay I created near her easel then loads it up with paint brushes. “There, a brush holder! Perfect.”

The man’s tongue glides across his front teeth, he sloughs off of the table and stands, crossing his arms in an effort to make them look bigger and more intimidating. It doesn’t work.

“You mean, kind of like the brush holder I already made you?” He asks Lila.

I follow his gaze to a gorgeous piece of pottery that’s a perfect cylinder with tiny holes for paintbrushes along the outer edge, and a place to hold water for rinsing the brushes in the center.

“Yours is great, too, Zane,” Lila says to the man—Zane, apparently—with an affectionate smile.

I lean my hip against the wooden table that separates their spaces. “So, Zane,” I say in my deepest voice. “How’d you get into pottery?”

One of Zane’s eyebrows arches in challenge. “My mother taught me.” He sends Lila a soft smile. “It’s something we enjoyed together before she passed. Something Li and I have in common, continuing our mothers’ legacies through our art.”

Lila looks at him with the softest, sweetest look on her face.

I don’t like it.

That unfamiliar prickle of jealous insecurity reaches into my brain once more, and words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Well, my wife and I should probably head to dinner soon.”

Lila turns toward me with a look in her eyes I can’t quite read. Annoyance? Surprise? Wondering where my audacity came from?

But she takes the comment in stride and nods at me. “Okay. But before we go, I should officially tell everyone the news first.” She raises a pointed brow, then claps her hands. “Could I please have everyone’s attention for a moment?”

Everyone in the art collective quickly gathers around; they were already staring at us anyway. “I know everyone was pretty shocked and had a lot of questions this week, and now that he’s home, I’m excited that I can finally introduce you all to my…” she pauses briefly like she’s gearing up to say the word. “Husband. Archibald Fisher. You can call him Fisher.”

“Of Fisher Group,” Zane sneers.

Lila shoots him a sharp look. “Of the Fisher family,” she corrects, but I’m sure that’s no less damning in her friends’ eyes. “My husband doesn’t work for Fisher Group, and he’s trying to help our cause.”

Twenty pairs of eyes look at me with stony suspicion, and I take a deep breath. “Actually, Lila, I have news on that.”

My wife turns to look at me, her eyes swirling with hope. “You do?”

I nod. “It’s happening. Our offer was accepted this morning.”

“Agh!” Lila squeals, giddy laughter bubbling out of her as she flings her arms around me.

I pull her close reflexively, breathing in her jasmine scent and contagious joy. At this moment, there’s no amount of money on earth I wouldn’t have paid for this firehouse to get to be the person who made her happy.

“What’s going on?” A blonde woman in a sweeping floor-length dress asks.

Lila pulls back from me, her face shining.

“As of today, Fisher Group will no longer be buying the firehouse. My husband graciously offered to privately purchase the firehouse instead, and he included a no-demolition clause in the contract.” Her hand slips into mine and she squeezes. I squeeze back. “Rebekah accepted his offer this morning, so we will all be able to continue renting our spaces here and keep the Collective alive,” Lila finishes with a huge grin. She’s practically vibrating with excitement.

“Really? We can keep our art collective here?” The older woman who first greeted me when I entered the building asks.

I take a deep breath. “Yes, that’s exactly right. I know my last name is Fisher, but there’s no part of me that wants this historic building torn down. I tried convincing my family, but they wouldn’t listen. So, now Lila and I will protect it.”

Slowly, the art collective starts to clap and cheer. Everyone except Zane, who’s glaring at me. But I have an inkling that has more to do with my marriage than the ownership of the firehouse.

As Lila hugs everyone in celebration, a tall Black woman about my mother’s age approaches me. “I’m Masha,” she says as she extends a hand. I shake it.

“Fisher. Nice to meet you.”

“I must admit I was shocked when this whole marriage revelation came about,” Masha says, and there’s a protective undertone to her words that immediately makes me warm to her. I can tell she cares deeply about Lila. “It all just seems very…convenient.”

“I can imagine how this must all look, and I know it all happened very fast, but I assure you, I have nothing but the best intentions with Lila.” I hold eye contact with Masha as I speak, hoping she can see I’m sincere, and she looks at me with a steady, assessing gaze. Her expression is unreadable.

“She’s incredible. I’ve never met anyone like her,” I add.

Masha studies me for a moment longer, and she must see something in my expression that reassures her, because she nods. “Lila’s been…happier lately. And if that’s because of you, then I’m supportive.”

“That means a lot to me.”

“Good. I hope you’re very happy together. But if you do anything to hurt that girl, I will castrate you personally. Got it?”

I gulp. “Got it.”

Masha smiles sweetly. “Then we’re going to get along great.”

“Ready?” Lila asks as she comes up beside me

“Very much so,” I reply with a hurried nod. Masha is more than a little terrifying.

We exit and head toward the speakeasy she took me to weeks ago. We walk in silence, but it’s nice after the noise of the firehouse and my day spent traveling with my teammates.

The bouncer recognizes me this time when we reach the underground entrance of the speakeasy and steps aside right away so we can enter. I follow Lila inside and she leads us to a table near the live jazz band that’s playing soft music. Tommie notices us and tips his chin in a nod.

There’s a menu already on the table as well as a small candle and one single red rose. Same as the other tables. I pick up the menu, assuming Lila probably knows what she wants already.

“The Thursday special is catfish,” she says, confirming my assumption. “Trust me, you want to order the catfish.”

I let the menu fall from my hands with a thump. “Done.”

A server comes to take our order and Lila orders us two catfish specials before turning to me when the server leaves.

“We need to talk,” we both say at the same time.

Lila giggles. “Jinx!”

“You first,” I say, laughing.

She takes a deep breath. “Well, this is kind of…uncomfortable. But when I told Rebekah about us purchasing the firehouse, she was excited but also relieved.” Lila worries her bottom lip, drawing my attention to her mouth without even trying. “Mostly because when she sells the building, to Fisher Group, us, or whomever…several inspections need to be completed by the city.”

I nod.

She swallows. “Legally, the firehouse isn’t coded for residential use. Meaning, I can’t be living there for the inspections.”

Understanding washes over me. “So…you’re homeless?”

Lila’s eyes shift as the server comes and places our ice waters on the table. “Well, technically yes. Rebekah said, and I quote, ‘I’m so happy you’ll be living with your husband, so I don’t have to worry about this.’”

I breathe a laugh through my nose. Poor Lila looks so uncomfortable, not knowing how to ask for my help. But when I promised to be a friend to her on our wedding day, I meant every word of that particular vow. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to help my friends when they need it; they’re the most important people in the world to me.

“So come live with me, then.”

“What, like, move in with you and the others?”

“Sure. I think it’s probably for the best right now, anyway.”

Lila frowns. “Why?”

“Before Granddad died, my father cut off my access to my trust fund.” I hold a hand up and make a face at her. “And before you say anything, yes, I know it’s ridiculous that I usually have a trust fund at my disposal.”

“It is.” She giggles. “But go on.”

“Once Fisher Group finds out we’re the new buyers, it might make them look into our marriage,” I admit with a sigh. “Because without my trust fund, my father knows I don’t have the funds to make the purchase without receiving my inheritance. And not living together will surely raise red flags about whether I’ve met the conditions of my inheritance.”

Lila drums her fingertips on the dark wood tabletop. “Well, shit,” she says.

“Shit,” I agree.

She chews her bottom lip.

“Our little ruse is growing more complicated by the minute.”

“I’m afraid so.” Pausing, I wrinkle my nose. “But no regrets on my end.”

“Yeah, mine, either.” Lila smiles. “And we’ve come this far now with our plan…a little temporary roomie situation to seal the deal doesn’t seem too wild, does it?”

The server drops off two orders of catfish with a side of veggies and potatoes, but I barely notice as I look into Lila’s onyx eyes and imagine what it will be like when she lives in my space. The loft has four bedrooms, but Penn, Noah, and Ally occupy the other three—and though Ally and Noah often sleep in the same room, they both pay rent and have all their stuff in their own rooms…which leaves Lila and I sharing my bedroom—a bedroom that’s only big enough for one bed.

This is all feeling suddenly very, very real.

But it was never supposed to be real.

CHAPTER 19

LILA

It takes me less than an hour to pack, and when I’m finished, everything in my apartment has been stuffed into one suitcase and two duffel bags.

“Are you sure that’s all of your stuff?” Fisher asks, and I can see the skeptical line etched in his forehead from where he’s sitting on my couch. He looks comically oversized in my tiny space.

Well, my former tiny space.

During dinner, we decided that I should move in with Fisher right away—like, tonight. Since our offer has been accepted, inspections on the firehouse could begin any day. Fisher insisted on staying while I packed so he could drive me to his place.

When I told him I could just take transit so he didn’t have to wait for me, he said, no wife of mine is taking the metro while carrying her own luggage.

I look at Fisher across the room now and smile. “I’m sure. We’re good to go.”

“But what about furniture? Kitchen appliances? Decor?” He waves a hand around. “You know…stuff.”

I shrug awkwardly, tracing my fingers along the handle of my suitcase. “My art supplies all stay downstairs at my station, and this place was fully furnished when I moved in. Which was perfect since I sold most of my mom’s larger items when I moved out of our apartment after she passed. That’s one of the reasons I moved out, actually. The rent we shared was too much for just me, and I…needed money to pay for the funeral and burial arrangements.” I force a smile as I look at him. “Who knew dying was so expensive?”

“I’m so sorry, Lila.” Fisher looks stricken despite my attempt to lighten the mood. “She was your only family?”

“Yes. But don’t be sorry. I’m lucky to have Rebekah and Masha looking out for me. And since I’ve started selling some of my paintings, I'm not hard up financially anymore.”

“Sometimes I forget how different other people’s lives look compared to mine.” My husband looks up at me, his green eyes almost ashamed. “The resources the Fisher family have are so vast, it’s embarrassing. My granddad’s funeral was a spectacle, and instead of thinking about how his money should have all gone to charity or something, I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself about my inheritance, thinking of my own problems, when I still make more than I’d ever need to live on. I also have a huge family. I’m selfish.”

I frown. “I think you’re too hard on yourself sometimes, Fisher.”

“Sometimes I think I’m not hard enough on myself.” He shakes his head as he looks around the blank space where my few belongings were scattered just moments ago.

His eyes meet mine again, and there’s a glassy sheen to them. “I hate that you had to live here because you lost your mom and couldn’t afford your old apartment anymore.”

I walk forward and crouch down in front of him where he’s sitting on the couch, so we’re at eye level. “And I hate that you grew up in a family who never loved or appreciated you for who you are.” Gently, I touch his knee. “I might have grown up poor by some people’s standards, but my life was rich with love. I was always encouraged to be myself, to embrace the person I am, and live my truth out loud. That’s worth its weight in gold, and something I want you to have, too.”

Fisher swallows and then reaches out and places his large hand over mine where it rests on his knee. The touch of his warm, callused fingers on the delicate skin of my knuckles sends a shiver of sensation up my arm.

“You, Lila Chen,” he says, then pauses. “…you might be the most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

“And here I was thinking that honor went to your cousin running for the Georgia state senate.” I quirk a smile, hoping a joke will calm my suddenly racing heart.

I’m gratified when he laughs, soaking in that rough, low laugh I’ve come to crave the sound of.

“Well, you’re a close second to him, of course,” Fisher says with a wink, then groans. “Ugh, I can’t even joke about that twat being my favorite person. He’s the worst.”

“Not going to lie, I kind of want to meet him. See if he lives up to the hype,” I say as I untangle my hand from Fisher’s and stand up again. Fisher stands, too.

“My parents will be bad enough, believe me.” He grimaces at his own words, then bends to pick up one of my duffels, slinging it over his shoulder like it’s light as a feather. I reach for the other, but he bats my hand away.

I chuckle as he loads the other duffel onto his shoulder beside the first one. “Fine, I’ll just take the suitcase.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Yes, I will. I’ll have you know I’m a strong, independent woman.” I point my nose in the air as I grab the suitcase handle and tug it forward. Even on wheels, the thing weighs a ton, and I have to brace my muscles to drag it towards the door. Which, of course, leads to the stairs. I eye them, attempting to disguise my apprehension. I can’t exactly back down now, so I step onto the top step, tilting the suitcase at an angle to drag after me.

“You’re a stubborn woman with a death wish, is what you are,” Fisher says, grabbing the handle from me before I can protest again. Even weighed down with two massive duffels, he lifts the suitcase like it’s a minor inconvenience and strides off down the stairs.

I follow him, pouting but also enjoying the way his biceps are straining against his blue T-shirt.

“You can’t tell me what to do just because we’re married now,” I tut when we’re both at the bottom of the stairs.

He turns around and looks at me in shock. “Of course not. I’d never tell you what to do. If anything, you can tell me what to do; you’re clearly the smart one in this marriage. But I’m not letting you carry your own heavy bags. That’s a non-negotiable for me.” He smiles. “Plus, this suitcase probably weighs more than you do, and I could bench twice this with my eyes closed.”

“Well, thank you. I guess.” Strange as it is to have my own personal pack mule, how can I argue with that? I’ve never had a man in my life before to do these kinds of things for me, and I’ve got to admit, it’s kind of…nice.

“I’m a proud feminist and I love strong women, but I still need to feel useful as a man.” Fisher winks. “So as long as we’re satisfying my hero complex, I’m happy to take a backseat and let my girl take charge anytime.”

His statement sounds just naughty enough that my cheeks heat. Fisher’s eyes rake over my face and his mouth slides into a slow, sexy grin. His eyes gleam as he adds, “Well, almost anytime. There are some situations I definitely like to be in charge.”

With that, he smirks and swaggers toward his vehicle, leaving me staring after him, cheeks blazing and at a loss for words.

“This is it, home sweet home,” Fisher says half an hour later as we exit the elevator and approach a red door labeled 3B—which happens to be in the most beautiful brick apartment building I’ve ever seen.

My stomach bubbles with nerves as Fisher turns his key in the door. The door swings open to reveal a huge, open concept space with vaulted ceilings and massive picture windows that flood the room with the golden sunset. A dark gray and black cat basks on the couch, soaking in the last rays of sun for the day. I barely have a moment to register the birds-eye view of the Golden Gate bridge from the living room before Ally squeals and draws my attention.

“Lila!” She hops down from where she’s sitting on the kitchen island, grating a block of cheese, and runs over to throw her arms around me. “I’m so happy to see you. Are you staying for dinner?”

Shit. Obviously, Fisher didn’t text them to give them a heads up while I was packing. I blink at Ally, who’s still beaming at me like I’m her long-lost best friend. “Oh, I, um⁠—”

Noah turns his head from where he’s at the stove, stirring a huge pot of something that smells delicious and comforting. “I made enough chili to feed about twenty people so you’re more than welcome to join us, Lila. Penn and Hazel should be home any minute, so we’ll eat when they get here.”

Fisher drops both my duffels to the ground and snags a piece of avocado from the salad bowl on the counter. “We already grabbed a bite at a place near the firehouse, but we’ll definitely go for some leftovers tomorrow. Or later tonight, when I get hungry again. Did you make cornbread, too?”

“It’s in the oven,” Noah responds.

Fisher pumps his eyebrows. “I could kiss you right now.”

“Please don’t.”

“What’s with the bags?” Ally tilts her head as she studies my luggage.

“Oh, Lila’s moving in,” Fisher says casually as he pops the avocado chunk in his mouth.

“Is he serious? You’re moving in with us?” Ally looks almost hopeful as she asks this.

“I am…if that’s okay with you guys, of course.” Maybe they’d prefer not having another person crowding their space.

“Of course it is!” She nudges her boyfriend. “Right, Noah?”

He doesn’t reply to her, his shrewd gaze focused on Fisher, who makes a face at him. Noah shakes his head as something unspoken passes between the two.

Eventually, Noah nods. “It’s fine with me that you’re here, Lila. You’re staying in Fisher’s room?”

“It’s just temporary,” I say, like this explains everything.

Noah smirks as he gives the pot of chili another stir. “Sure,” he says, like he doesn’t believe that for a minute.

“I’m so excited!” Ally jumps up and down on the spot. “Hazel’s here all the time, but she doesn’t technically live here, so it’ll be great to finally have a female roommate.”

“You want the grand tour?” Fisher asks.

“Please,” I rush the word out, anxious for a reprieve from the prying eyes of Noah and Ally.

“Well, this is the kitchen.” Fisher throws his arms out in an exaggerated gesture and spins around the expansive area. “There’s a spare shelf in the pantry if you want to store your own stuff, and we can clear you a spot in the fridge too. We all share food for the most part. Downsby does pretty much all the cooking around here because he’s our daddy, and he likes it that way. But if you’re into cooking, I’m sure we can kick him out of the kitchen now and again so you can have a turn.”

“I’m a terrible cook, so Noah can remain the primary chef…er, Daddy?”

Noah’s shoulders heave in a heavy sigh.

Fisher laughs. “Somehow I doubt you’re terrible at anything, Lila.”

“You haven’t seen me try to catch a ball yet.”

“I’m looking forward to that.” Fisher grins, stepping around the kitchen island and into the gorgeous living space. “This is our living room, and our furry roommate, Harry Styles.” He nods at the sleeping cat.

“You forgot the Third!” Ally says.

“My bad. Our furry roommate, Harry Styles the Third,” Fisher corrects himself, then rolls his eyes at me when Ally’s not looking.

I smile as I soak in the beautiful view again for a moment before looking around the homey living space. There’s a massive sectional, a colorful rug, a huge TV with a built-in speaker system, and a few pieces of art hanging on the exposed brick walls.

My gaze snags on a pink-hued picture on the wall nearest to me, and my heart trips over in my chest as I step closer, convinced my eyes are playing tricks on me.

“Waking Dreams,” I murmur in shock, my blood running so cold in my veins, my skin chills.

“Yes!” Fisher sounds gleeful as he comes to stand beside me. “One of my favorite pieces I own.”

Together, we stare up at my painting hanging on his wall. The same painting that was recently purchased way over asking by a mystery buyer who had to have it, which led to me booking my upcoming series with the gallery who sold it.

How is this possible?

“You’re…a fan of Santi’s work?” I ask hesitantly, half-wondering if I’m being pranked right now, or if this is just the world’s biggest coincidence. It has to be the latter. He couldn’t possibly know I’m Santi. Could he?

“A fan? I’m obsessed. Ever since I found that one over there in a random gallery out in Monterey months ago.” He points at the far wall, and I find myself looking at Alone by the Sea—the first painting I ever sold.

The reason I can paint full time for a living.

And the reason is Fisher.

I’m not sure how to feel about this. My husband has mentioned a few times that he loves art, but I didn’t understand the extent of that until this very second. His profile is silhouetted against the golden sunlight streaming through the windows, and the expression on his face as he stares at the painting is soft. Reverent, almost. Like he’s lost and never wants to be found.

The fact that it’s my art making him look like that has a flurry of complicated emotions swirling through my belly.

Fisher turns to me, his eyes shining. “Do you know her? Santi? She’s a local artist.”

I nod slowly. “I do.”

“Can you introduce me to her sometime? I’d love to tell her how much her paintings mean to me.”

My mind is still reeling from my art being on the wall. At this point, I’m pretty sure Fisher doesn’t know it’s me—but not sure if that makes the whole thing more or less weird. “I can probably…arrange that.”

The door flies open, and Penn barrels through it, causing a welcome distraction from our conversation.

“Do I smell chili?” He crosses straight to the stove and nudges Noah out of the way so he can pull the lid off the pot. “Puck, yeah. Nice one, Downsby. Did you make cornbread, too?”

“In the oven.”

“Yes! I could kiss you right now.”

“For the love of Gretzky, please control yourselves,” Noah says, and Ally collapses into giggles. I join in, grateful to have something to take my mind off my paintings on the wall.

“Lila!” Hazel comes in through the door next, all smiles, and Penn blinks like he’s just noticed me standing here.

“Oh hi, Lila. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Too busy being all horny over Daddy’s cooking.” Fisher smirks.

Noah points an accusing ladle at him. “You’re one to talk!”

I smile. I think I might like living here.

“Wait, what’s with all the bags by the door?” Penn asks.

“Lila’s moving in,” Fisher says.

“Cool.” Penn grabs a bowl. “Can we eat now?”

“You just had a burrito on the drive here,” Hazel tuts. “Seriously, where are you putting all that food?”

As the others grab chili, I turn to Fisher, keen on getting settled and unpacked. “Ready to continue the tour?”

“Of course. Did you want to look at more of my art collection?” He asks, his face all eager and boyish.

I don’t, really. It’s not that I’m not interested in seeing his art collection; I just know talking about art could lead back to talking about Santi again, and I don’t have that conversation in me right now. I’ll have to tell him at some point, because he’s bound to find out anyway. But now’s not the time. Not when I’m still processing my husband being my primary buyer.

“Want to show me the bedroom?” I suggest.

Fisher’s innocent expression is quickly replaced with a naughty smirk. “I thought you’d never ask.”

CHAPTER 20

FISHER

By the time I finish Lila’s tour, clear out a few dresser drawers and a rack in the closet for her stuff, it’s past my bedtime.

I take a shower while she unpacks, taking my time so she has space to get settled. When I step out of the shower, I tug on a fresh pair of boxer briefs and a pair of Ralph Lauren pajama pants before wandering back to my room to find Lila zipping a now-empty suitcase.

“I can put that under the bed for you so it’s out of the way,” I offer.

“Thanks, Fisher.” She doesn’t look at me. “Is it okay if I take a shower?”

“Of course. You live here now, make yourself at home.”

“Thanks!” Her eyes move over my chest as she grabs a towel and shower caddy then quickly shuffles past me like she can’t get out of my bedroom fast enough. She looks like a caged animal seeking freedom.

I watch her go with a sigh. Sharing a bedroom feels more forced and uncomfortable than I’d like. I want Lila to feel like she belongs here.

Stowing her suitcase away, I peek inside my walk-in closet to find her colorful bohemian wardrobe hung along one side. Smiling, I step back toward my bed, noting the bottle of perfume and small ceramic elephant resting atop my dresser. There’s a striped woven blanket tossed on the foot of my all-white bedspread, and a pair of fuzzy slippers resting on the floor on her side of the bed.

Her side of the bed.

Dragging a hand through my damp hair, I slide under the covers on what I told her was my side…when really, I always starfish in the center, pretty much taking up the entire California king. I never invite girls to sleep over here, so this is new to me.

I hear the sound of the water being turned on in the bathroom and try not to think about how Lila’s in there right now, getting undressed…but it’s impossible.

Lately, all my thoughts seem to end up back on Lila.

With the main light still on, I drift into a deep sleep, exhausted from a week of playoff games.

I’m having a blissful dream, my body warm and relaxed with a feminine scent tickling my nose. Soft skin tangles with mine, silky hair brushes my cheek. I hum sleepily, burrowing into the silky softness of the woman in my fantasy. Dream Fisher whispers, “You smell so damn good.” But the dream woman doesn’t say anything back. That’s okay, I imagine she’d tell me I rocked her world and have the most amazing body she’s ever seen. I chuckle at my own creativity and pull the dream woman closer, nuzzling my nose into her hair. I’m so comfortable and content, I could stay here just like this forever…

There’s a knock, like a fist against a wooden surface. I groan because the sound is an unwelcome interruption to my dream. Unless it’s the knock of my headboard against the wall, it doesn’t belong in this fantasy.

Another knock.

“Shut up,” I mumble. “Most amazing body,” I whisper, drifting back to my dream fantasy. I can’t make out the woman’s face, but there’s a lovely cherry blossom tattoo on her arm as she drags a hand down my chest. “That’s better.”

Another blasted knock. This one is louder. Then another.

The dreamlike knocks turn into something angry, and I gasp awake, my eyes flying toward my bedroom door that’s practically rattling on the hinges.

“I’m trying to sleep in here,” I yell toward the door before glancing down to find I’m not alone in my bed. Morning light is barely peeking through the curtains, and the alarm clock on the nightstand alerts me that what felt like ten minutes of sleep was actually eight hours.

Yesterday’s events come crashing back to my sleep-soaked brain, and I realize my arms are wrapped around Lila’s waist…and her hands are pressed against my chest like she’s desperately trying to get away from me. Shit.

I immediately let go and leap out of the bed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Lila blinks the sleep from her eyes, then smirks. “You’re just a very…cuddly sleeper.”

The door rattles again with more knocking.

“What?” I yell. My roommates aren’t usually this annoying. We don’t have to leave for practice for another two hours, so unless our loft is on fire, I’m going to need whichever one of them is at the door to piss right off.

“Archibald Fisher, it’s nine in the morning. Get up.”

The deep voice has my eyes nearly falling out of their sockets.

“That’s my father,” I whisper-yell to Lila. What the hell is he doing here?

Her eyes widen as she slips out of bed. She smooths her hair down with her hands and my gaze snags on her cherry blossom tattoo.

It was Lila…I was dreaming of Lila.

Dragging a hand down my face, I stride to answer the door. Lila grabs a sweatshirt from her duffel bag and pulls it on over her head.

“Fisher! You’re in your underwear,” her words are hushed, but the panic there is clear.

“I tend to get hot in my sleep and kick my pants off.” I smirk at how horrified she looks. “How’s my hair though?”

She taps her bare foot on the floor, crossing her arms. “Honestly? Horrible.”

I lick my hand and press it to my hair. “How about now?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Archibald, I don’t have all day.” My father’s steely tone is scarier than any raised voice I’ve ever heard. He knocks on the door once more for good measure. The man is damn impatient for somebody who’s shown up out of the blue.

I swing the door open to find both my mother and father standing there, dressed to the nines. My father is in one of his custom Italian business suits, and my mother is wearing red-bottomed stilettos, a designer dress, and an unamused frown.

“Well, good morning,” I greet them. “Beautiful day to show up unannounced at your youngest son’s bedroom door, isn’t it? But now that you’re here, Father, Mother…I’d like you to meet⁠—”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Father tilts his chin to the side until his jaw cracks. “You have some explaining to do, Archibald.”

With hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have let all his calls go to voicemail. He’s clearly even more upset about my wedding than I thought if he took the time off work to fly out here and confront me in person.

My mother purses her lips. She might be frowning, but there’s too much botox and filler to really tell. “How could you do this to us, Archie? Seeing your wedding photo in the paper broke my heart.” She looks genuinely sad for a moment, and guilt gnaws at my stomach.

“Mother, I⁠—”

“Your wife didn’t even wear a designer gown,” my mother goes on, shaking her head. “I might never be able to show my face in the country club again. Charlotte-Leigh Hawthorne will never let me hear the end of it.”

I blink, my sleepy brain taking a moment to process that she’s not upset about missing my wedding, but because we were photographed in non-designer wedding wear.

Louis Fisher the Fourth waves a hand at his wife, which is what he always does when he wants her to shut up. “Forget all that wedding nonsense right now, Elizabeth. We have much more important things to deal with.” He looks at me with those cold eyes. “Get dressed.”

I stare at him, still waking up. Still trying to process what the hell they’re doing here, if it’s not to talk about my marriage.

“Immediately,” he adds. “You and I have a meeting with my broker…” My father glances down at his Rolex. “In twenty minutes.”

I huff out a disbelieving laugh. “I have practice this morning.” We don’t usually have mandatory practice on game days, but Coach Anderson has upped our practice schedule for the playoffs.

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you went behind my back and tried to purchase my property,” Father says, leveling me with a steely gaze that chills me to the bone.

How the hell did he find out so fast?

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt.” My father’s voice is hard as he continues, “I wanted to believe you really did try to honor the conditions of your granddad’s will. That you got married to prove you were done with your immature antics.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “Then, this morning my broker informed me the firehouse is no longer available. And it didn’t take much digging to find out you were behind that.”

“Of course that’s why you’re here,” I mutter, the penny finally dropping. I’m an idiot for even letting a small part of myself hope he was here for any other reason. For him to be concerned about my well-being, or curious about the woman I married. Hell, maybe even a little proud that I took the initiative to save a historic building.

Nope.

Me getting married was worth no more of his time than a few voicemail messages…but me potentially messing up his company’s building plans had him jumping on the first flight across the country.

“You have no idea who you’re messing with, Archibald,” Father continues. “There’s a reason Fisher Group has grown exponentially since I started running things as your granddad’s health declined…that reason is me. I. Never. Lose. And no amount of your silly games will stand in my way.” My father always has his distinguished, aristocratic facade perfectly in place, but the mask is slipping…there’s practically steam coming out of his ears. “You’re playing silly games, and I’m playing chess. You’re in checkmate and you don’t even know it.”

His barely contained rage should make me happy. This is what I wanted, after all—to stick it to my family, catch them off guard by pulling a move they never saw coming, to beat them at their own game. But now that it’s actually happening, it feels less like a win and more like a hockey stick to the face that my father really cares more about his real estate portfolio than me.

The man hasn’t said a word to Lila, hasn’t even acknowledged her. She’s standing behind me, and I find myself almost glad I can’t see her face right now. What must she make of this spectacle? It’s painfully obvious that my parents see me as nothing but an inconvenience. Just another problem to fix.

To make things even worse, Penn and Noah appear in the hallway to witness my humiliation, also in their boxers and with bedhead. It appears they just woke up…Penn has a line on his face from where a crease in his pillow indented his skin, and Noah’s eyes are barely open.

“Uh, what’s going on?” Penn asks, noticing my mother staring at him in horror. He folds his hands in front of his crotch for modesty, but knowing my mother, she’s likely more appalled by my roommate’s tattoos than being able to see the outline of his junk.

Lila peeks out from behind me where I’m still standing in the doorway. “Um, I don’t want to be rude…I just need to squeeze past to get ready in the bathroom.” Her voice is quiet and I can tell she feels extremely uncomfortable.

She squeezes past me, tentatively looking at my parents.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher,” she says in a voice so soft I can barely hear it.

Neither of them respond, and she looks away, her gaze landing on my roommates before she slaps a hand over her eyes. “Do you guys always walk around in your underwear?”

Noah sighs heavily. “Ally’s getting ready in the other bathroom. Why don’t you head over there with her?”

She nods her thanks, scooting past everyone with her hand still covering her eyes. She runs into a wall and finally removes her hand and quickly darts to the other side of the apartment where Noah’s and Ally’s bedrooms and bathroom are. It would be comical if this whole situation wasn’t so damn depressing.

I watch Lila until she disappears down the opposite hallway. Every step feels like a weight pressing against my chest. The feet between us feels like a giant chasm, like we’re a world apart. I bet she’s deeply regretting getting involved with a Fisher. Until today, she didn’t understand the full capacity of my family’s selfishness. And now she’s married to one.

“Archibald,” my mother whispers, staring after Lila. “She has…a nose ring.” She’s clearly disturbed by the idea.

I promise myself at that moment to schedule myself for a full sleeve of ink—maybe two. Mommy Dearest has no idea I’m standing here feeling ashamed of her and my father…not Lila.

Crossing my arms, I stare at her. “Oh, so now we’re finally acknowledging my wife?”

My father rolls his eyes. “Your shotgun wedding is the least of our concerns; that’s nothing a quickie annulment can’t handle.” He sighs, calmer now that he thinks he’s controlling the situation. “We’ll address that right after we speak to the broker.”

I drag a hand over my face and groan. My head is pounding, and I need to get myself together before practice. Tonight’s the biggest game of my career. “I don’t have time for this today.”

“If you made time to get married, you can make time to meet with my broker and fix the mess you’ve made.” My father rolls his shoulders, a picture of confidence.

“No.”

His brows fly up. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no. Fisher Group got outbid. Deal with it. I’m not working anything out with the broker. There are plenty of other properties in the Bay area you could purchase instead.” I pause, taking in the angry vein popping out of my father’s forehead. He’s eerily silent, but that’s not a good sign. This is the deadly kind of silence that comes with consequences.

But I don’t give a shit anymore—I’m done with Father’s manipulation.

After a few endless moments, my father’s nostrils flare, but he keeps his composure. “I’ll push the meeting back by an hour. That will give us time to sit down and talk until you see some sense.” There’s a note of finality to his voice that tells me there’s no arguing with this. “Now go put some clothes on…all of you.” He casts a withering look in Penn and Noah’s direction, and he doesn’t have to tell them twice.

Penn slaps me on the shoulder before he and Noah get the hell out of there.

CHAPTER 21

LILA

Before I even reach the bathroom door, it opens. Ally’s hand darts out, wrapping around my arm as she pulls me into the room with her.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” she whisper-yells.

I sigh. Talk about an eventful first morning living here at the loft. “Fisher’s parents were meant to come into town this weekend, but they showed up early because his dad found out we bought the firehouse out from under him.”

Poor Fisher. The way his dad looked at him was like he was sizing up a bug he wanted to crush sent a chill through me. Everything inside me wanted to hug Fisher. But I held off, not wanting to make the situation worse for him.

Ally nods. “I thought that might be the case. Noah’s so overprotective, he made me stay over here while he went to investigate who was in our house yelling like that first thing in the morning. Are you okay?” Her brown eyes widen as she looks at me. “What happened to your face?”

My fingers follow her gaze and find a tender spot on my forehead that pulses under my touch. “I ran into the wall.”

“How?”

“Um, I was trying not to look at your almost-naked boyfriend and an equally almost-naked Penn.”

“Your loss.” Ally shoots me a saucy grin, and despite myself, I laugh. “You’re going to have quite the bump on your forehead. Let me see if I can find something to help.”

She begins rummaging in the cabinet under the sink, and I take the opportunity to look at myself in the mirror, which I promptly regret. I wince at my reflection. The first glimpse the Fishers got of their new daughter-in-law, and my hair is witchy and full of static. My eyes are crusty with sleep, and I’m wearing tiny little pajama shorts with a…

“Oh, shit!” I exclaim as I realize with horror that the sweatshirt I grabbed is one Zane and Alastair got me as a gag gift for my birthday. It’s forest green with a picture of two birds on the front, sitting perched on the slogan, “GREAT TITS.”

Kill me now.

“What?” Ally pops her head up from where she’s still digging in a drawer. She’s wearing silky lilac pajama pants and a cropped white camisole. Her skin is glowing, and her golden hair is pulled up in a perfect messy bun—how does she look so perfect first thing in the morning while I look like I've walked right out of The Grudge?

I nod down at my offending sweatshirt. “Please tell me I didn’t meet my husband’s snobby, billionaire parents for the first time wearing something that says great tits on the front?”

There’s a long beat of silence before she erupts into giggles. “You totally did, and it’s amazing.”

“No, it’s so, so bad,” I moan.

Ally stands and hands me a tube of arnica cream, still laughing. “On the bright side, they’re only going to be your in-laws for a year. After that, they never have to see you or your great tits again.”

“Well, thank heavens for that.” I put a dab of cream on my finger and tentatively rub it into the lump forming on my forehead. I probably could have made a better first impression on them by naked cartwheeling across the apartment. At least I would’ve appeared coordinated.

“Are they still out there?” Ally glances at the door.

“Sadly, yes. That man is terrifying.” I shudder at the memory of his face. “I thought the vein on his forehead was going to burst. Is he always that horrible to Fisher?”

“I don’t know…I’ve never properly met them before.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Really?”

“I mean, I saw them at his granddad’s funeral, but neither of his parents spoke to any of us that day.” Ally turns toward the mirror and grabs a tube of mascara that’s sitting on the counter, then rises onto her tiptoes and leans forward as she begins applying it. “They’ve never come to one of Fisher’s games or visited the loft before today. The rest of us have had family come visit multiple times, but until today, nobody from Fisher’s family has stopped by.” Ally makes a face at me, and the heaviness in my chest intensifies as she adds, “Even when his parents were in town a few weeks back, they didn’t come in to meet us when they picked Fisher up for the gala.”

Not for the first time, I wonder how someone so kind, so good, could have come from those unfeeling people who only seem to care about themselves. Fisher must have grown up feeling so unwanted and unloved by them.

“I want to go back out there and do something to help, but I have no idea what.” I move next to Ally in the mirror and start using my fingers to comb my tangled mane. She passes me a hairbrush, and I gratefully accept it from her.

“Hey, are you girls decent?” Noah’s deep voice comes from the other side of the bathroom door.

“We’re dressed, if that’s what you mean.” Ally grins at my sweatshirt. “Questionably dressed, but still dressed.”

The door opens, and Noah slides into the bathroom, followed by Penn, who hurriedly shuts the door behind him. Thankfully, both boys are now wearing sweatpants and T-shirts, so I don’t have to worry about where to look.

“Holy shit, Fisher’s dad is one scary motherpucker,” Penn hisses under his breath.

“What an asshole,” Noah mutters as he comes to stand behind Ally and loops his arms around her. He rests his chin on her head, his brow scrunched.

“What’s happening out there?” I ask, knowing Fisher has likely been alone with his parents a million times before, but I don’t like the idea of him being alone with them now. “I wish we could do something to help.”

“Same.” Noah’s eyes are troubled. “Fisher was doing so well, refusing to meet with the broker, but Mr. Fisher wouldn’t take no for an answer. Somehow, the whole conversation ended with him ordering us to get dressed so they could talk about it further…I honestly think their plan is to force Fisher to sign over the firehouse.”

“And probably kick his heathen roommates out of the loft.” Penn smirks. “Fisher’s mom was looking at me like ninety percent of her wanted me arrested and locked in jail, but the last ten percent wanted me to be the one to handcuff her.”

“Penn!” Ally cries.

“What?” He grins. “I can’t help it that the older ladies love me.”

“Wait…what if that’s it?” Noah asks.

We all look at him.

“The way we can help Fisher,” he adds.

Penn’s face slackens in disbelief. “I’m not seducing Fisher’s mom, Downsby. I’m taken. And also…gross. What kind of person do you think I am?”

“No, you idiot. I meant, what if we go back out there and try and win them over. Make them think we’re not a bunch of delinquents and take some of the heat off Fisher.”

“Pretty sure that ship’s already sailed for me.” I wince as I remember how they ignored my greeting, acting like I wasn’t there. “They didn’t even care that their son was married—without even looking at me, they decided our marriage could be quickly annulled. I’m just some random pawn in a game Fisher was playing with them.”

I get the feeling Louis Fisher the Fourth will stop at nothing to get what he wants, and I can’t help but remember Fisher’s comment at dinner last night about his suspended trust fund. It would be so easy for his father to offer his son renewed access to that as incentive to do what he wants. Hell, I’m sure he could offer Fisher double what he was meant to receive in his inheritance to just…sign the whole thing over and walk away from this tangled mess. Away from me.

I hesitate before asking, “Do you think Fisher will give in to their demands?” The ugly thought of how disposable I could be taunts me.

Noah shakes his head. “No way. He doesn’t want to placate them. He made this plan because he wanted to stick it to them for trying to control him.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I think Penn and Noah are right; Fisher won’t back down easily and give up the firehouse. He won’t let himself be bought by his awful parents. I trust him.

I choose to trust him.

“Makes sense. I’d feel the same if I were him.” Penn lifts a shoulder. “So in that case, how do we have Fisher’s back right now?”

My first instinct would have been to go out there and have the conversation Mr. Fisher wants to have. Use that time to do everything we could to convince Mr. and Mrs. Fisher our marriage was real, and not write me off so fast. Perhaps even come to the conclusion that their son wasn’t playing games and was serious about purchasing the firehouse.

But whether his parents like it or not, Fisher and I really are married. We do pose a real threat to Fisher Group’s plans. Fisher met the conditions of the will, and the inheritance should soon be his to do what he pleases, as long as they don’t start digging too much… which means the best way we can help right now is up our game. Throw a curveball to deflect from the situation at hand.

And in doing so, we can do for Fisher what he always does for the rest of us: we can make him feel better by making him smile.

A devious smile dances across my reflection in the mirror. “Let’s screw with them.”

Out in the living room, Mr. Fisher is pacing back and forth on the rug, face still pinched with silent anger. Mrs. Fisher is hovering at the edge of the sectional, like she’s trying not to touch anything lest her pristine outfit get sullied. Harry Styles the cat is sitting right behind her, slow-blinking contentedly in that way cats do when they know someone hates them.

My husband is sitting next to his mother. He’s dressed now, wearing a Lions hoodie and athletic shorts. His face is the picture of casual and breezy, but when he looks up to greet us, I don’t miss how his hands are tensed on his knees, knuckles white around the edges.

“Hi!” Ally cries, acting like the Fishers are her long lost best friends. She runs up and wraps her arms around Mrs. Fisher, giving her a hug. Mrs. Fisher tenses, her mouth forming a perfect O as if she’s silently screaming in horror. I have to look away so I don’t laugh. “It’s so good to see you again,” Ally continues, flopping down on the couch.

Fisher shoots me a bemused look, and I wink at him.

“Sorry I didn’t come out to greet you earlier, I’m just so tired from work last night. Didn’t get home until three,” Ally continues.

“Oh?” Mrs. Fisher raises her perfectly penciled brows. “What is it you do, dear?”

“I’m a dancer,” Ally says. Then, she shoots Mr. Fisher a charming smile. “Let me know if you want to come see a show while you’re in town.”

Fisher coughs, his eyes bugging out, while his father practically chokes on his own saliva. The purple in his cheeks darkens even further, but I smile to myself as I realize he’s at a loss for words right now. The plan is already working.

“I’m so proud of her. She’s won dancer of the month the past three months running,” Noah adds, puffing his chest out with pride.

“That’s…quite the achievement,” Mrs. Fisher says, clearly uncomfortable as her eyes swim with alarm.

“Well, she is the best breakdancer in the state of California,” Noah says solemnly.

Ally nods and starts doing some ridiculously bad pop, drop, and lock it move.

Mr. Fisher stares at her, confusion all over his face, and I smile. Serves him right for judging her based on his own assumption about her work.

Beside her, light begins to dawn in Fisher’s eyes as he clues in to what we’re doing. The corners of his mouth twitch.

“But not as big an achievement as us making the playoffs this year,” Penn chimes in. He lies down on the floor and props himself up on his elbows so he’s gazing at Fisher’s mom. “Are you planning on coming to our game tonight, Mrs. Fisher? I’d love for you to see me score.”

How he manages to keep a perfectly straight face as he says this, I’ll never know.

Fisher’s mother stares at Penn. If she could make any expressions with her face, I’m sure she’d look horrified right now—and mildly turned on.

She collects herself quickly, though, blinking and turning away from Penn’s smolder. She puts her nose in the air and sniffs. “I find hockey rather uncouth. And I really don’t wish to sit among the unwashed masses at a sporting event. Those places must be crawling with germs.”

“Oh, they’re crawling all right,” Penn says.

Fisher bites his lip, clearly trying not to laugh.

Warmth pulses through me to see the light gleaming in his eyes once again. Light his parents have done everything they can to extinguish. I’m glad they haven’t succeeded.

Fisher’s dad jumps in on the hockey talk like a lion on a zebra carcass, finding his voice again. “Hockey isn’t a real job. One injury and you’re done.”

They can ignore me all they want, pretend I don’t exist, but I’m married to their son, damn it. Sure, this marriage might be temporary. But right now, I’ve taken a vow to be there for him, for better or worse. And these people are the worst.

“Well, hockey’s not your son’s only job,” I announce, and every head in the room swivels to look at me. Mrs. Fisher eyes my sweatshirt in disapproval. Mr. Fisher looks at me with that arctic, disapproving gaze, like he’s never been called out by a mere woman before. But Fisher smiles, and that’s all that matters.

I laugh, all sweet and innocent. “That would be embarrassing. Imagine, only being a professional hockey player who not only made the playoffs his first year in the NHL, but scored the winning goal in his last game, and assisted the winning goal during the game before that.”

Fisher’s mouth drops open as he stares at me in shock, and I grin. I’ve been studying. And it’s clearly paying off.

Mr. Fisher turns to me, and it takes all my willpower not to cower at his blazing glare. But I don’t. He might think I’m nothing, nobody, but he’s the one who’s morally bankrupt. Something all the money in the world can’t fix.

“And what, pray tell, is Archibald’s other job?” he asks, looking down his nose at me.

“He works for me,” I reply, not afraid anymore. I’m here to win—for Fisher. “In my culture, husbands work for their wives. The wives are the matriarchs, and the husbands worship them like goddesses; wait on them hand and foot. Fisher starts every day now by brushing my hair one hundred times, before he writes me ten affirmations about my infinite beauty.” I blink up at Mr. Fisher, silently praying he’s not an expert on Thai relationship culture, because I’m talking total shit right now. “The Thai way has a much higher success rate of marriages working out than in the North American way. You should try it.”

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Mr. Fisher dismisses me with a wave of his hand, turning back to Fisher. “She’s lying, making up ridiculous stories. No son of mine would pander to his wife like that.”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” Fisher says, sounding so convincing I almost believe him for a moment. Until he adds, “It’s my honor to treat her like the goddess she is. You’re being offensive.”

“I’m done with your jokes.” Mr. Fisher’s controlled expression falters for a split second as he looks at Noah and Penn.

“Actually, we all do it,” Noah interrupts as he gets down on his knees in front of Ally and bows his head.

Ally nods her acceptance and places her hand on his head. It’s shaking slightly from how hard she’s working to hold back her laughter. “You may begin the morning ritual.”

“Already on it.” Fisher jumps up and runs to open a cupboard and takes out a box of candles. He and Noah begin arranging them in a circle on the floor, lighting them as they go, like they’ve done this a million times.

Fisher’s dad rubs at his temples with his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s time for us to worship at the altar of the goddesses,” Penn explains. Then he looks at Fisher’s mom and winks. “My girlfriend is working this morning so she’s not here, but you’re more than welcome to be my stand-in goddess.”

“I beg your finest pardon,” Mrs. Fisher says with a scandalized gasp…but there’s no mistaking the blush on her cheeks.

“I can’t take any more of this,” Mr. Fisher seethes, losing control of his temper. If the vein in his forehead looked like it was going to pop before, right now it looks like it’s about to erupt like a volcano. “Come on, Elizabeth, we’re leaving.”

Mrs. Fisher stands, brushing imaginary specks of dirt off her dress.

As the two of them walk towards the door, Fisher looks at me and smiles. Really smiles. It’s pure sunshine and goodness, and I bask in his warm rays.

But my golden moment doesn’t last long, because before Mr. Fisher storms out the door, he rounds on us and delivers his parting shot.

“I don’t know who you are, or what you’ve brainwashed my son into thinking, but this isn’t over.” He points a threatening finger at me then turns to Fisher. “You do not want to make an enemy of me, son.”

“Who said anything about enemies?” I straighten my spine and look Mr. Fisher in the eye. “Fisher Group is all about family values, right? I can’t imagine a silly old property could get between a father and his son. And hopefully, we’ll see you at the game tonight, front and center, cheering your amazingly talented son on like you should be.”

Mr. Fisher tuts in response, striding through the front door without another word. His wife follows, close on his tail.

Ally waggles her fingers and smiles at the door. “Okay, bye bye now.”

The second it closes, Fisher rounds on us, astonishment all over his face. “Okay…what on earth just happened? Because I’ve never seen my father so lost for words.”

“We figured your father wasn’t going to leave until he convinced you to attend that meeting with his broker and sign over the firehouse, so we decided to mess with them so they left before he could keep harassing you,” I explain, biting my lip as I look at him.

Fisher lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing. He looks genuinely relieved. “Well whichever one of you geniuses came up with that idea, I love you and can’t thank you enough.”

My brain trips over hearing him say the L-word, even though he obviously didn’t know it was aimed at me, plus he meant it platonically, anyway.

Ally spies my expression and shoots me a sneaky grin before saying, “It was all Lila’s idea.”

My cheeks flush as Fisher looks at me like I hung the moon. “Of course it was.”

“Just a strategic move.” I duck my head to hide my pleasure at his obvious approval. “Your father said he’s playing chess, so better we’re the opponent than the pawns, right?”

Fisher gives me a look that I feel all over. “If this is chess, you’re definitely the queen.”

Penn smirks and nudges Noah. “And we’re the knights. We’ve all got your back, Fishy,” he says, then glances at his phone. “We should probably get ready or we’ll be late for practice. Don’t want Coach Anderson murdering us right before the biggest game of our careers so far.”

“Truth.” Noah nods, then he and Penn run off to their rooms to get ready, clearly terrified of their coach’s wrath if they’re tardy. Ally heads to her room, too.

When Fisher and I are finally alone, he reaches for me and hugs me close. I let myself sink into his embrace like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you.” Fisher swallows, and I pull back enough to look up and meet his eyes. “For everything. They’re…” He looks indescribably sad for a moment, then shakes his head. “I’m so ashamed of them.”

“Well, I’m proud of you for standing up to them.” I tilt my head. “Do you think there’s any chance he might come to your game tonight after what I said?”

“No. But thank you for trying.” He grins. “My father is a coward deep down, and I think nothing scares him more than being put in his place by a woman.”

“Woman? Don’t you mean goddess?” I tease.

His green eyes burn into mine. “Yeah. Actually, I do.”

CHAPTER 22

FISHER

You’d think after such a rough start to my day with the unexpected visit from my dear parents, I’d be run down and barely standing. Instead, I’m invigorated and full of confidence. All because a tiny goddess stood up to my father. For me.

I can’t begin to describe how good it felt to have Lila and my roommates in my corner. It was like the last glimmer of clarity I needed to confirm I’m making the right choice, turning my back on my family and pursuing the life that I want for myself. Honestly, I’ve been floating all day, feeling lighter than I have in a long time. Practice this morning was fast-paced and it felt like all my teammates were geared up and ready to kick ass tonight. I caught a quick nap once practice was over, and now we’re back on the ice warming up before the big game against Seattle.

Round one of the playoffs is tied one to one, so tonight we have an excellent shot at pulling ahead. Normally, during warmups, I’m finding women in the stands with Fisher signs, sending them a few winks, maybe blowing them a kiss…just generally hamming it up for the crowd and the ladies. Tonight, however, I’m focused on warming up and stretching my muscles so I’m ready. I’m so zoned in, I don’t notice at first that Penn and Noah are off to the side in front of the plexiglass behind our net, where they’re smiling and talking through the glass to Hazel and Ally. Several of the other guys are heading that way, too.

My eyes catch on a flurry of purple and turquoise, and I smile, realizing all the players’ wives and girlfriends—WAGs—are decked out in custom playoff gear. As a lover of fashion myself, I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a bit jealous of their sweet playoff jackets.

I skate over, hoping to find Lila, knowing she’ll be with Hazel and Ally. But when I skate up to the glass, my eyes widen. Lila’s wearing a shiny turquoise jacket with purple trim, my last name embroidered in sparkly gold thread on the right shoulder, and my number embroidered on the other.

Of course, I’ve seen the WAGs proudly display their partners’ jerseys and numbers, but until this moment, I’d never pictured what it would be like to have someone I care about wearing mine. I like it more than I should…it gives me feelings I shouldn’t be having. Like the urge to demand she always wear something to my games with my last name on it, so the world knows she’s mine.

I stop in front of her, glad the plexiglass is separating us, so I don’t do something stupid like grab her and kiss her.

Lila smirks at me and wiggles her shoulders to show off her jacket. She’s adorable.

“You like?” She yells over the crowd. “The team captain’s wife gave it to me!”

Her mesmerizing dark eyes meet mine as she speaks, and I nod, taking in her high ponytail and cat-eye makeup before allowing my gaze to drip down her body. Lila is hands-down the most stunning woman in the building. And she’s mine—for now.

All she’s wearing under the jacket is a lacy purple bralette and baggy jeans. There’s a tiny mole on her stomach right above her belly button I’ve never seen before, and it fills me with a desire to discover everything about her…to memorize every surface of her body, to know every dip, curve, and beauty mark.

“I like,” I finally answer. Scratch that, I love. “You look good in my number, Wife.”

Her grin falters for a moment as her eyes grow wide. Then, she bites her bottom lip, her gaze not leaving mine. Heat licks down my spine.

A whistle blows, jarring me away from the sexy look Lila is giving me. When I glance to my right, the Lions’ social media team is snapping photos of us. My stomach drops, an ache of disappointment landing like a rock in my gut that maybe I’m reading into it, and she’s just playing the part.

I force a smile on my face and tap the glass. “See you after the game.”

Lila smiles back. “Good luck, Hercules!”

Even if she’s simply being a good actress, her comment has me smiling all the way back to the locker room.

After a pep talk from Coach Anderson and Coach Slater, we shuffle back out for puck drop. I wait on the bench as Noah skates out with the first line. The puck drops at center ice, and our team captain deftly snags it, skating toward Seattle’s net. My heart races as the players fly across the ice, each team wanting to score the first goal and get ahead.

A Seattle player snatches the puck when our captain tries to shoot it to Noah and slaps it all the way to the other end of the ice. A ref blows his whistle for an icing call.

My line is called, and I jump over the boards with Penn and three other second line teammates to switch out the first line. We get into position for the faceoff in Seattle’s defensive zone, and I skate in front of the net, so I’ll be ready to catch the puck. The whistle blows, and my line mate, Carver, dives right in. He snags the biscuit and sweeps it away from Seattle’s grasp. A Seattle defenseman storms toward Carver, but Penn moves between them and Carver passes the puck to me. We’ve practiced this exact play many times, so I’m ready, deftly catching the puck with my stick. Seattle’s goalie was expecting Carver to shoot, and he doesn’t move over in time to block my slapshot.

The buzzer sounds and the fans go wild when the puck flies into the top corner. I raise my hands in the air as my teammates surround me, and we celebrate scoring the first goal of the game. Skating a lap, I wave to the fans, making sure to stop in front of Lila and shoot her a wink. She laughs, pumping her fists in the air and shouting my name.

If I wasn’t already on fire to win this game, I sure as hell am now. I want to see that smile on her face all damn night.

With the play finished, we all skate back to the bench for the first commercial break. I’m pumped up and ready to get back out there but roll my shoulders to relax and take a few chugs of my Gatorade. I’m sitting between Noah and Penn when the crowd starts whistling. Penn nudges me and points to the Jumbotron where a blonde woman is waving to the camera and holding up a poster covered in glitter painted letters. I don’t immediately read her sign because the woman looks so familiar…I squint, trying to figure out where I know her from.

“Oh shit,” I mutter under my breath.

“Didn’t you…?” Penn lets the question trail off.

I widen my eyes in answer, my gaze landing on the sign and finally reading it. In giant purple letters it says FISHER IS MY FAVORITE FISH IN THE BOY AQUARIUM.

I’m still gaping at the Jumbotron when my face appears. The fans in the stands are laughing and cheering, and whoever is running the camera gives the people what they clearly want by placing videos of me and the blonde—a model whose name I can’t even remember—beside each other. Little hearts fly around the side-by-side videos. A month ago, I would have loved this kind of over-the-top display, even played into it for the crowd. Tonight, my mind is on one person only: my wife.

Thinking fast, I yank my left glove off with my teeth and hold up my left hand for everyone to see and shake my head side to side. The blonde puffs her bottom lip out in a dramatic pout, and I’m thankful I wore my black silicone wedding ring today.

The crowd laughs and awws then the Jumbotron goes blessedly back to the scoreboard as the commercial break ends. The third line skates out to center ice for the next play and my gaze moves toward the section where Lila is sitting with Hazel and Ally. I find my wife staring directly at me. She arches one eyebrow as if to say have you hooked up with every woman in San Francisco?

I grimace, raising my gloved hands and making a heart with them. Lila’s serious expression breaks into laughter.

During the second period, I score again, this time during a power play. Then once more at the very end of the third period—it’s an empty net goal, but I’ll take it. Those three little goals carry me to my first hat trick ever. I never even scored a hat trick in college.

The fans go so wild, I swear the arena shakes. The crowd throws hats over the plexiglass onto the ice—and a few bras as well. But I’m not looking at the crowd, the only person I want approval from is Lila. And she rewards me with a beaming smile just before she screams, “THAT’S MY HUSBAND!”

At least, that’s what I think she said, not sure how great my lip-reading abilities are. The game buzzer goes off, signifying the end of game three, of playoff round one, and we win with a staggering score of six to two.

My teammates practically carry me to the locker room, the excitement out of control. We could probably fuel electricity into the entire Bay Area with our energy alone. I bask in the attention from my teammates congratulating me on my first hat trick and for simply being a total badass out there—humbly, of course.

But I really just want to shower and get back to Lila. I want to hear her thoughts about the game, maybe earn some praise for being a good boy—er, hockey player. I also want to make sure she’s okay after the whole blonde model incident. Lila seems very self-assured and confident, but if she felt even a pinch of how I did at seeing how close she and Zane are, she might want to throttle me.

The Lions locker room managers hand out towels to each of us, and Coach Anderson stalks into the room with a smile, possibly the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on the grump of a man.

He raises his hands to his chest, holding his palms flat in a silent urge for us to quiet down. “Okay, boys. I get it; you were on fire tonight.” He chuckles. “But we still have a long way to go. Round one isn’t even over yet. But if you boys keep playing like you did tonight, we’ll be on to round two in no time.”

Coach Slater steps forward, handing Coach Anderson a puck. He holds it up for everyone to see. “Also, Fisher, you’re always trying to be the princess of the team…and damn, tonight you absolutely were.”

Penn and Noah slap my shoulder pads from where they sit beside me, and all my teammates chant Fisher.

“Princess Fishy,” Coach says, tossing me the puck. “Congrats on your first hat trick. You did well tonight, kid.”

“Thanks,” I reply with a quick nod, trying not to look too pleased. But I am. I started this season on the fourth line, barely believing I’d even made it to the NHL and expecting minimal ice time, and that makes what happened out there tonight even sweeter. Sandine, one of our seasoned players, pipes up from the ruckus. “Did your performance out there have anything to do with a certain blonde model who was practically begging for your attention?”

His teasing makes all the guys laugh.

“Nah.” I shake my head. “I get all the inspiration I need from my gorgeous wife.” I kiss the puck and toss it in the air, catching it with my left hand where my wedding band rests on my finger.

My coaches smile at my answer—both of them are happily married. One last round of cheers fills the sweaty room before all my teammates start stripping and making a run for the showers.

Once the locker room is quiet, Coach Anderson strides over with a look of pride on his stoic face.

“Marriage looks good on you, Fisher,” he says with a smirk. “Proud of you.” He exits the room, and I’m left staring after him.

The statement might seem simple, words most people wouldn’t think much of. Just encouragement from a coach to his player…but this might be the first time I’ve ever had that statement directed at me. No, it’s definitely the first time. And to have it come to my coach, a man I look up to, makes it mean even more. His comment is confirmation I’m not just a joke in everyone’s eyes. My throat grows thick, and I have to blink away the sudden moisture from my eyes. All the cool points I earned from my teammates tonight would vanish instantly if they saw me crying in the locker room.

As I make my way to the showers, everything feels so right. I could’ve let my parents ruin my whole damn day after they humiliated me this morning, but instead I’m overcome with appreciation that I have incredible people in my life to support me. If my parents write me off, cut me out of their will, never give me back my trust fund…whatever…I’ll be just fine.

Maybe a little less wealthy on paper, but I feel wealthier than ever. Wealthy with joy, wealthy with friends, wealthy with a job I love, wealthy with the community I’ve built for myself, and wealthy with the knowledge that Lila Chen is waiting for me outside this smelly locker room.

CHAPTER 23

LILA

Some people get so worked up before a big event that they can’t sleep. I get insomnia afterwards.

Like the time my mom took me to Disneyland when I was nine. I had no trouble sleeping on the car ride down there, or curled up next to my mom in bed at the motel that evening…but the next night, when I should have been exhausted after a long day of rollercoaster rides and refined sugar, I found myself lying wide awake staring at the ceiling fan for hours, retroactive adrenaline buzzing through my veins.

Tonight, the same thing is happening. Only instead of reliving memories of Mickey Mouse, I’m replaying every moment of the hockey game in my mind. And instead of looking up at peeling paint on a popcorn ceiling, I’m watching my husband sleep.

Which might be as creepy as it sounds, but in my defense, it’s difficult to look anywhere else than at Archibald Fisher when you’re in a room with him, nevermind a bed.

Most of the time when I can’t sleep, I get up and paint, channeling my insomnia into creativity. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done that in the past year, standing in the firehouse dressed in my pajamas in the wee hours of the morning, fiercely painting until everything inside me spills onto the canvas and my mind goes calm.

Tonight, I don’t have any of my paint supplies with me, so instead I study Fisher from the other side of the California king like he’s my next subject. Well, I say the other side, but in reality, I’m hovering close to one edge of the bed while he’s found his way to the middle over the past couple of hours. He’s almost more beautiful when he sleeps. As much as I enjoy his signature smirk and naughty grin, I like getting to see him like this. With his breathing deep and slow, his strong, handsome features open and unguarded, he looks like a work of art.

Fisher stirs, rolling onto his side as he pushes the comforter off his body. A glimmer from the moonlight outside the window filters through the blinds, painting his face and torso in warped stripes of yellow.

“Mmmpf,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t wake up. Instead, he makes another sound in the back of his throat, a goofy little smile flickering on his face for a moment before his breathing deepens and slows once more.

I can’t help but smile, too. I wonder what he’s dreaming about that’s making him so happy.

Probably his incredible performance tonight. I never thought I’d be a hockey fan, but the excitement in the arena was such a rush, it felt almost addictive. It also didn’t hurt that the man of the hour happened to be my man. Standing there wearing his name and number on my jacket gave me an overwhelming sense of pride.

Even though they’re here in town, Fisher’s parents didn’t turn up to watch—I checked—and as angry as that made me, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m just glad it didn’t throw Fisher off his game, and that I got to be there to support him.

Beside me, Fisher stirs in his sleep again. A big arm reaches out and snakes around my waist. I suck in a sharp breath as his hand splays across my back, fingertips skimming the bare skin at my waist where my pajama shirt has ridden up. He slides my body forward, closer to him. “Mmm, I like that,” he says in a gruff whisper.

My heart picks up pace as I study his face, still bathed in the jagged lines of the moon’s glow. As far as I can tell, he’s still fast asleep and dreaming.

He’s a very wiggly sleeper. This morning, I woke up to find him cuddled up against me, holding me close in his strong arms…something I tried not to dwell on too much today. It felt way too good to be held, and I know better than to let myself read into something that happened when we weren’t even conscious of what was going on.

I’m still trying to decide if I should try and disentangle myself from Fisher’s embrace or if it would be wrong to just keep lying still, letting his warm hand rest on my back. I mean, it would be a shame to move and accidentally wake him up when he’s sleeping so peacefully, right? Maybe I could just close my eyes and try to fall asleep like this…

“You feel so good,” Fisher mumbles.

A flurry of sensation stirs across my skin as his big, callused hand begins to move, sliding up the length of my back and then tangling in my hair.

Oh my, is he having…that kind of dream?

Alarm bells ring in my head as Fisher moves closer, nuzzling his nose along the sensitive skin on my neck and inhaling deeply. “Mmm, you smell good, too.”

His words and touch make my mind spin with a strange combination of excitement, amusement, and thrilled panic, until a sobering thought crashes over me like a wave. Who’s he dreaming of right now?

I picture the beautiful model from the Jumbotron tonight proudly wearing a Fisher jersey as she held up her cute, flirty sign with an equally cute, flirty glint in her eye. Something in my gut tells me she and Fisher have history. Earlier, I didn’t mind that so much. I mainly thought it was sweet of Fisher to be thinking of me enough to reject her public advances and remind the crowd that he’s married… but now that I think about it again, I’m not sure if he did that for my benefit, or if he’s still worried about making our marriage look authentic.

“What are you doing to me?” Fisher whispers against my skin, and this time, my shiver isn’t one of pleasure, but a stark reality check.

Fisher’s not really my man. My signature might be the one next to his on our marriage certificate, and I might be the woman lying next to him tonight, but I’m hardly the woman of his dreams. I’m the woman who was pretty much forced upon him due to shitty circumstances. Maybe that beauty in the crowd earlier is exactly his usual type, and he’s dreaming of her right now. Dreaming of the day he can be free of this marriage—of me—and go back to his bachelor lifestyle.

I swallow the ache this thought causes me, reminding myself that this is for the best. That falling for each other has never been part of the plan.

But then Fisher rasps out my name. My body freezes.

His eyes are still closed, but his cheeks are now flushed. Fisher’s lips part as he says my name again. “Lila.”

He’s dreaming about me. About being with me. Taking me. Having me.

My stomach tightens, and my body heats from the inside out…it takes everything inside me not to slide my palms up to his face, cup his jaw and kiss him so we can make his dream a reality together.

Like that wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.

Clearly, I need to start thinking straight again. Take some space from the man who’s making me feel all kinds of things I shouldn’t be. In an effort not to get more entangled in his embrace or my feelings, I gently ease myself backwards, towards the edge of the bed.

Fisher groans as I move away from him, but luckily, he doesn’t wake up.

Quiet as a mouse, I swing my legs off of the bed. I glance at Fisher one last time before I tiptoe out of the bedroom. He’s kicked off all the blankets now, and he’s left in only his boxer briefs. I practically drool at all the hard planes of muscle on display, but I force myself to leave the damn bedroom before I do something I’ll regret.

I force one foot in front of the other down the hallway, and when I reach the living area, I don’t turn on any lights for fear of waking anyone. Quiet as a mouse, I make a cup of chai tea and stand at the window, sipping slowly and soaking in the glowing lights of the city set against a backdrop of velvety darkness. Static energy crackles all over my body as the sound of my name on my husband’s lips replays in my mind.

My fingers itch, and I long for my paintbrush and easel. This is how I get when I’m inspired, and I know the feeling won’t stop until I channel it into something creative. I put my empty mug in the dishwasher, then retrieve the next best thing to my paint supplies—a sketchbook from my purse, which is hung over the back of a barstool.

Flipping open the sketchbook on the kitchen counter, I sweep my hair back into a messy bun on top of my head and grab a pencil, my loud thoughts fading into background noise as the lead tip moves across the page.

And then, finally, silence. My thoughts mute completely as my hands take over, funneling my tangled feelings onto paper.

I get lost in my sketch, allowing my thoughts and feelings to move through the pencil in my hand. All sense of time leaves me as I draw.

“Lila?”

The voice comes from behind me, my name spoken through the darkness for the third time tonight, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My pencil falls from my hand and clatters to the page as I whirl around and find Fisher standing at the end of the hallway.

He’s still in just his boxer briefs, and eyes are heavy with sleep. He scratches the back of his head as he looks at me in confusion, making his hair stand up in ten different directions. “What are you doing?”

“I was…” I trail off as I glance at time flashing on the oven, and balk that the digital clock reads four in the morning. Where the past two hours went, I have no idea. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t.” He rubs his eyes and blinks, clearly still suspended somewhere in that strange space between dreams and waking. “I rolled over and realized you weren’t next to me in bed, so I came to check on you.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I explain.

“Does that happen a lot?” Fisher asks, his gaze moving over me, lingering for a beat on the lace edges of my silky rose-pink camisole. His green eyes become less sleepy, more alert and focused. As if they like what they see.

I breathe out slowly, trying not to acknowledge the fizzy feeling that having his eyes on me brings. “Sometimes. I get this pent-up energy, and I can’t rest until I channel it into my art.”

He nods. “Sometimes I get that way, too, but I think it's because my ADHD makes me restless and bored.” Fisher shrugs. “Were you drawing just now?” His eyes land on the paper in front of me then he steps forward like he’s going to come over and take a look.

I glance down at the sketchbook on the counter…and when I see the image on the page I’ve just put there, I gasp out loud and slam the thing shut as fast as I can.

Fisher’s brow creases and he holds his hands up. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were working on something private.”

“I…no, I…uh, it just wasn’t very good,” I lie. My heart is pulsing in my throat. One glimpse was enough to tell me it was one of the best damn sketches I’ve ever drawn. I started out sketching the sculpture of Young Hercules, but the affection and raw emotion in every pencil stroke turned the sketch into something else entirely…someone else, as the sketch became a perfect image of Archibald Fisher.

“I doubt that,” Fisher replies, thankfully unaware of what—who—I’ve just drawn. “I’ve never seen your art, but somehow, I just know it’s amazing.”

I spread my hand over the cover of the sketchbook, just in case he decides to grab it and peek. “You should go back to bed. You need sleep after your game.”

“I was having a really good dream…but I’m awake now, and kind of hungry.” Fisher gives me a crooked smile that’s a lot more attractive than I want it to be. “How about you?”

I should go back to bed and get some sleep.

I should go put a sweatshirt on so we’re not both standing out here half naked.

I should stop picturing the way he said my name earlier when he was dreaming of me.

“I could eat,” I say instead.

Fisher bends and pulls a skillet out of a cabinet, setting it on the gas cooktop. “Then you’re in luck, because I can usually make a mostly edible grilled cheese without setting off the fire alarm.”

“I had no idea I was married to a man of such special talents.” I mock-gasp.

His green eyes darken as they bore into mine. “I’ll show you more of my talents anytime you ask, Wife.”

My stomach swoops, and I quickly turn away and open the fridge. “Grilled cheese sounds like a good place to start.”

Grabbing the supplies we need, the two of us stand side by side at the stove, working together assembling the sandwiches. I butter the bread, Fisher loads them up with way too many slices of cheese, and I try—and fail—to ignore his proximity. I also fail not to notice again how perfect his abs are, or how there’s as much heat radiating off his body as there is the hot stove.

Fisher flips a sandwich in the pan, revealing a perfect, golden-brown crust.

“Very impressive,” I tease.

He flips the next one with an almost-wistful smile. “My older brother, Louis, taught me how to make these when we were kids. I’d get home after hockey practice, and I was always too hungry to wait for dinner. Our parents rarely ate meals with us. They always ate in the formal dining room with food made by a private chef.” He scoffs. “So, whatever nannies were on duty would feed us. They’d order food or ask one of the chefs to make us something if they had a spare moment. When we got a little older, Louis taught me how to make grilled cheese, so I didn’t have to wait for someone else to make me a meal.”

“Are you and Louis close?” I’m surprised by the mention of his brother; I’ve never heard Fisher talk about any of his family members with anything but disdain. But when he speaks of Louis, his tone is fonder.

“We used to be.” Fisher nods. “I idolized him when I was younger. But he was always better than me. Better student. Better son. Better at staying out of trouble and doing what was expected of him. Since he joined Fisher Group after college, we barely talk.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As long as he’s happy with his choices, I’m happy for him. Wasn’t the life for me, though.” Fisher shrugs as he slides the grilled cheeses onto a plate. We carry them to the couch and sit facing each other, me with my legs crossed, him with his kicked out in front of him. “What was it like growing up as an only child?”

“Well, to begin with, there was nobody to take the blame for all the coloring I liked to do all over our walls.” I grab a sandwich. Its hot, melted cheese bubbling from the corners.

Fisher laughs.“I can picture you as a little girl, doodling on everything.”

“In third grade I was sent to the principal’s office for giving all my classmates doodle tattoos in permanent marker.”

“Let me guess, unicorns and rainbows?”

“Nah, the boys in my class all wanted skulls and swear words, and I was happy to oblige.”

“Of course you were.”

I grin. “I may have looked sweet, but I was a little troublemaker.”

“A little troublemaker who grew up to be a little baddie,” Fisher says, and even though he’s clearly making a stupid joke, I don’t miss the appreciation in his tone.

Our eyes catch, and something flares in his gaze that makes me wonder if he’s remembering what he was dreaming about?

I’m not sure. But what I do know is whatever this moment is, we're in it together, and I’m not ready for it to end.

CHAPTER 24

FISHER

I tear my eyes away from Lila and reach for a grilled cheese, pretending I wasn’t just staring at her like a weirdo. For once, I wasn’t even thinking about how gorgeous she is and how badly I ache to touch her…instead, I was thinking about how easy it is to be in her orbit. How nice it is to share the night with her, talking while everyone else is asleep. It feels intimate, sitting here in the darkness together, and I want to take the opportunity to learn more about her. Go deeper with her.

“Tell me what it’s like to be an artist,” I say, curious about what she was drawing before I walked into the kitchen. How she said she often paints at night. Is that what it’s like, having a creative career? Working round the clock?

She chews and swallows. “Every day looks different.” Lila bites the inside of her cheek as she thinks. “It’s not all playing with paint; sometimes I just stare off into space, trying to visualize the end result. Other days I’m visiting galleries, showing them my portfolio.”

I hum. “Do you ever feel uninspired?”

Lila huffs a laugh. “Oh yeah…like authors get writer’s block, I get artist’s block.” She leans back against the couch, crossing her legs. “I’m having trouble with my current project, actually. The series for that gallery I mentioned to you.”

“I thought you were doing a sequence of scenes around San Francisco?”

“I’m meant to be…but my brain and hands aren’t communicating properly to make that happen right now.” She laughs, but by the wrinkle on her forehead I can tell she’s stressed about the project.

“What sort of stuff do you usually paint?”

Her gaze goes to one of the Santi paintings hanging on my wall, but she quickly looks away and studies the grilled cheese on her lap instead. “A little bit of everything.”

“If you're more specific, I could help you brainstorm,” I tease at her evasive answer.

My eyes move to the sketchpad on the counter that she firmly smacked closed when she saw me watching her draw. She looked fully absorbed in whatever she was sketching. It was beautiful to watch. I so badly want to know more about the art she creates, but she’s uncharacteristically cryptic when the subject comes up. I’ve wondered more than once if she paints something she’s embarrassed to tell me about…like pig testicles. Which wouldn’t be too farfetched—in the gallery where I bought my latest Santi painting, there was a pig testicle painting on display.

Lila breathes out a laugh. “Thanks for the offer, but something will inspire me soon.” Her worried expression tells me she’s not convinced.

Taking a bite of my sandwich, I watch her.

She glances at the Santi painting once more, then lets out a breath. “Anyway, enough about me. You said a moment ago you had hockey practice as a kid—how did you even get into hockey, growing up in Georgia?” she chuckles darkly. “Because it’s obvious your parents aren’t fans.”

Finishing my bite, I stand and pad to the kitchen, removing two glasses from the cabinet and filling them with water. “Well, like I mentioned, I wasn’t as good at anything as Louis. I was endlessly frustrating my parents, easily distracted, and never meeting their expectations.” With the two glasses of water in hand, I walk back to the couch, handing one to Lila. “I had so much energy and a hard time focusing in school.” I take a sip, then set my water on the coffee table and sit down. “One of my father’s friends owns the Atlanta Cyclones, and when I was eight, he suggested my dad put me in youth hockey to help me burn off energy.” I smile, remembering my first day of practice with the Cyclones’ 8U team. “I loved it. Hockey was the first thing I was ever good at. Actually, it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

Lila frowns, turning to face me. “That’s not true, Fisher. You’re good at so many things, and I know that after only…what? Three weeks?”

Has it really only been three weeks?

She rests a hand on my knee. “You’re good at making everyone around you feel welcome and wanted. You’re good at caring for others. And you make a damn good grilled cheese.”

I laugh. “Thank you.” My heart squeezes at her words of encouragement. “I guess I’m just not good at the things Louis Fisher the Fourth hoped I’d be good at.”

“Well, in my humble opinion, Louis Fisher the Fourth cares about all the wrong things. He should feel lucky to have a son like you.”

“My father has always seen me as nothing more than a problem to fix. A blip on his otherwise perfect family landscape,” I confess, shaking my head.

“Nobody’s perfect, Fisher.”

“Yeah, I know,” I agree. “But I was a disappointment to him from the beginning. In fourth grade, I was diagnosed with ADHD, and the way my parents reacted, you would’ve thought I was dying of a rare illness. They even made me promise to keep it quiet around my granddad and the rest of my extended family—I guess they were worried I would bring shame on the family.”

Lila’s so easy to talk to, I’m sharing stuff right now I’ve never really shared with anyone. I have great friends I know I could talk to about this stuff, but before now, I’ve never felt the urge to do so. With Lila, I’m willing to open myself up to her in a way I don’t usually do. Maybe because somehow, she looks past the arrogant, carefree version of myself I present to the world and sees who I really am underneath the surface. And she seems to like who I am—flaws and all.

Lila closes her eyes then opens them again. “Just when I think I couldn’t hate your parents more, they somehow get worse. They should be so damn proud of the man you are.”

“Sometimes I hate that I share a last name with them,” I admit.

Lila smiles at me. “Hey, it’s technically my last name now, too. I redeemed the Fisher name because I’m so amazing.”

She’s teasing, but she has no idea how right she is. Thinking of my wife as Lila Fisher makes my skin feel warm all over.

We finish our grilled cheeses, but don’t move to clean up and go back to bed. Instead, we stay on the couch talking until Lila can’t stop yawning, and her eyelids look heavy.

I glance outside, and I’m shocked to see the sun coming up. We’ve been sitting here for hours.

“Why don’t we head back to bed?” I suggest, causing her eyelids to fly wide open.

“I might just crash here. I haven’t been sleeping great…” She grabs a fluffy blanket off the edge of the couch.

I shoot her a pointed look. “I’m keeping you up at night, aren’t I?”

She grimaces, then nods.

“My brother used to complain about sharing a room with me in our summer cottage. He said I flop around and talk in my sleep.”

“I can confirm you still do both of those things.”

“Damn, I’m sorry.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Apparently it’s common with ADHD to sleep talk and even sleepwalk.”

She shrugs, unbothered as ever. “It’s okay; I don’t mind. And I’ll get used to it eventually…I think.”

“So, what do I say in my sleep, anything interesting?” I ask, hoping it’s nothing too embarrassing…especially considering the dreams I’ve been having since she moved in.

She slides her tongue across her front teeth, looking away. “Nothing in particular.” Her voice is higher than usual. “You mostly just mumble.”

I scoot closer to her on the sofa, getting in her face so she has to look at me. “You’re lying.”

She tuts. “I am not.”

I arch an eyebrow, not believing her for even a second. But I don’t press, because her eyes look so tired.

“I’ll take the couch, though. You go back to bed.”

Lila worries her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I nap on the couch all the time.” I don’t really, I love my giant bed…but she doesn’t need to know that.

Lila shoots me a grateful smile and stands, taking a few steps toward the hallway.

“You can bring all your art stuff here if you want to, you know? So you don’t have to go back and forth all the time. And so you have it for when I wake you up in the middle of the night with my talking.”

Lila glances over her shoulder, smiling softly. “Careful, I might take you up on that. You’ll come home one day to a full art studio in the living room.”

I know she’s teasing, but that doesn’t sound so bad to me…I actually love the idea of her making this space her own and getting to watch as she paints and creates beautiful works of art.

Lila’s gaze moves to the Santi art on the wall again, and I smile.

“I love that you’re a Santi fan, too,” I tell her, because from the way she keeps looking at the paintings, that much is obvious. “It’s kind of cool to me that we have the same taste in art.” I waggle my eyebrows. “And I’d still love an introduction someday soon, if you could make that happen…I want to buy everything she has for sale.”

Lila opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but then closes it. She heads off to bed, and I lie on the couch for a while, staring up at the Waking Dreams painting I bought a few months back. It’s my favorite piece of art I’ve ever owned, but somehow, I just know that when I finally see Lila’s art, it will blow my feelings about my beloved Santi works out of the water.

CHAPTER 25

FISHER

Parking my G Wagon in our parking garage, I hum a contented sigh. After a grueling hockey practice, I’m looking forward to spending some quiet time alone in the loft. We won both our home games this week, giving us a nice three to one lead in round one and the chance to move onto the next round if we win game five in Seattle tomorrow. Penn and Noah are spending the afternoon with their girlfriends before we fly out early tomorrow morning, and Lila is spending the day at the firehouse working on her gallery collection…leaving me with some much-needed alone time.

I love being around my teammates and roommates, but after an intense week of playoffs, I’m exhausted. All I want right now is a shower and a nap in my bed without Lila beside me making my nose twitch with hints of jasmine and feminine beauty. I can’t keep waking up in the middle of sexy dreams about her to find her lying there next to me, so close yet so totally out of reach. It’s torture.

Popping in my earbuds and cranking on some Britney Spears, I ride up the elevator and stride into 3B completely relaxed. Peace and quiet at last. I don’t even make it to my bedroom before I’m stripping off my sweatpants, T-shirt, and boxer briefs. Damn, I’ve missed walking around naked. It’s not something I get to do much since accumulating roommates.

Britney sings in my ears about how she’s gettin’ down like no one else is around and I bop along, shaking my ass to the catchy tune. I grab my shed clothing from the floor and toss it in the laundry room, before scooting toward the bathroom, thrusting my hips to the beat.

Gyrating, I sing along to the music, “It’s Britney, bitch!”

When I open the bathroom door, I don’t immediately notice the steam billowing around the room, the glass doors of the shower that are already steamed up, or the damp towel crumpled on the floor…at least not until a warm body slams up against my naked skin. Even through my ear buds and Britney’s raspy voice, I clearly hear the ear-piercing shriek that comes next.

My hand flies to Lila’s waist on instinct, holding her body against me with one hand as my only form of modesty.

“What the hell, Fisher?” she yells, loud enough that I hear her perfectly over my music.

With my free hand, I pull my earbuds out, then glance down at Lila, her hair swept up into a white towel on top of her head, and a scowl on her pretty face.

“Lila,” I say on an exhale. “You scared me to death.” My heart is racing at the unexpected interloper.

She brings a hand to her chest, her chest that’s only covered by a thin black bra. Shit. I quickly snap my gaze back to her face, sending silent SOS messages from my brain to my body to stay calm and not misinterpret this situation.

“I scared you?” Lila’s eyes widen. “Imagine how I felt when a gigantic naked man waltzed in on me uninvited?”

Despite myself, I smirk, trying—and failing—not to notice her bare skin against mine. “Gigantic, huh?”

She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her cheeks flush pink. “Why are you dancing around the loft butt naked?”

“Why are you not at the firehouse?"

Lila shakes her head. “Oh yes, clearly I’m the problem here.” Her eyes shift to a heap of clothing on the floor that looks wet with pink paint. “I spilled paint all over myself and came home early to shower and clean up.”

Home…she called the loft home. I like that.

I tilt my head to the side and study her. “Are you sure you didn’t come home early to seduce me before I head out to Seattle tomorrow?”

“If I wanted to seduce you, I wouldn’t be wearing my Hanes from Walmart.” Lila smacks my chest playfully, then seems to remember how naked I am and removes her palm from my body like she’s just touched a burning stove. She squirms, trying to distance herself, but my hands land on her hips, locking her against me. My fingers press against the top of her soft cotton panties, itching to dip lower and see how her ass feels in my hands.

I clear my throat, forcing that thought out of my head. “I’m sorry, but you can’t move…if you do, you’re going to get an eyeful.” I raise my eyebrows to drive my point home.

Her hands land on my biceps and she lightly pushes against me. “I’ve seen naked men before, Fisher. In fact, I stared at a naked man for eight hours once during a life drawing class.”

“But if you move, I’ll also be able to see you,” I counter, somehow managing to sound calm when my heart is pounding so hard it’s almost painful.

Lila rolls her eyes at me. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just wearing a plain cotton bra and underwear set.” She laughs, but it sounds forced. “I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. And nothing special compared to the lingerie models you’re used to.”

Her tone is jesting, sarcastic…but something in her expression hints at vulnerability that takes me by surprise. I never, ever, want Lila to compare herself to other women I’ve been with in the past. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. Doesn’t she realize that no one else could begin to compare to her?

Finally, I drop my hands from her hips and step back. Lila blinks, her eyes dipping down my body so fast I almost don’t notice it. But her eyes widen the smallest fraction when she turns away, so I know she saw everything.

She yanks the small hand towel off a rack attached to the vanity and tosses it to me. “Here, cover yourself up for once.”

I catch the towel, draping it in front of my junk. “Hmm, I’m not sure this hand towel is going to cover what I’ve got going on⁠—”

“Please, don’t finish that sentence.” Lila holds her hand up, and I chuckle. “I’m going to go get dressed.”

She turns towards the door, and I can’t help but look at her. My eyes lazily peruse her legs and her ass in the cheeky panties she’s wearing. Lila is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, gorgeous without even trying. She’s this perfect combination of hot and adorable that I can’t seem to get enough of, and she doesn’t even realize it. I’ve always likened women to works of art, but Lila is in a league of her own. She has no idea she's prettier than any painting I’ve ever admired.

Just before she strides out the door, she glances over her shoulder, catching me checking her out. She raises her index finger and waves it back and forth with a tsk.

I wink at her. “You don’t need fancy lingerie, Wife…your body is damn perfect in those Walmart undies.”

Lila rolls her lips together as a rosy blush flushes her face and her chest. She holds my gaze, not saying a word. I expect her to chirp back with some sassy remark, roll her eyes, or maybe just leave with an annoyed sigh…but instead, her eyes move slowly down my body—my body that’s only covered with a barely-there scrap of a towel. She unabashedly looks her fill, and the sight of my wife’s pupils dilating as she looks at me has all the blood in my body rushing south. But just before I lose my mind so completely that I’m driven to act on instinct alone, she slips out the door.

I watch her leave, confused and bewildered…and more than a little turned on. I’m not sure what just transpired between us, but it didn’t feel like anything I’ve ever experienced before. I’ve always thought Lila was hot, but this felt like more than just mere attraction. It felt like molten lava, like a spark ready to catch flame, like a man and a woman who desperately want each other.

As I turn on the hot water and step into the shower, tossing the hand towel across the room, I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

CHAPTER 26

Hercules

Just landed! Heading to the hotel now.

Lila

Did you manage to keep your clothes on during the flight?

Hercules

Tried to take my pants off so I could get comfy for my in-flight nap, but Downsby was sitting next to me. face with rolling eyes He got mad and told me to keep them on.

Lila

I would’ve done the same.

Hercules

Liar.

Lila

I saw more than enough yesterday.

Hercules

More than enough, huh?

Lila

Not like that!

Hercules

Whatever you say, Wife… so, are you gonna take advantage of us being gone and try dancing around the loft naked? Now’s your chance.

Lila

Not everyone wants to get naked at every opportunity, you know…that’s just you.

Hercules

*Selfie wearing just a towel* Damn right it is.

Lila

Wtf? I thought you were just on your way to the hotel a few minutes ago?

Hercules

Guess I move fast for such a gigantic man winking face

CHAPTER 27

LILA

Today was meant to be a full day dedicated to my series for the gallery, but how am I meant to get a damn ounce of work done with the image of my husband’s magnificent body burned into my frontal cortex?

With a sigh, I throw my paintbrush into the water-filled mason jar next to my easel and step back to study the painting I've been slowly working on all day at the firehouse.

And I do mean slowly.

With all the chaos of life lately, I’ve fallen behind on where I want to be with this series. Yesterday, my workday got cut very short after I spilled paint all over myself. And ever since what went down in the bathroom afterward, I can’t seem to force my mind to focus on anything but the memory of my husband holding my body against his very naked one.

I can't help but shiver at the memory of Fisher’s rippling torso pressed up against me. His heavy-lidded eyes that looked at me like I was a bomb he could detonate with one wrong—or right—move?

“Cold?” Zane asks with a smile. He’s sitting nearby at his station painting glaze on a long-necked vase he fired in the kiln yesterday.

“Oh, no, just…” I wave a hand vaguely at my painting. “Not getting anywhere near the amount of work done I want to be.”

Zane sets down his vase and stands. He walks over to my station, studies my canvas for a few moments through narrowed eyes. “It’s good, Li.”

“But it's not great,” I finish for him.

I’m not being humble; it’s true. The painting has my usual colorful flair and semi-surrealist style, and it's a nice depiction of the city's skyline at sunrise, but ‘nice’ is about the best adjective you could give it. The art is bland. Safe.

Deep down, I know what it lacks is the all-consuming passion I get when I'm inspired. That creative energy that courses through me and makes me totally lost to anything but slicing something open and letting it bleed until I'm wrung out and spent and the page in front of me comes to life.

But damn it, no matter what I seem to do lately, I can’t conjure up that passion for my work. I’m not sure if it’s because of all the chaos and change with my impromptu marriage and moving into the loft, or because there’s more at stake than ever for my career with this gallery commission…but whatever the mental block is, I wish it would go away, already. I’m running out of time to get my shit together and create four paintings that will actually sell.

Zane frowns, his eyes still focused on my artwork. “It needs a sprinkle of that special Lila magic to make it feel like a true Santi creation,” he admits.

I smile at how tactfully he framed his honest feedback. “Agreed.”

“Have you tried working on another project to get the creative juices flowing again?”

I start to shake my head, but as I do so, my eyes snag on the corner of my sketchpad peeking out of my shoulder bag. The one that contains the picture of Fisher I sketched the other night. My fingers twitch at the thought of getting lost in it again, pouring myself into refining the lines and perfecting the angles that make up the gorgeous man I’m married to.

I want to work on the sketch until it’s perfect. And then I want to paint him. Bring the image into full, blazing color.

The thought has my stomach flipping in anticipation.

“Li? You okay?”

“I…think I’m going to call it a day. I’m tapped out for today, I think.”

“Same.” Zane nods. “You wanna go to Tommie’s and grab a bite?”

“Can’t, sorry. Fisher’s got his big game in Seattle tonight, I want to get home before puck drop.” And if I leave now, I could be home in time to have an hour to work on my sketch of Fisher alone before I’m meant to watch the game with the girls.

Zane's demeanor sours at the mention of Fisher, but when he catches me looking at him, he rearranges his features into a teasing smile. “Never thought I’d see the day I’d hear you saying things like puck drop.” He chuckles. “I still don't know what's harder to believe—that you're a hockey fan now, or that you're married.”

“Maybe it’s that I'm now a hockey fan who’s married to a hockey player.” I grin. “You should watch a game sometime. They’re actually pretty exciting.”

“Not my thing." Zane’s tone isn’t unkind, but it’s dismissive. For some reason, this makes me defensive of Fisher.

“Fisher’s good. Like, really good. I’m amazed every time I watch him play. It’s like a form of art in itself—poetry in motion.”

Zane wrinkles his nose but seems to decide against saying anything else.

I’m glad. Because as much as Zane doesn’t like the idea of Fisher, he’d better get used to it. The people in this collective mean the world to me, but recently, my circle of people that matter to me has expanded. And regardless of what happens at the end of our agreement, Fisher’s a wonderful person who makes me laugh and has been nothing but a great friend to me. He has a permanent spot in my circle now.

After I tidy my station and say my goodbyes, I rush back to the loft, anticipation flowing through every part of me at the prospect of working on my sketch of Fisher. But when I open the front door, I have to swallow my disappointment when I find Ally standing by the kitchen counter.

“Hey, girl!” She looks up from the cucumber she’s slicing and smiles. She’s dressed in a matching sports bra and leggings set, her blonde hair pulled up in a bouncy ponytail, looking like she’s stepped out of an Instagram ad for protein shakes or Pilates .“I got another teacher to cover my last class of the day so I could get home early. Now we can watch the pregame coverage together.”

I smile back. “Sounds perfect.” It’s not that I don’t want to see her—I love hanging out with Ally, she’s the best—it’s just that now I’ll have to wait until later to channel the creative energy I’m finally feeling. I open the fridge and retrieve the bottle of wine I bought when I was grocery shopping yesterday. Maybe a little alcohol will take the edge off the creativity buzzing through my body right now.

Wiggling the wine bottle to get Ally’s attention, I raise my eyebrows in question.

“Great idea.” She nods in approval. “Wine glasses are in the top corner.”

The door to the apartment opens, and Hazel comes in. Her cheeks are flushed, and her curly hair looks wild and windblown.

“I practically ran all the way here from work,” she puffs.

“Well, your timing is perfect for wine,” I tell her.

“Wonderful, fill me right up.” Hazel sinks onto a barstool and reaches for a slice of the cucumber Ally’s chopping.

Ally pushes the cutting board towards Hazel, who snags a few pieces.

Wrinkling her nose, Ally dumps the rest of the cucumber slices into a bowl. “Don’t worry, I’ve ordered real food, too, but I know Hazel cares about her health and Noah will check later if I ate anything green today.”

I burst out laughing. “Biggest game of the season so far and he’s worried if you’re eating your vegetables while he’s gone?”

“Yeah.” A happy little smile dances across her lips. “But no worries, the wings and nachos are on their way.”

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten all day. Which isn’t ideal for many reasons, but the main one being that when we all curl up on the huge couch together in front of ESPN a few minutes later, the wine goes to my head in about two sips.

On the TV, the commentators are talking about the Lions’ chances for tonight, and I perk up when I hear Fisher’s name.

“Well, I have to say, the biggest surprise of this round has been Archibald Fisher—talk about a hell of a perfect time to play the best games of your career back-to-back,” the one with the mustache says.

Ally cheers. “Go, Fishy!”

“I don’t know, Chuck,” the guy in the pinstripe suit counters. “The kid’s been showing some immense talent under pressure out there, but the chances of him bringing it like that again tonight are slim at best.”

“Boo!” Hazel yells.

I throw a slice of cucumber at the TV. It hits the screen image of Pinstripe Suit square in the face. “Take that asshole!” I say, before blinking in horror at the slimy cucumber sliding down the TV. I turn to the girls, wide-eyed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Hey, it’s your husband’s TV…and honestly, I think he’d approve.” Ally fires another slice at the screen, giggling, before she side-eyes me. “If Noah asks, I ate the whole cucumber.”

“Obviously.” I take another drink of my wine.

On the screen, the image cuts to a different reporter standing with a microphone, and Ally explains this is where the players all walk in and a few get interviewed before the game.

A couple of guys I don’t recognize are shown walking in first, but before long, Noah, Penn, and Fisher come striding into the frame.

My breath catches in my throat when my eyes land on Fisher looking good enough to eat in his tailored trousers.

“Look at our gorgeous men,” Hazel says proudly.

I don’t say anything, because I’m too busy staring. Noah is broody as usual, dark eyes flickering as he rakes a hand through his hair and keeps his head down. Penn is the picture of casual confidence, seeming at ease with the attention. And Fisher…well, Fisher steals the show.

My heart trips over itself when my husband’s eyes connect with the camera and he smiles the smile of a man who knows he’s a winner. His presence is magnetic, commanding. He’s the type of person who makes people sit up and take notice when he walks into a room.

“What is Noah wearing?” Ally asks, and my eyes reluctantly leave Fisher and move to Noah on the screen.

He’s dressed in a charcoal suit with a dark purple tie. “He looks good,” I say, confused.

“Of course he looks good, he’s Noah Pucking Downsby,” Ally tuts. “What I mean is, why’s Noah got a purple tie on? He should have worn something that works with his autumn colors to make his complexion pop.”

Hazel laughs. “Not this color analysis thing again.”

Ally ignores this comment and studies Penn. “He made a better choice with the turquoise tie; it works for his winter tones.”

“Do you think they’re wearing those for the team jersey colors?” I ask.

Ally’s eyes widen. “Of course! That makes way more sense…although if that’s the case, Fisher didn’t get the memo.”

She’s right. Because instead of wearing golden yellow, the third color on the Lions’ jerseys. Fisher’s tie is a jewel-toned magenta, the color of ripe cherry blossoms in late bloom.

Damn, my man looks good in pink…but with a face card like that, he could have worn a trash bag and still looked like a perfect ten.

Ally’s sharp elbow pokes my ribs. “Uh, you’re drooling there, Lila.”

I let out a yelp and wipe my mouth with my hand. Hazel aims her shrewd gaze on me. “Uh oh. Is there something you need to get off your chest, by chance?”

“No.” It’s not convincing, even to my own ears, and I take another sip of wine to disguise my blush.

“Wait.” Ally jabs an accusing finger in my direction. “Did you guys kiss?”

“Worse,” I say before I can stop myself. But I need to talk to somebody, and these girls are the only people who know the truth about me and Fisher.

Hazel’s mouth falls open. “You hooked up?”

“No, I, uh…” My face is on fire as I admit the next part in a rush. “I accidentally saw him naked.”

Ally’s mouth twists in confusion. “Well, that’s not too terrible. I accidentally saw Noah naked about five minutes after I met him.”

“It is terrible, though,” I groan. “Because now it’s all I can think about.”

Fisher joked about me painting him naked the first night we met, and that was bad enough—but seeing the masterpiece in person has made my wayward thoughts about him a million times more vivid. And distracting.

“Ahh, I get it.” Hazel nods. “You want him.”

Ally grins wickedly. “You saw the package, and now you want a special delivery.”

I choke on my sip of wine. “No! I—ah, shit. I don’t know how I’m going to do this with him for the next year. The tension between us was already at the boiling point and now it’s about to bubble over.”

It feels good to finally get this confession off my chest. I’m at home with Ally and Hazel already, like we’re a perfectly mismatched trio of longtime friends.

Hazel tilts her head. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing? I mean, I’m not even sure he would want to⁠—”

“Oh, he wants to, girl,” Ally says. “Believe me.”

Deep down, I know she’s right. The look of hungry desire on Fisher’s face when he saw me in my underwear that day is seared into my frontal cortex. And then there’s the way he says my name in his sleep. What’s he doing in those dreams? What am I doing?

“Plus he never shuts up about you these days,” Hazel adds, and I swivel my head to look at her.

“Really?” I blurt, then want to kick myself for being so overeager. Half a glass of wine and I have zero chill.

Ally nods. “I know Fisher, and I’ve never seen him like this about a girl. He’s low key obsessed with you.”

“Nah.” A stupid smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.

Hazel squints at me. “Is this about more than just physical chemistry? Do you have feelings for him?”

Goosebumps rush across my arms.

“I…” My eyes wander back to the TV. Fisher’s gone from the screen, and another player is talking to a reporter. I wish I could still see him and bask in his smile a little longer…okay, I really need to slow down on the wine. Instead of taking another sip, I run my fingers down the stem of my wineglass.

Truth is, I like everything about my husband. I like the way he looks, the way he smells, the way his body feels against mine when he reaches for me in his sleep. But those things barely scratch the surface of the wonderful things about Fisher. He’s thoughtful and intuitive and can make me laugh until my stomach aches. I’m comfortable when I’m with him, my mind at ease. And we get each other. Despite being from totally different worlds, we just…click. Fisher grew up with so little real love in his life, and I’m in awe that despite his upbringing, goodness and kindness flow out of him like a river.

But if I let myself get swept up in that river’s current, I’ll have no control over where it’ll take me. Where I end up. And what if I lose someone else I care about and end up alone again?

“We’re friends,” I say. “Friends who have chemistry. That’s all. We have to do this for the next whole year, and if feelings get involved, it will complicate things.”

“Fair enough,” Ally says, but then she smirks. “But if you and Fisher really are just friends who have chemistry, then why not enjoy all the benefits of being married to him for the next year, and explore that chemistry?”

It’s not the first time I’ve considered what could happen if Fisher and I gave in to the intense, electrical pull between us. The idea of being with my husband like that is exhilarating. Dangerous in all the best ways. But as much as I like the idea of Fisher and I exploring our chemistry as husband and wife, there’s a huge part of me that knows it would backfire. That kissing him, touching him, would be so all-encompassing that it would ruin me. Although right now, not touching him is starting to feel like it might be my demise.

I reach for the wine and refill our glasses to the brim. “Right now, let’s focus on watching our boys win their game, okay?”

Hazel arches a brow. “Our boys, huh?”

“Shh,” I laugh, swatting Hazel’s arm. “You know what I mean.”

I also know Fisher and I can’t keep going the way we are right now. The tension between us is growing so taut, it’s stretching to its limits. But is the solution to get lost in each other…or to keep our distance and play it safe?

CHAPTER 28

LILA

Despite the numerous mental warnings I gave myself to slow down on the wine last night, I did not slow down on the wine.

Between the three of us, we polished off the bottle…and then when the boys won their game, we cracked open another bottle. We talked and laughed until well into the night, and then we dragged our tipsy butts into Ally’s bed for a sleepover like middle-schoolers. I realized last night that Ally and Hazel are the type of ride or die female friends every girl wishes they had, but many aren’t lucky enough to find. Friends you can be your most delusional self with, because they’ll match your level of delusion. The ones who’d help you bury the body…then ask what he did to deserve it before assuring you that you didn’t overreact by committing murder.

It was the best night, and I slept soundly, only stirring when the sound of voices cut through my dreams the next morning.

“Well, this is adorable. I have to get a picture.”

“They kind of look like puppies.”

“Puppies?”

“You know, when they get so tired they fall asleep in a big pile.”

“We should really get a puppy for the loft.”

“Harry Styles would have a fit.”

“But Lila and I are the only couple without a pet now.”

At the sound of my name, my eyes crack open, and when my gaze moves over a pink comforter, it takes me a moment to remember where I am…and another to register that the blonde hair tickling my face doesn’t belong to my husband.

I whip my head around, my eyes fully popping open in shock when I see Noah, Penn, and Fisher standing in the doorway, laughing.

“What are you guys doing here?” I sit up, attempting to smooth my wild hair off my forehead.

My husband looks at me, and his smile makes my insides melt. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“Shh,” Hazel murmurs as she rolls over. “Trying to sleep here.”

Ally lifts her head and looks at the guys through bleary, unfocused eyes. “Aren’t you all supposed to be in Seattle?”

“We were in Seattle,” Noah says. “But we got up at a normal time this morning and took a plane back.”

“Ahh, you won last night!” Ally springs into action, jumping out of bed and running to Noah to fling her arms around him. He smiles at her adoringly, then kisses her. Ugh, they’re so cute together.

I move my gaze back to Fisher. I want to go to him just like Ally ran to Noah. I want to wrap my arms around him and celebrate in his arms. Instead, I smile at him from where I’m sitting on Ally’s bed. “Congratulations. You were amazing last night. That game was insane.”

A one-one tie until twenty seconds before the final buzzer, when one of the Lions veteran players scored the winning goal. We all leapt out of our seats so fast, Ally spilled her wine on Harry Styles, who was less than amused.

“Round two, baby,” Fisher replies with a dimpled grin that makes me wish I’d acted on my impulse so I was closer to him right now. “It’s on.”

“Yeah, it is!” Penn holds up his hand, and my husband high fives it.

“Ohmygosh what time is it?” Hazel shrieks, sitting upright so fast I’m amazed she doesn’t give herself whiplash.

“It’s 11:11,” Penn says as he checks his phone. He smirks at his girlfriend. “Make a wish. And no need to wish that you’re dating a gorgeous hockey god, because the universe has already granted you that one.”

“I’m going to be late to meet my advisor!” Hazel jumps up and runs for the door. But when she gets there, she stops and slides her palms onto Penn’s face, cupping his jaw before kissing him on the mouth then pulling back. “And yeah, you’re a hockey god, Playboy. I’m so proud of you, and I can’t wait to celebrate later.”

Penn waggles his eyebrows and grins wickedly, causing Hazel to blush. “Come on, I’ll drive you out to Berkeley so you don’t have to take transit.”

As Penn and Hazel walk off, hand in hand, Ally snuggles her head into Noah’s chest, the picture of contentment. “I’m so happy I don’t have to work today.”

“Want to nap together, then order brunch and watch Matchmaker Mansion in bed?” Noah asks.

Ally puts a hand to her forehead, pretending to swoon. “That was possibly the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Noah scoops her up in his arms and whispers something in her ear I don’t catch, but whatever it is, it’s enough to make her cheeks flame crimson as he carries her off to his room.

Which leaves me alone with my husband.

“I can’t believe how late it is.”

Fisher leans on the doorframe, his huge body filling the space. “You probably needed the sleep after I’ve kept you up with my sleep talking for so many nights now.”

“Can barely remember life without your sleep talking now. And sleep spooning.” My words are meant to be light and playful. Harmless teasing. But they come out breathy and quiet.

“I missed holding you last night,” Fisher replies. His voice is as raspy as mine.

Our gazes clash, and a few silent moments pass between us. He lowers his eyes and shoves his hands into the pockets of his gray sweatpants, the action almost bashful.

Fisher clears his throat. “Do you, uh, have any plans for today, Wife?”

I should go to the firehouse and work for at least the next twelve hours at least to make up for yesterday’s lack of progress on my gallery series.

“No plans.”

“Feel like celebrating with me?” He nods towards the opposite hallway with a smirk. “Everybody’s doing it.”

A sharp pang of want ricochets through me. It’s an ache to just…be with him today. To spend the day together. Just us.

“I could celebrate.” I climb out of Ally’s bed faster than I should, and the world lurches on its axis. I rub my temples. “As long as it doesn’t involve any more wine.”

Fisher tells me we’re going downtown for lunch but doesn’t elaborate further. I shower, blow-dry and style my hair, then apply my makeup. I take extra time to get my eyeliner perfectly precise. Then it takes me about ten minutes to pick out an outfit. It’s not like me—usually, I go with my intuition when I get dressed, wearing whatever looks most pleasing to me at that moment. Because that’s who I’ve always dressed for: myself. I figured if what I wore made me feel good, it would look good, so I never cared much about what other people thought…until today, apparently.

Today, I want to look good for Fisher. I want to make him look at me in the same way he did when his eyes roved over me in the bathroom, drinking me in like he’d been dying of thirst in the desert. Standing there in my nondescript, non-sexy underwear, he made me go from embarrassed to feeling the most beautiful I’d ever felt in a matter of moments.

Eventually, I settle on low slung baggy jeans and an eyelet-embroidered white sleeveless top that’s cute and casual enough for lunch, yet understatedly sexy.

When I walk into the living area, I find my husband sitting on the couch in chinos and a hunter green T-shirt that hugs his biceps.When he sees me, his mouth falls open.

“Lila.” He swallows. “You look beautiful.”

I flush, glad my efforts were worth it. “Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Hungry?” Fisher asks, and I jolt, panicking for a moment that I accidentally spoke that thought out loud before realizing he’s talking about lunch.

“Starving,” I reply, not talking about lunch at all.

We drive into town with the music up and the windows down in the G Wagon. The salty breeze whips through my hair and I tilt my face towards the sun, letting it warm my skin. I’m exactly where I want to be at this moment. Where I’m meant to be.

Fisher pulls the vehicle into a parking lot and kills the engine, and I realize we’re at the Palace of Fine Arts.

It’s one of my favorite places in the city, and it’s also the setting for my painting, Waking Dreams, which now hangs on the wall of the loft. The same one Fisher paid double the asking price for, which still makes my stomach dip when I think about it. The painting holds so many of the emotions I was struggling with after my mom died, and it’s daunting to think about what my husband saw in it that he connected with it enough to buy it for a crazy price.

“It’s such a nice day, I thought we could have a picnic,” Fisher explains as he reaches into the backseat, retrieving a rolled up plaid blanket. “If that’s okay with you?” He looks at me, his brow crinkling. “The cherry blossoms are still out, so I thought we could catch the last of them before they’re gone for the season.”

Of course he did.

“It’s perfect,” I say quickly.

Too perfect. Even without knowing this crucial part of my identity, he intuitively understands so much of who I am at my core.

“I painted some cherry blossoms recently. That piece was the last work I finished.” I want to say both less and more. Wishing this all didn’t make me feel both safe and scared. These polarizing feelings are confusing beyond belief.

“I’d love to see that.”

I’d like to be brave enough to show him. “One day.” The words feel like a promise.

We get out of the vehicle and start walking toward the grounds where people often spread blankets on the grass when it’s nice out. Finding an empty patch not too far from the pond, Fisher spreads out the blanket, but he has nothing else with him. No food, no drinks. Which is actually kind of cute—it’s the thought that counts, and I love that he thought of a picnic in the first place.

“I’ll run to the nearest deli or grocery store to get some sandwiches,” I offer. It’s the least I can do.

Fisher looks at me like he thinks this offer is beyond adorable. “Sandwiches?”

“You know, to eat?” I chuckle. “Why don’t you save our spot on the grass, and I’ll be back in a few minutes. There’s a good sub place nearby; what do you like?”

Instead of answering, my husband reaches out and grabs me, spinning me around to face him. I gasp in shock, and his grip tightens, holding me firmly.

He lowers his lips close to my ear. So close that I can smell his minty breath mingling with his intoxicating cologne as he rasps, “What I like, Wife, is taking you on dates where you don’t have to lift a damn finger.”

His words make a shiver course through me and I’m dizzier than night, drunk on everything that is him.

“Oh…okay,” I gasp, suddenly it’s hard to breathe. His skin is hot, his fingers searing heat into my body where he’s touching me. I turn to face him, drawn like a moth to a flame…

Fisher steps back, the absence of his warmth a shock to my already-shocked system.

“Good.” He smiles like nothing out of the ordinary just happened. “Because here’s our picnic now.”

“What?” I ask absently, my mind still muddled and soaked with longing…and did he just say this was a date?

My husband nods at something over my shoulder, and I spin around to see Lek, the owner of Siam House, walking towards us. He’s carrying a cardboard box that’s half as big as he is.

“Hi Lila!” He calls, smiling at me from over the top of the box. “Your husband called earlier to order food, and when I heard it was for you, I offered to deliver it myself.”

I look at Fisher in question, and he shrugs. “Had to do something useful in the time you took to get ready. You mentioned once that this was your favorite restaurant.”

I’m touched. That was weeks ago, an offhand comment I barely remember making. “You have a good memory.”

One of his dimples pops. “For certain things.”

“So much food,” Lek says when he reaches us. He sets down the box beside our blanket. “Are you feeding your whole hockey team?”

Fisher blushes, and I watch in fascination as pink creeps into his cheeks. It’s adorable. “Just us.”

We chat with Lek for a few moments, and then say our goodbyes. I sit down on the blanket and peek inside the box. It’s overflowing with takeout containers that smell deliciously spicy. “Did you order the whole menu?”

Silence.

I whip my head around to look at him. “Oh my gosh, I was kidding! Did you actually?”

Fisher sighs. “You told me they made the best something-or-other in the city.”

“Khao soi.”

“Yeah, so I couldn’t remember what you said, and none of the names on the menu jogged my memory, so I just….ordered it all. To make sure your favorite was in there.”

“That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.”

He gives me a smile that feels like a secret. One that only I get the privilege of seeing. “I was hungry, too, so it worked out.”

We waste no time digging into the food, me teaching Fisher all about each dish as we try it. I love the way his brow furrows in concentration as he listens. How he asks so many questions, like he’s actually interested in what I’m saying.

By the time we’re both full, there’s plenty left. “The leftovers are enough to feed ten people,” I tease.

“Or Penn for one meal.”

We fall back onto the blanket, stretching out to soak up the sun. “That was amazing.”

“I think you’re pretty amazing.” I prop myself up on one elbow, my hair falling over my shoulder as I gaze down at him. I know it's cliche, but every time I look at him, I can’t help but think that he’s a work of art, painted by one of the greats. “Thanks for planning this.”

“Thanks for celebrating with me.” He smiles. “I like spending time with you, Lila.”

I like you. Period.

My heart starts thumping so fast, it echoes in my ears. “Earlier, you said this was a…date?”

“Do you want it to be a date?” My husband’s question is a loaded gun, and I’m ready to put my finger on the trigger.

“I do.” I smile shakily.

Fisher reaches up, his fingertips skimming my cheekbone as he tucks a dark strand of my hair behind my ear. The sensation makes me sigh, and his fingers still for a moment, hovering at the hyper-sensitive skin behind my ear. My pulse jumps as he looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes filled with unmistakable desire.

“What else do you want, Lila?” His voice is low and so rough, it’s like the sound scrapes against my skin.

I can hardly form a coherent thought. Everything around me fades into white noise so it’s only me and him here in this moment together. My mind spins as his fingers begin to move again, his big hand threading into my hair. Fisher rakes his nails across my scalp gently, cupping the back of my head, and I give myself over to the sensations he’s coaxing from me. Right now, he’s the artist, and I’m the canvas, being brought to life by his touch.

I want you. However scary that is, it’s the truth.

“I…” I look at him and his eyes are ablaze. I bring my hand to his face, sliding my fingers over his jaw. His stubble prickles my skin. He swallows, and the wildfire in his gaze threatens to burn out of control. His hand tightens on the back of my neck, and I think I might die if I have to suffer another moment without his lips on mine. My eyes flutter closed, and I lean closer, so close we’re sharing breath…

His phone rings. The sound fractures our fragile bubble, and I’m catapulted back to reality.

CHAPTER 29

FISHER

My eyes fly open, and I stare at Lila through a thick haze of desire…did she almost just kiss me?

She looks up at me, her pupils dilated. “I think that’s your phone,” she says, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Oh. Shit.” My phone can burn in hell for this.

Reluctantly, I sit up and dig the damn phone out of my pocket. When I see the caller on the screen, I want to scream in frustration. Louis Fisher the Fourth.

I haven’t heard a thing from my father since the morning he and Mom stormed out of the loft, and the eerie silence has been unnerving. Makes me think whatever he’s calling now to say, I need to hear.

“You saved your father on your phone by his formal name?” Lila asks with a laugh.

“Nothing but the best for Daddy Dearest.” I shrug, still living in disappointment for our ruined moment. “Sorry, but I should probably answer this.”

She nods. “Of course.”

I press the green circle to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Archibald.” My father’s voice oozes distinguished charm. He sounds…happy…to speak to me. Which is odd considering how we left things. “Congrats on the big win last night.”

“Um, thanks…” It’s the only response I can muster in my befuddled state.

“I assume you’ve arrived back in San Francisco?”

“Yeah,” I answer, looking over at Lila. She’s watching me, her expression carefully neutral.

“Wonderful,” he says. I want to ask him why, exactly, this is wonderful, but I bite my tongue. “I’m actually back in town with your brother, and I was hoping we could meet.”

I grit my teeth. “I meant what I said before.” This bullshit is why he interrupted that incredible moment between me and Lila? “I’m not giving up the property, and I’m not getting my marriage annulled. There’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”

“I was hoping to make amends.”

These words coming out of my father’s mouth are such a shock to my system that I freeze. Lila frowns and rests a hand on my arm. The warmth of her palm on my skin grounds me.

“Oh, okay,” I say, focusing on Lila’s warm hand.

“We’d like to meet your wife properly and welcome her to the Fisher family. Could you both meet your brother and me for dinner tonight?”

This is so out of the blue, and so unlike my father—not to mention that for once, there’s no hint of condescension in his tone, no sign of his usual disappointment. My heart wants to believe that my father’s intentions are pure and that there’s hope for my relationship with him, that the Fishers will accept Lila—hell, that they’ll accept me. But my brain is screaming at me that this is a setup and he has something up his sleeve…an ulterior motive.

I swallow. The desire to give the man who raised me a chance to redeem himself wins out. “I need to talk to Lila, but I think that would work.”

“Great, I have a reservation at Père et Fils. Be there at six.”

“Okay, I’ll let you know for sure, like I said, I need to check with Lila—” I trail off, because he’s already hung up.

“Everything okay?” Lila asks.

“I’m not sure…” It’s the most honest response I have as I attempt to sort through all the thoughts running through my head.

All I wanted to do today when I arrived home from Seattle was spend time with Lila. I thought of two things during the short flight home: Lila, and the fact that we have three days off while we’re waiting for round two of the playoffs to begin.

I’m physically and mentally exhausted from round one, so these next few days will be a much-needed reset.

But now, after an amazing and relaxing time with Lila at The Palace of Fine Arts—a place so meaningful to me, a landmark I connected with through my Santi painting—my father had to go and ruin it. When I had access to my trust fund, I would’ve wined and dined her at some over-the-top restaurant to impress her. But ordering copious amounts of Thai food so she could teach me about each one, felt much more intimate…like we were sharing more pieces of ourselves with each other.

And I swore Lila was going to kiss me just before my phone rang…she was leaning in and staring at my mouth. I don’t think I have ever wanted to do anything so badly, but as usual, my father has the worst possible timing. Now I’ll never know if she would’ve pressed her lips to mine while we sat there enjoying each other’s company.

“My father and brother are in town, they want to meet us for dinner tonight,” I explain. “He said he wants to make amends, and they want to get to know you…but it could very well be a trap. You never know with my father.”

Lila’s mouth drops open to answer, but I hold my hand up to stop her. “There’s absolutely no pressure. I can go alone, or we can both skip it.”

Lila tilts her head, offering me a soft smile. “Okay, can I speak now?”

I huff a laugh. “Yes, please do.”

“We should go to dinner and hear him out,” she says. “This is the first time you’ve heard from him since that day at the loft, so maybe his chess game has simply reached a stalemate, and he’s decided to focus on another property. Maybe he’ll make amends and be true to his word, and if not, we leave. But I think you’ll regret not giving him a chance.”

She’s right…I would regret it. Because although there’s part of me that wants to cut my family out of my life for good, another part longs to have a healthy relationship with them.

I blow out a breath. “You’re sure?”

She nods, and we stand to gather everything from our picnic and haul it back to my vehicle. While we’re packing up, I consider what my father and brother are doing in town…what bomb they might drop at dinner. But I come up blank. The firehouse is already off the market with a signed purchase contract. So maybe he’s truly just here to mend our relationship. Either way, I’m relieved I’ll have Lila by my side.

I always assumed it would be a pain in the ass to be in a relationship and have another person to consider in my busy schedule. I’ve even wondered before if my teammates were annoyed trying to meet expectations from their significant others…but in reality, there’s something so comforting about having a person who gets you, someone to talk things out with. Someone who makes you feel like you’re never alone.

“I’m sorry our date got commandeered," I tell Lila as we walk back to my G Wagon with our arms full of takeout. “I wish ignoring him would make this mess go away.”

“Fisher, you have nothing to be sorry for. I mean, I wish our date wasn’t cut short.” She blushes and looks away.

Is she thinking about how we nearly kissed?

Lila swallows. “But we can always go on another date.”

I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Yeah, we’ll plan another date.”

She grins at me, brighter than the California sunshine. I stare at her, wondering how I ever handled anything before she came into my life.

A few hours later, Lila and I walk into the expensive restaurant my father reserved. She takes my hand, threading her small fingers through mine.

“You gonna be okay?” she asks as her thumb absently moves back and forth across the edge of my hand, the motion pure comfort.

I am now that you’re touching me.

“Fine,” I say. “Just want to get this over with.”

Lila grins. “If the food here sucks, we can make grilled cheese after.”

“Deal.”

On the way here, Lila told me not to worry about my father’s motives until I’ve heard him out, and instead, to focus on making sure he and my brother buy that we’re truly in love.

Not that that’s a hard thing for me to sell.

With Lila by my side, walking up to the table where my family is already seated, I feel less like prey about to be consumed and more like just a man in the proximity of a beautiful woman. I’m at ease with her by my side. My growing feelings for my supposedly fake wife should terrify me, but falling for this brilliant, kind, talented woman feels like the most natural thing in the world.

I glance over at her, noting how she swept her dark hair into a sleek, low bun. She looks stunning, as usual, but I miss her messy braid with strands kissing her face and neck. She’s also wearing something I’ve never seen her in before…instead of a bohemian dress or baggy pants, she’s dressed in white trousers and a tailored black vest with brass buttons down the front. I wonder if she borrowed the clothes from Hazel because it doesn’t look anything like Lila’s usual clothing. Or perhaps Ally lent her the pants; Hazel’s pants would be miles too long on Lila’s petite frame. Either way, it’s nice that Lila was thoughtful enough to dress in a way she thinks my family might approve of now that father claims he wants to make amends, but I hate that she ever had to have that thought to begin with. That she would ever feel like she has to be anyone but herself.

When my father and brother spot us, they both stand to greet us.

“Hello, again. Lillian, was it?” My father holds out his hand for her to shake. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes—which are appraising her like she’s an animal in the zoo, and he’s worried she might escape her exhibit.

At least he’s trying?

“Just Lila.” She grabs his hand awkwardly in hers and gives it a pump.

Louis chuckles. “It’s great to finally meet you, Lila,” he says. His tone is kind, and his smile looks genuine.

I pull out a chair for Lila, and scoot it in behind her, then the rest of us sit down.

A server comes and takes our drink order and then leaves us.

“So, Lila,” my father says, steepling his hands on the table like he always does when he’s about to dive into something serious. “I’d love to hear more about you, and how you got Archibald’s attention?” He chuckles, turning up the same charm I’ve seen him use in business meetings and at charity galas, but never behind closed doors at home. “I wasn’t sure this one would ever settle down. He seemed quite content with his bachelor lifestyle.”

The comment is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a disapproval of my character disguised in a jest, and I bristle, my guard raising.

Lila’s hand drapes across my chest as she leans into me. “We all have to kiss a few frogs to find our fairytale princess.” She giggles. “Or in this case, his goddess.”

My father breathes out a laugh that sounds only-slightly uncomfortable, and again, I wonder what’s gotten into him

“Well, I think this is great,” Louis chimes in. “My wife and I are excited to have another married couple in the family. You must vacation at the cottage with us this summer.”

“That sounds lovely,” Lila tells him.

A picture of Lila at the Fisher “cottage”—which is actually a ten thousand square foot waterfront estate in Martha’s Vineyard—plays out in my head. Her in front of the large window that looks out across the water’s edge. Lila wearing one of her flowy dresses, the sunlight catching on the fabric. Her paintbrush sweeping across the canvas in front of her.

I smile to myself, loving the vision.

The waiter comes back with our drinks and takes our orders before disappearing again.

“So, you’re an artist?” My father asks her, taking a sip of his Old Fashioned.

“I am,” Lila says proudly. “I paint, and sometimes sketch. I love it.”

He nods, resting his glass on the table. When he smiles again, it’s toothier. Sharklike and sharp-edged. “Fascinating. And you’re part of the art collective at the firehouse?”

We never told him that. He obviously did some digging on her.

Lila blinks. “Um, yes.”

“Interesting,” Father muses.

Louis huffs an uncomfortable laugh. “Anyway…Archibald, when does the second round of playoffs start for you?”

I shoot my brother a grateful look. “We have three days off, then our first game is on Wednesday.”

Louis holds his martini in the air. “Well, I hope you guys sweep the whole thing. It would be brilliant to have a Stanley Cup champion in the family.”

“I’ll toast to that,” I say, tapping my water glass against his cocktail with a laugh. Louis is acting more like the brother I grew up with at this dinner than I’ve seen in ages, and his warmth toward both me and Lila has my defenses coming down.

The waiter delivers our food, and we eat in silence for a few minutes before my father opens his annoying mouth again.

“You know, I have to say, Lila…it’s a wonder that the firehouse means so much to you and then you end up married to my son before the sale goes through.” He hums, like he’s considering this fact for the first time. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”

I freeze at the question, but Lila seems to take it in stride. She swallows a bite of her roasted chicken before responding, “Not really. Fisher is an avid art collector, and we artsy people run in the same circles.” Lila offers my father a placating smile, popping another chunk of chicken into her mouth.

“Is that so?” He says, easing his fork onto his plate. “I would love to hear more about how you two fell in love so quickly…so quickly you were able to plan a wedding and outbid Fisher Group on the firehouse at the same time?”

I straighten in my seat, trying to stay calm. I should’ve known he’d figure it out, he has several private investigators on retainer. I’m sure it was easy enough for them to dig up our contract with Rebecca.

“If you recall, Father, I tried to convince you not to demolish the historic firehouse, but you wouldn’t listen,” I remind him, keeping my voice calm. “The firehouse means a lot to Lila, and the entire art collective there. So, obviously, I stepped in to help my wife. There are plenty of other properties that Fisher Group can purchase instead. I even compiled a list.”

Father leans in, staring me down with those striking, intelligent eyes. “I know this sham of a marriage was simply a ploy to snatch your inheritance and purchase my property. And I can prove it.”

Louis clears his throat. “Father, this is not what we agreed to. We were going to let some time pass, then gently convince Archibald to let us purchase the property…you swore you wouldn’t ambush him.”

My eyes fly to my brother, my breath catching in my throat. I know we haven’t been close since we were kids, but it hurts that he was part of this. That I let myself believe he actually was happy for me, that he cared about my hockey career and my wife.

Father ignores Louis, keeping his eyes on me. “I know you only just met Lila, and when I make your granddad’s legal team aware of the situation, they will know you voided the terms of the will and the money you were counting on to buy the firehouse will go directly into your cousin's campaign. After that, the purchase and demolition of the firehouse will go ahead as planned.”

“Father,” Louis reprimands. “Stop.”

Lila, who’s been quiet and still through all of this, holds her hand up. “Actually, you’re wrong Mr. Fisher.”

My head whips in her direction. I’m not sure what she has up her sleeve…but whatever it is, surely it won’t work. It wouldn’t be difficult for my father to prove we just met.

“I very much doubt that, young lady.” My father leans back in his seat, his shoulder straight, his smile smug.

Instead of flinching away, she smiles back at him, killing him with kindness. “I’ve known your son since he moved to San Francisco. He’s purchased nearly half of my paintings.”

I try to keep my expression neutral as I study her. What is she talking about?

“Go on,” my father says, suspicion etched all over his features.

“Fisher has attended most of the gallery shows featuring my paintings, and he caught my attention.” She glances at me, looking up at me through her eyelashes with a bashful, if not apologetic, look. “The paintings hanging in the loft?” Lila asks, turning back to my father. “Those are my works. And as Fisher will be able to show you—if you care to see his invoices—he purchased the first one soon after he moved into the loft last summer.”

My eyes widen as I finally realize her angle. Santi is a female artist whose true identity isn’t publicly known, and Lila says she knows her—so convincing my family of this isn’t impossible.

It’s definitely better than anything I would’ve thought of. Lila’s a fast thinker.

“It’s true,” I announce, jumping in to play my part. “I fell in love with the art first, then I fell in love with the artist. Look her up; she goes by Santi. I’m so proud of her.” I sling my arm around the back of Lila’s chair to emphasize my point, and it's impossible to miss how her body tenses. Then, she turns her head and peeks at me, and something in her expression has my stomach dropping.

“Wait…you’re Santi?” Louis asks her, his jaw hanging open.

“Yes, and I’m honored you’ve even heard of me,” Lila says with a smile.

I study her, my head spinning…a million thoughts coming at once. Like how Lila’s been so evasive about her art. How she stared at the Santi paintings on my wall like they’d blown her mind. At the time, I thought she was appreciating the art, but what if she was simply shocked to find her work hanging on my wall…

“My wife is a big fan. She’s tried to purchase some of your paintings from Archibald, but he refuses to part with them.” He smiles. “And now I understand why.”

It takes all my self-control to school my expression into anything but shock. Is Lila really Santi, or is she making this up? And if she is Santi, why didn’t she tell me before now? My mind is still reeling with the possibilities, but one possibility screams at me louder than all the rest: that she didn’t trust me before now with this information or think enough of me to share that part of herself. That she didn’t want to be known by me the way I’ve felt known by her.

My father stares at her with his calculating gaze, his eyes moving back and forth between the two of us. It looks like he’s trying to figure out the answer to the same questions I’m asking myself.

Louis pulls his phone out and starts typing out a text message. “My wife is going to be so thrilled with this.” He laughs, adding to my confusion. He was in on Father’s ambush, but he’s still playing nice with Lila.

“Let her know I’m painting a series for a local gallery, maybe she can beat my husband to them this time.” Lila winks, and Louis chuckles.

My temples throb. I have no idea what to believe right now on any level.

My father tips his cocktail up and gulps it down. He looks frustrated, clearly upset he didn’t foresee this glitch in his plan. This revelation he couldn’t have predicted.

For once, my father and I have something in common, it seems.

Working on autopilot, my hand lifts a fork full of crispy potatoes to my mouth. I chew, but there’s no flavor. I might as well be eating Styrofoam.

I can feel Lila staring at the side of my face but can’t bring myself to look at her. I’m strangely numb, unsure what to think or feel. Lila’s the first person I’ve ever truly opened up to, who made me comfortable removing my veneer and sharing my deepest vulnerabilities. She’s never made me feel like a disappointment, but has always accepted me for the person I am. Lila makes me believe I could be something more than just a good time to a woman; that I could be part of a partnership with someone who sees the real me, and lets me see the real them.

I know our marriage is supposed to be fake, our relationship is meant to be trivial, but Lila feels like the most real thing that’s ever happened to me. But if she really is Santi, she clearly doesn’t feel the same way.

And what hurts the most is that for her…that facade was true.

But for me…it wasn’t.

CHAPTER 30

LILA

The remainder of the meal consists of Louis sporadically attempting to fill the awkward stretches of silence with conversation, while Mr. Fisher saws at his rare steak until a pool of blood gathers on his plate. Fisher keeps his arm casually draped around that back of my chair, nodding along politely when his brother speaks, but not saying much.

Thankfully, nobody orders dessert.

Mr. Fisher pays the check and bids us a curt goodbye before striding out of the restaurant without a backwards glance. No doubt he’s off to hire a PI to look into me…if he hasn’t already. Louis smiles at us almost apologetically before running after his father like a dog who disobeyed their master.

Fisher and I walk side by side to his G Wagon in silence. It’s a far cry from how we entered the restaurant less than an hour ago, a united front, my hand a perfect fit in his. Then I went and screwed everything up.

“I was just trying to help,” I blurt the second we’re inside the vehicle.

Fisher’s thumb hovers over the start button on the dash for a moment, but he makes no move to press it. Instead, he turns to me.

“Is it true?” His tone is light, his expression carefully neutral. But I know him well enough by now to know he’s not in a jovial mood.

“It is.” My heart flutters in my chest at the displeasure of seeing the flash of hurt that moves across his eyes and knowing I put it there.

“Oh, cool. Good for you, Lila.” He nods, then starts the vehicle and throws it into reverse.

“That wasn’t how I wanted to tell you.” I reach out and touch his arm, but he continues to back out of the parking spot. “I didn’t mean to blindside you, I just said it because at the moment, it was my only idea on how to divert your dad.”

“Yeah, that was quick thinking.” Fisher sounds perfectly casual and relaxed, but he doesn’t look at me. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road as he pulls up to the exit of the parking garage. “Smart to use that to convince him this thing between us is real.”

Fisher turns the SUV onto the street. It’s getting dark, the last of today’s golden daylight clinging to the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Usually, this brilliant sunset would inspire me, and I’d obsess about how I could capture this in a painting, but all I can think about right now is how the beauty of the evening can’t hold a candle to the man beside me.

I hate that he’s subdued and not grinning over at me like he normally does. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

“Don’t apologize; it’s all good. Hey, want to hit up a drive-thru for ice cream or something?” He shoots me a smile, trying to act like everything’s fine. Like we’re still on the same team, when I’ve clearly been benched. “I know there’s a DQ around here somewhere.”

“Fisher, please,” I start, realizing I’m desperate to fix whatever I might’ve broken between us. “Can we talk about this?”

“Sure, but there’s not much to talk about. I think my father bought your story, so your firehouse is still safe. And that is what we’re doing here, right? Saving the firehouse and sticking it to my father?”

I know in my rational brain that yes, that’s why we’re in this marriage in the first place and what we’re meant to be working towards…but none of that seems as important anymore. Not if it comes at a cost to Fisher’s feelings. To what we have together outside of our initial agreement.

“I can explain why I didn’t tell you earlier⁠—”

“Nah.” Fisher cuts me off with a shake of his head, and my stomach twists. His eyes are far away, his expression too polite. It’s like I’m talking to a stranger right now, and that makes me want to cry. “It’s not like we’re really married in the traditional sense of the word; you don’t owe me apologies or explanations…or anything at all. Okay?”

But I want to. The words are on the tip of my tongue, and I swallow them back because the way Fisher is looking at me is way too formal and polite. Instead, I busy myself with pulling the pins out of my updo until my hair falls down around my shoulders. I dip my head down, causing my hair to fall forward. My hair creates a curtain of privacy, blocking my expression.

“Okay,” I finally say in a whisper.

I don’t want him to see how sad this conversation is making me. Because he’s right. I owe him nothing—and he doesn’t owe me anything, either.

“Awesome. Now let’s go get some Blizzards to make up for the tiny portions at that fancy restaurant." Fisher smirks at me, and his apparent indifference to what just happened is so convincing, I start to spiral. Did I imagine the flicker in his eyes earlier at me keeping my identity as Santi from him…or, worse, was I looking for it because I wanted it to be there?

His indifference to something that means so much to me should be a good thing. It should feel like relief to look at him and feel distance between us, because we’re not supposed to be falling for each other for real.

But instead, it just hurts.

“Actually, would you mind dropping me off at the firehouse? I think I want to paint tonight.”

I know it’s stupid, but a part of me hopes he’ll say he wants to spend the rest of the night together. That he wants to hang out after being gone last night.

Instead, he shrugs. “Sure.”

Fisher taps the screen on his dash and “Undressed” by Sombr fills the vehicle, drowning out our silence until we pull up at the firehouse a few minutes later.

I grab my bag and ease my door open. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t ask me how long I’ll be, or when I’m coming home.

“Are we…okay?”

“Of course.” He smiles. “Have fun.”

The moment I step inside the firehouse, he’s gone. I stand with the door open, watching the glow of Fisher’s taillights as he drives away from me. I feel more alone than I have since my mom passed away, yet when I let myself into the firehouse, I’m relieved to discover all of the other artists are gone for the day.

At my station, I kick off my strappy heels, then find the change of clothes I brought here after the pink paint fiasco last week. I shimmy out of Ally’s pants and Hazel’s vest, replacing them with an oversized, acid washed Picasso tee I bought at a flea market years ago. I don’t bother with the pants—there won’t be anyone here but me for the rest of the night.

Barefoot and belligerent, I stalk over to my canvas and glare at my skyline painting. I don’t care how technically good it is. I hate this piece. It has no soul, and it doesn’t feel like me. And after everything that went down tonight, all I want to do is feel like me again.

Before I can think about the implications of throwing away a week’s work when I’m on a deadline, I toss the canvas aside and smile in satisfaction as it hits the concrete floor. Then, I grab a fresh canvas from the supply I keep in the back and prop it up on my easel. I open my palette of acrylics. The second my brush connects with the canvas, I breathe out a sigh, exhaling all the words I wanted to say tonight with every brushstroke. I throw everything I have into letting the image take shape in front of me. I’ve been burning to paint him for weeks now. Since the first night he showed up here, so golden and imperfectly perfect in every way. At first, finally giving in and painting Hercules the way I want to and not holding back is a sweet relief. But as I work, it begins to feel like so much more than just channeling all the tension that’s been building between us. There’s admiration…love…in every brushstroke. I’m not just attracted to my husband physically…I’m attracted to his soul. And this painting of him, so early in the process, already has all the emotion my work has been lacking lately.

By the time the portrait begins coming together, I’ve been lost in my art for hours. My shoulders sag, realizing Fisher hasn’t called or texted. I really hurt him.

I consider checking my old apartment upstairs for pillows and blankets to stay the night here, when I hear loud banging against the firehouse door. I nearly jump out of my skin until I hear, “Lila!”

The yell cuts through my clouded thoughts, and my heart leaps when I register that my name was spoken by the only person whose voice I want to hear right now.

Fisher bangs on the front door with his fists. “Lila! Let me in!”

I drop my brush and run across the room, flinging the door open to find him standing there. The real thing is even better than my art could ever portray.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, just as I blurt, “I was scared.”

Fisher blinks. “Scared of me? Shit, Lila, I should’ve called first. But I rushed over here to apologize for being an asshole and clamming up after dinner.”

“You weren’t an asshole. And I didn’t mean I was scared when you got here; I was happy to hear your voice…I was scared to tell you I was Santi.”

His forehead wrinkles as he stares at me. “Why? You know how obsessed I am with your art.”

My throat grows thick. “Because you saw me before anyone else did. Understood me in a way so few people do…and before you ever even met me. The sale of that painting of the Bay changed my whole career, and then on the day I moved in with you, I found out that somehow it was you who bought it. You, who believed in me before anyone else did. Like it was serendipity or something.”

My husband’s eyes soften at my words, but he’s still frowning in confusion. “I’m not really understanding how that’s a bad thing.”

I wrap my arms around myself, hugging my shoulders against the chill of the night air blowing in through the open door. “I didn’t tell you I was Santi because when I met you, I’d been going through the motions of my life without really letting myself feel any of them for over a year,” I explain, glad to finally be transparent with him. “After my mom died, I felt broken, and my only escape from that feeling was when I could get lost in my paintings. Moving into the firehouse allowed me to live and breathe my work twenty-four-seven. And I did that so I could externally channel all of the emotions I was afraid to feel, because it hurt to feel love and light and beauty after losing the one person who brought those things into my life every day. Pouring every emotion into my work was how I coped.”

He runs his hands along my chilled arms, warming me to the core. “You’re so strong, you amaze me.”

“No, I’m not. I thought I was being strong by doing that, but I wasn’t allowing myself to grieve.” Tears begin to prick the back of my eyes as I meet my husband’s beautiful green gaze. “But then you came into my life, and I started feeling everything again. It’s like you made me remember how to feel. I told myself not to go there, that wasn’t in our plan, but when I saw those paintings hanging on your wall I panicked, because I understood in that moment how connected I am to you. And once again, I had someone in my life I was scared of losing.”

The tears are flowing freely now, and Fisher gathers me into his arms, holding me against his firm chest and stroking my hair as my tears soak through his shirt. “Not happening, Lila,” he whispers before kissing the top of my head. “I’m not going anywhere. So, in one way or another, you’re stuck with me forever. Whatever that might look like. I’ve never connected with someone the way I have with you, what we have is…it’s something special. I’m sorry for shutting you out earlier.”

“I’m sorry for shutting you out first.” I pull back and tilt my head up to look at him, and his eyes are misty, yet we both end up smiling through our tears. “But we’re doing pretty good for a couple of emotionally stunted, avoidantly-attached people, don’t you think?”

He laughs, and I do, too. It’s cathartic.

“Every minute spent with you is perfect, Lila. You’ve made every color of my life take on new tones, new depth. I want to keep seeing things in full color. I can’t go back to monochrome living.”

I huff a laugh at his art analogy. “And I want to keep letting my walls down, because I don’t feel so afraid anymore…of letting you see me.”

“Good. Because I like what I see.”

CHAPTER 31

FISHER

Holding Lila in my arms feels so good, even better now that we laid our feelings for each other out in the open instead of pretending they don’t exist. Today was a rollercoaster, but I’m happy we took the ride and ended up right here, holding each other tight. I lose track of time standing there with my wife tucked into my chest, but when I look up, my gaze lands on the painting across the room.

My eyes widen. “Umm, is that me?”

Lila lifts her head off my chest and looks at me. “What?” She turns to see what I’m staring at, then smacks a hand to her face, blushing a bright red.

Chuckling, I release her and take her hand, leading her across the room toward the painting so I can take a better look. She digs in her heels, but I easily scoop her up and carry her toward the canvas.

“It’s nothing!” she squeals. “It’s just a random guy!”

My head falls back as I laugh. “You’re a terrible liar.”

I gently set her back down in front of her easel, placing my hands on her shoulders to spin her toward her painting. “I’m flattered that you painted me, but why am I naked?”

Lila gasps and turns to shove me, but I’m so much bigger than her I don’t even budge. “You’re not naked!”

Rolling my lips together, I arch an eyebrow.

“You’re just shirtless, I swear! I’m not finished.” She’s so defensive and embarrassed.

I ease an arm around her waist. “I’m teasing you,” I say. “I love that you painted me, Wife. That means you were thinking about me.”

My eyes scan the painting and it’s like deja vu. I know those brush strokes. The portrait is vaguely abstract, yet somehow captures my essence perfectly. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything but a landscape by Santi—AKA Lila—but it’s painted in the same style with the signature vibrant colors used in the Santi pieces I’ve collected the past year.

“I love it. Can I see more of your art?”

She gives me a soft smile. “Of course.”

Lila starts pulling out canvases from her storage cupboard against the wall. One is of Chinatown, another of a set of the mosaic steps hidden across the city, and the last one is the piece she mentioned earlier—a residential city street in spring, cherry blossoms in the late stages of blooming. I reach out and trail my fingers across the dried paint. In some ways it’s difficult to believe that Lila is Santi…but it also makes so much sense. Maybe her art was some kind of cosmic way of bringing her into my life. Like the universe planted my feet inside that art gallery in Monterey last year because it knew I needed to meet her, that she’d change my life.

I’ve never really believed in fate, but as I look at Lila’s art, seeing all the things I love about her in it, it dawns on me that my stance has changed. That I’ve changed…because of her.

“You’re so talented, Lila.” I’m in awe of how she pours her heart out in each painting.

A bashful smile curves her lips. “Thank you.” Lila shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you’re the one who’s been purchasing all my paintings.”

I smirk. “Since I’m your husband, does this mean I get first dibs on all your future work?”

She laughs. “Depends on whether you keep outbidding everyone else.”

I gasp in mock offense, and she steps closer to me, smoothing her hand up my chest. My heart picks up pace, and I want nothing more than to lean in and kiss her, to finally taste her, claim her mouth with mine…but I pause and pull back when her mouth quirks and a small laugh escapes her lips. I tilt my head, trying to figure out what’s amusing her.

Lila’s hand flies to her mouth but not before a full laugh bursts out.

“What is so funny?”

Lila shakes her head, still snickering.

I step back, planting my hands on my hips. “Tell me.”

“It’s just…I spotted your pottery, and it’s so, so bad. Like so bad, it’s cute. I love it.”

I turn to look at the hideous hunk of pottery resting on a shelf behind my head. It’s full of paintbrushes, but some of them poke out the holes in the sides. “I can’t even be offended. It’s truly awful.” I laugh.

Lila loops her arms around my waist. “You stick to hockey, and I’ll stick to art, okay?” She teases.

“Nope, I want to take more pottery classes once the playoffs are over. I’m going to get better…watch and see,” I challenge.

“You’re a little bit competitive,” she says, raising a hand and pinching her thumb and forefinger together.

“Yes,” I admit, taking her sassy hand in mine. “But I also want to spend time doing things that you enjoy, I want to be in your world…every part of it.”

Lila’s eyes soften. “I could teach you.” She looks up at me through her thick dark eyelashes. “Zane lets me use his potter’s wheel.”

I sniff. “I’m sure Zane would love for you to teach me using his potter’s wheel.”

She laughs. “He’ll get used to you.”

Somehow, I doubt that, especially since I’m married to the woman he’s in love with.

But I’m not here to think about Zane or his feelings right now, so when Lila takes my hand and drags me toward Zane’s booth, I follow without hesitation.

“Come on. Let’s start your pottery lessons.”

“Right now?” I glance down at my white button-down dress shirt and Valentino trousers.

She drags her fingers from my hand to my forearm and then slowly up to my bicep. The movement is intentional, like she knows it will drive me wild, and seeing her like this is hot as hell. “Why not? We have the place to ourselves.”

“Okay, teach me.” I unbutton my sleeves and roll them up to my elbows. When I look back up, I find Lila staring at me with her mouth slightly open. “What?”

She blinks. “I was just enjoying the forearm porn.”

I bark out a surprised laugh. “Says the woman wearing nothing but a baggy T-shirt.”

Lila glances down at her legs like she’d forgotten what she was wearing. She tugs the shirt down a few inches, and I smirk. “I wasn’t complaining.”

Her eyes darken, and she looks at me for a fleeting, heated moment before crossing into Zane’s area and turning on the potter’s wheel in the center of his workspace. There’s a small table in front of the wheel with a ceramic dish filled with water. One wooden stool rests behind the potter’s wheel, and Lila finds a second stool and drags it over behind the other one so we can both sit down.

She points to a container on the table beside me, taking charge. “Open that and grab a softball-sized lump of clay.”

I open the airtight container and find a thick block of clay under a damp cloth. Using a string, I remove a chunk then snap the lid back on.

Lila sits on the stool in front of the wheel. “Roll that into a ball, then slam it down in the center of the wheel.” She smiles. “That’s the fun part.”

Stepping closer to the wheel, I do as she asked, rolling the clay around in my hands until it forms a sphere, then I slam it down in the center of the wheel.

“So far so good,” she teases. “Now get behind me. You can put your hands over mine to see how I form the clay and apply pressure.”

I roll my shoulders back, reminding myself this is just an art lesson. But her bossy teaching style is doing something to me. As commanded, I sit on the stool behind her and bring my hands to rest on the edge of the wheel. My chest presses against her back, my head fitting perfectly against her shoulder. Closing my eyes, I savor the feel of her against me, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin. Lila is all consuming.

Lila takes my hands and dips my fingers in the small pot of water. The wheel spins faster as she brings our damp hands to the smooth lump of clay.

“Use the balls of your hands to flatten the sides,” she instructs as her body relaxes into me, her head leaning against mine.

My damp fingers move with hers along the clay. The sensation of her warm, soft hands with the pliable clay is surprisingly intimate. Creating something together is sensual in a way I wasn’t expecting. It’s a different type of closeness, learning together, taking part in one another’s interests. Between the pottery lesson and admitting our feelings openly, our closeness in this moment is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Not just with a woman…but with anyone.

For a second, I worry I’m feeling more than she is…that this is just an art lesson to her. But then she rasps out the words, “Good, now we’ll bring our palms to the top of the clay and flatten it down.”

Her voice betrays that she’s just as affected by the intimacy of this activity as I am. Goosebumps break out along my arms when her hands move mine to a new position on the clay, her fingers weaving between mine.

“Dip your fingers down to hollow it out, like a cup,” she whispers.

Holy hell.

I follow her instructions, forming an opening in the flat top and hollowing out the mug that we’re creating. Is it even a mug? I have no damn clue. All I know is I love being close to this woman. I love learning how she moves. Love how art flows through her fingertips.

Leaning in, I run my nose along the side of her neck, inhaling the perfume that’s mingling with the scent of her skin. She sighs when my mouth finds her pulse and I can’t hold back for another moment. I kiss the sensitive spot, dipping my tongue out to taste her skin. Mmmm, better than any Michelin star dinner.

Lila huffs out a breathless laugh, and I realize I said the words out loud.

“Earlier, during our picnic, when I asked you what you wanted…was this what you had in mind?” I whisper as I kiss up her neck until my lips meet her ear.

Lila lets out a shaky breath. “Maybe.”

I nip her earlobe with my teeth, and she gasps. “Yes.”

The clay beneath our hands flops around on the table, and the wheel comes to an abrupt stop, but neither of us pays much attention to it. Moving my hands out from under hers, I glide them up her bare legs. I’m not sure if she’s actually wearing just a T-shirt but the mystery makes my blood hotter.

I open my mouth to ask if this is okay, but before I can speak, her hands cover mine and she moves my hands up underneath her baggy shirt until they’re resting against her bare torso. She’s all soft, warm skin, and I want to touch every inch of her.

My wife turns to look at me over her shoulder, her eyes dropping to my lips, and I decide it’s about time I take charge. I press my mouth to hers, unable to resist any longer, and she meets my mouth with a whimper, parting her lips for me so I can kiss her in all the ways I’ve fantasized about, all the ways I’ve been wanting to for weeks.

The brief kiss at our wedding was nothing compared to the undiluted passion pouring through us now. Our tongues tangling, teeth clashing, Lila making the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard as my hands explore her body. Even the hot kiss we shared during the photoshoot doesn’t hold a candle to the intimacy and closeness of kissing her now. Now I know her, now I love who she is. Now I’m falling for this woman…harder than I thought possible.

“My Hercules,” she whispers against my lips, her clay-covered handprints making patterns as they inch up my designer pants.

As far as I’m concerned, these Valentinos are worth more now that they’re covered with her handprints.

“Tell me what you want, Wife,” I whisper back, my voice is rough like gravel.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she says, moving in my lap so her thighs are straddling mine.

I grip her tight, pulling her body flush against mine. “Now?” I grit out.

“Can you carry me?” Lila arches a brow in challenge, which makes me smile because she’s so light.

I stand easily with her in my arms, carrying her toward the stairs that lead up to her former apartment. Lila threads her hands into my hair and kisses my neck with her hot mouth while I focus on making it up the steps.

Carrying her into her old room, I thank the powers that be that the tiny bed is still nestled against the wall. I lay her down on the soft mattress and her hair fans out behind her. I look down at her for a long moment, memorizing the sight of my wife in the moonlight, looking up at me with twinkling eyes that practically beg me to make love to her.

Lila props herself up on her elbows. “Sorry about your clothes,” she says, biting her bottom lip.

I glance down at the clay hand prints all over my pants and skin, that match the larger handprints on her shirt and legs. “Are you kidding? I’m going to frame these pants. They’re art now.”

Lila laughs. “Okay, but for now, take them off.”

I arch an eyebrow at her before stripping down to my boxer briefs. Lila slides off the bed and moves to stand in front of me, trailing her fingers up my torso and chest. “Michelangelo would’ve had a hay day sculpting your likeness.”

“If I remember correctly, he gave David a tiny penis…so I’m not sure he’d be the one for the job.”

Lila’s head falls back as she laughs and I drink in the sound, laughing right along with her. This must be what it’s like to fall in love, sharing the most intimate moments with someone and caring more about making them laugh than getting them into bed…that their laughter and the sound of their voice feels even better than getting them naked.

When her laughter subsides, she steps a little closer and looks up at me with those gorgeous dark eyes. I rest my hands on her waist, then slide them down the sides of her body, reaching for the hem of her shirt.

“Is this okay?” I ask, because if she wants to stop here, I’ll stop. I’ll wait until she’s ready…no matter how long that takes.

“It’s more than okay,” she answers, her voice barely a rasp.

I sweep her shirt over her head, and all her bare skin meets mine. I want to soak up her warmth, the simple skin to skin contact that feels more meaningful than anything I’ve experienced before.

Lila kisses me soft and slow, then reaches for my hand and leads me toward the bed.

CHAPTER 32

LILA

I wake up the next morning with my husband wrapped around me on the tiny mattress, holding me close to his chest. My heart feels full after a night spent consummating our marriage and forming an intimacy between us deeper than anything I ever thought possible.

I press a kiss to his chest, over his heart.

He cracks his eyes open. “Good morning, Wife.”

“Good morning, Husband.” I brush his hair off his forehead and giggle. “You’ve got clay in your hair.”

His green gaze moves over my face and hair, and then down my body. I don’t feel any hint of my former shyness. I feel nothing but beautiful. “You have clay everywhere.”

I look down at myself and grin. “I definitely need a shower…want to join me?”

Fisher doesn’t reply—he’s already scooping me up in his arms and striding towards the bathroom, a man on a mission.

When we leave the firehouse together an hour later, we’re holding hands and laughing at something dumb, and I close my eyes and capture the moment, committing it to memory so I can never lose it.

Fisher has a break while the Lions wait to find out who they’ll play in the second round of the playoffs—either Vancouver or Sacramento, who are neck in neck in their round one series—so his schedule consists mostly of practices, rest, and recovery for a few days.

We spend every minute we can together, even moving my easel, paints, and canvases to the loft, where I set up a temporary art station on a tarp in the corner of our bedroom. He naps, I paint. He wakes up and goes to practice; I paint some more. He comes home, and we get naked, and repeat. Over and over, endless inspiration pouring out of me as my gallery series comes to life. All my searing emotions for my husband become brushstrokes on my canvas…but this time, I’m not channeling my emotions externally in my art, I’m letting myself feel every last one of them.

It’s glorious; like existing in a bubble of bliss that no longer feels like a fragile, breakable thing, but the safe haven I’ve been longing for without even realizing it. For the first time in a long time, I feel complete. Fully in touch and connected—not just to another person, but to myself again.

And it shows. Because four days later, after Vancouver beat out Sacramento, and Fisher’s at practice preparing to face the Canadian team in the next round…I finish the last of what may be the best series of paintings I’ve ever created.

I call the gallery curator, who sounds delighted that I’m finally ready, then I practically dance out to the kitchen in search of food, because I lost track of time in my work again and I haven’t eaten today.

“Someone’s in a great mood.” Ally waggles her eyebrows at me from where she’s lying on the couch, eating yogurt straight from the tub. Harry Styles is lazing on her lap, and she’s wearing a hoodie with the logo of the dance studio she teaches at, looking like she just came home from work.

“I finished my series for the gallery downtown,” I tell her.

“And here I was thinking it was because of all the time you and Fisher have been spending in your bedroom.”

Instead of answering, I reach for a bag of chips from the pantry, but I’m sure my face has already said too much.

Ally smirks. “And don’t try to deny it, we’ve barely seen either of you leave that room for days.” She waves her spoon at me. “Plus, you’re glowing.”

I flop down beside her on the couch and open my chips. “What if I told you it’s because I’m happy I finally finished my gallery commission?”

“I’d say you’re a liar,” Ally says with a sweet smile. “Don’t forget, Penn’s room is just across the hall from you guys, and he’s been staying at Hazel’s place for some peace and quiet.”

“What?!” I sputter in embarrassment, my eyes growing huge, and Ally points at me, triumphant.

“Ha! Your reaction just confirmed it.”

I give her a playful shove, and she falls over laughing.

“So it’s really good between you two, huh?”

I peek at her with a guilty smile. “Amazing,” I admit. “Beyond what I could have imagined.”

“More than just friends with chemistry then, are we?”

“Fine.” I sigh. “You and Hazel were right. There are definitely feelings involved.”

“As I thought.” Ally smiles smugly, and I poke her with my foot. “I was hoping this would happen because it would suck if you and Fisher broke up after one year as planned and we didn’t get to hang out anymore.”

“That’ll never happen,” I tell Ally with a chuckle. “We’re all friends now.”

“I know. But it’s cuter if we’re all couples.” Ally pouts. “I hated how Phoebe and Joey didn’t end up together at the end of Friends.”

“Well…I guess Fisher and I are a couple now.” We haven’t talked about what happens at the one-year mark, but I know we both have real feelings, a real investment in each other, and every day I spend with him, those feelings grow. “We’re, like, married friends who are dating?”

“It’s weird, I guess, but it suits you guys.” Ally shrugs in acceptance, and I smile.

I like our brand of weird. And I like that my husband has given me no reason to think he ever wants to go back to being just friends…which works for me. I want to be his for as long as he’ll have me.

As I crunch on my chips, me and Ally’s phones both ping at the same time. It’s Hazel, in our girls’ group chat.

Hazel

Do we want to give the boys their surprise this afternoon? The package just arrived, so we’re ready to go. I can bring it over after they’re home from practice.

Ally and I look at each other and giggle. Last week, when we got wine tipsy and watched the boys’ Seattle game on TV together, we came up with a hilarious idea for a gift to congratulate them on making the second round of the playoffs. We ordered a bunch of the supplies online, and Hazel made a trip to a specific store to pick up the rest. She’s been keeping everything hidden at her apartment across the street until we had everything we needed.

Lila

YES!

Ally

Hazel

Awe, aren’t they cute together? The boys should be home in a few minutes, so I’ll be right over.

“I can’t wait to see their faces,” I say to Ally with a laugh. Fisher’s specifically, after hearing the offhand comment he made about us being the only couple without a pet. A comment he made without having a clue what we were planning, I’m sure he’s going to love this.

Ally snickers. “Noah’s going to be so grumpy about it at first.”

“I’d be more worried about how this guy will react.” I reach over and pet Harry Styles’s head, and he opens one eye and glares at me for disturbing his beauty sleep.

“Honey, we’re home!” The door flies open and Penn walks in, dropping his hockey bag just inside the doorway. Fisher comes in next, stepping over Penn’s bag and dropping his just beyond it.

Noah, last in, sighs. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean those up.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” My husband grins, then makes his way over to sit next to me on the couch. He sits so close his side is pressed firmly against mine. I hold a chip up for him and he bites it out of my hand.

Ally smirks. “Now it’s my turn to finally say this—you two are so cute, it’s disgusting.”

“I know,” I reply.

Fisher grins. “We really are.”

Penn raises a brow. “Is this your way of telling us you’re together for real?”

“I, uh—” Fisher starts, his eyes darting to mine as he seeks backup.

Ally waves a hand. “Please, Fisher. Don’t even try. I already got the truth out of Lila.”

“She’s nosy,” I mutter with a grin, then turn back to my husband. “How was practice?”

“Great. We’re gonna kick some Canadian ass this week.”

Penn sighs. “How many times do I have to tell you there are as many American players on the Canadian teams as there are Canadians on the American teams. Almost half of our damn team are Canadian, remember?”

“Nah, I don’t remember you saying that.”

“Haha, very funny, Fishy.” Penn rolls his eyes, and looks to Noah, who makes a face.

“I’ve never heard such a thing before,” he says innocently.

“You two are such jerks.” Penn crosses his arms.

“Welcome to the club,” Ally holds out her hand to Noah, who high fives her.

I smile at Penn. “Would it make you feel better if I told you we have a surprise for you?”

Penn waggles his eyebrows. “Hear that, Fishy? Your wife got me a surprise. I think she likes me more than you.”

My husband tickles my ribs. “Is this true?”

“It’s for all of you!” I choke out a laugh. “From all three of us.”

“It’s a gift for making round two of the playoffs. Hazel’s coming with it now,” Ally confirms as she looks at her phone.

“Drumroll please!” Hazel calls from outside the front door. The boys all look towards the door, helpless curiosity on each of their faces, as Ally and I drum on the coffee table.

Hazel comes in, a glass box in her hands and a huge smile on her face. She strides over and sets the surprise down on the coffee table. “Presenting…the 3B boy aquarium!”

“What the puck?” Penn demands as the three boys turn their gazes to peer into the fish tank in front of them.

I have to say, it turned out even better than I imagined.

There’s a “3B BOY AQUARIUM” sign, written in turquoise glitter glue, taped to the top of the glass, the gravel spread on the bottom of the tank is turquoise, purple, and gold, and best of all, it has a vinyl background of a hockey rink pasted along the back.

Inside the tank, three fat, bulging-eyed guppies swim around aimlessly. There’s a black one with a brown streak, a white one covered with red splotches, and a gold one with an extra fancy tail.

Harry Styles eyes the tank with interest. “No, Harry,” Ally chides. “You may not eat your dad.”

“Wait.” Noah wrinkles his nose. “Are those things meant to represent…us?”

“No way,” Penn says. “If I were a fish, I’d be something cool like a Siamese fighting fish. Not a damn goldfish.”

“Guppy,” I correct.

“You’re the Canadian flag colored one,” Hazel adds.

“But that thing’s hideous—how could you think that looks like me?” Penn gapes at his girlfriend.

She cackles with laughter. “You’re so vain.”

“Speaking of vain, my fish is the prettiest,” my husband says smugly. He looks highly amused as he peers into the tank, a hilarious contrast to the other guys’ horror.

“Of course it is, Fisher.” Ally rolls her eyes at him. “You have more beauty products than me, Hazel, and Lila put together.”

He ignores her. “Now Lila and I aren’t the only couple without a pet.”

“Fluffy is not a couple’s pet, she’s Hazel’s,” Penn protests.

“Well now you have Little Penn, too,” Hazel says, pointing at the guppy.

“Don’t call him that!” Penn says. “There’s nothing little about me or my damn fish.”

At this point, we’re all laughing uncontrollably. We end up spending the next hour arguing about names for the fish—who I’m sure the guys will grow to love—and after a heated debate, settle on Noah Jr, Penn Jr, and Fishy Jr.

When we head to our room for bed later, I remember I have other news for Fisher.

“I finished my last painting. Wanna see?”

“Of course I do.” Fisher comes to stand behind me, his arms looped around my waist as we study the painting propped up on the easel together. “Wow,” he says after a few minutes of silence. “I know you had excellent subject matter, but these are serious masterpieces”

“I think you might be biased.”

“Not biased at all. You just happen to be the most talented person I’ve ever met.” He takes one of my hands in his and brings it to his lips, kissing my palm.

“You’re biased about that, too,” I say. “Shall we get the others’ opinions tomorrow?”

“Nah.” He chuckles. “I kind of want to see their faces when they see these for the first time on opening night at the gallery.”

“You think they’ll all want to come? I figured the girls might, but I don’t want Noah and Penn to feel like they have to spend their precious free time at a gallery when you guys are in the middle of the biggest hockey games of your lives.”

“I don’t think they will. I know they will.” Fisher’s arms pull me to his chest even tighter. “You’re one of us now. Part of our little family—who are infinitely better than my real family.”

My heart stutters, but the flash of pain I expect to follow doesn’t come. My whole life, my mom was my only real family. I love my friends from the Collective, but I always knew they all had their own lives and families outside of our creative space.

When Mom died, I felt untethered. Adrift.

While being with Fisher—my Hercules—doesn’t make me miss my mom any less, it makes missing her hurt less. Because I know she can look down from the afterlife and see that I’m happy, which is all she ever wanted for me in this life.

“I’m glad to be here,” I tell Fisher.

He smiles and kisses my cheek, and I’m overwhelmed by the sudden surge of love for him that crashes over me. It’s a wave with the force of a tsunami, undeniable in its power. But it’s okay, because he’s here. Anchoring me.

I’m safe.

“You okay?” Fisher asks, and I twist around in his arms, tilting my face up and bringing my hands to the back of his neck to pull him towards me, kissing him ferociously.

I’m more than okay…I’m in love.

And I intend to spend the whole night, and every night after tonight, showing him just how much.

CHAPTER 33

FISHER

For the next week, nothing in my world exists outside of Lila and hockey. Before I know it, we’re deep into round two of the playoffs and tied with Vancouver three-three. The night before game seven—which will be on home ice—we’re thankfully off for the evening and able to attend opening night of Lila’s…er, Santi’s…art show.

Lila wants to continue keeping her identity hidden and has requested that everyone play it cool like she’s just another art collector browsing around.

I park my car around the corner from the gallery, then walk toward the front door alone. Lila was at the firehouse working most of the day, and Penn and Noah were off doing who knows what with their girlfriends. The golden sun is setting on the horizon, and the sea breeze moves through my hair as I stride toward the glass-front gallery. Lila and my friends—our friends—are gathered in front of the gallery waiting for me.

I’m running a bit late, but for good reason.

Lila spots me, and her face splits into a wide grin. Her hair is in an artfully messy braid, and she’s wearing one of my favorite dresses, the long white one that flows around her when she moves. And she’s always moving, always in motion. It’s one of the many things I love about her, how she’s like a waterfall; breathtaking in its beauty, but constantly flowing and changing shape.

She’s a force I couldn’t deny, a downpour I couldn’t stop from cascading into my heart and soul. Just looking at her, my heart races inside my chest. I love her. I didn’t mean to fall in love; I wasn’t trying to…but with Lila it was impossible not to.

Lila moves toward me and wraps her arms around my neck once I’m right in front of her. I encircle her waist with my hands and kiss her thoroughly, earning a few whistles from the guys.

I pull back, laughing. “Are you ready for your big night?”

Lila smirks. “Is it my big night, or your big night?”

“Well, you did make me look pretty damn good,” I admit.

She threads her hands into my hair. “It’s nearly impossible to make you look bad, Hercules.” Her voice is raspy and low and makes me consider forgetting the art show and taking her home asap.

“Come on, you two,” Penn yells. “I’m antsy to see Fisher’s nudes.”

“It’s not like we haven’t seen him naked before,” Noah grumbles. “He barely wears clothes around the loft.”

Lila’s head falls back in laughter, and I soak up the sound like it’s my last meal on earth. She drops her hands from my hair and holds my hand. “For the last time, they’re not nudes,” she calls back to Penn.

The six of us make our way into the gallery, and the curator shoots Lila a wink, knowing who she is but respecting her privacy.

“You think we’ll find animal testicle art again?” Penn asks Hazel in a hushed whisper behind me.

“I really hope not,” Hazel whispers back.

I shake my head, smiling. Lila, still holding my hand, leads me through the gallery. We weave in and out of various displays and collections, until we finally reach hers.

My eyebrows shoot up when I spot her paintings, all of which portray an artistically stylized version of me in different positions, conveying different emotions. In the first one, I’m laughing and my hand is in my hair. The plate beneath says it’s titled, Hercules the Charmer. In the second, I’m lying in bed, eyes closed and arms sprawled. The nameplate says Hercules the Dreamer. There’s one of me on the ice—Hercules the Warrior—and another of me looking deep in thought, with a glint in my eye. Hercules the Philosopher.

The fifth one really catches my eye though, because I haven’t seen it before. I thought she’d already shown me all of the pieces for this show, that she was meant to display four pieces…but this one’s a surprise. Lila painted me somber, unsmiling, completely serious. I almost don’t recognize myself without hiding behind a smile or a joke. I step closer, studying the piece of art like a puzzle until it hits me that what I see on the canvas is a version of me that only she sees and understands. The version where my guard is down, where I’m overwhelmed by my family, my expression of disappointment in never meeting their expectations. The title of this one is My Hercules.

As I stare at my own face on the canvas, I understand that Lila gets me, appreciates me…all of me. Not just the hockey player, or the charming flirt, or the grandson of Louis Fisher the Third. But the real, true me. In this painting, I’m not the confident, carefree Fisher I always pretend to be for the rest of the world…I’m her Hercules. The man whose heart belongs to her. My focus goes fuzzy as tears fill my eyes.

Lila squeezes my hand, looking up at me in concern. “Should I not have included that one? I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”

I blink back my unshed tears, clearing my throat. “I don’t just like it, Lila. I love it. I love all of them.” I meet her gaze when I say the words, and I wonder if she knows what I truly mean…I love you.

Lila breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, you had me worried there for a sec.” She peeks up at me and smiles. “That one’s my favorite.”

“Damn, Lila…you made Fishy look badass.” Penn tugs at my shirt, trying to lift it. “Do you really have a ten pack?”

I shove his hands away. “Shut up, you know I do.”

Noah looks away from us, shaking his head.

Ally and Hazel laugh. “But seriously, girl, these are incredible!” Ally tells Lila, pulling her into a hug.

Hazel hugs her the moment Ally pulls back. “You’re so talented,” she whispers.

“You should paint Noah next. I want something like this to hang in my bedroom,” Ally says with a grin, pumping her eyebrows.

“Absolutely not.” Noah turns bright red. “No offense, Lila.”

“None taken.” Lila smiles.

“Yeah, I want a portrait of Hazel, too,” Penn says, his tone serious. “But fully nude.” He winks.

Hazel rolls her eyes. “How about I commission a giant portrait of Fluffy for you instead?”

Penn shudders at the reminder of her tarantula. “Please don’t.”

My face hurts from smiling as my friends banter back and forth like Lila has been part of our group forever. I can’t believe that less than a year ago, none of these people were in my life. This group of friends-turned-family has never made me feel like a disappointment, never judged me for the person I am, even when I’m impulsive and annoying and disorganized. There’s something special in knowing you’ve found where you belong, where you’re accepted.

A group of members from Lila’s art collective round the corner, here to support her. All the people gathered around her collection are the only ones who know her true identity—aside from my father and brother—and Lila has the biggest smile on her face.

A contented calm washes over me, a sense of everything being right in the world. All of our people surrounding us, celebrating my wife…and then there’s the surprise I have in store for Lila when we leave here. It’s something I’ve been working on since that terrible dinner with my father, brother, and Lila. That dinner gave me much needed clarity, and helped me realize that from now on, I refuse to let my family influence my life—in any capacity.

Zane hugs Lila and says something that makes her smile, but I’m unbothered by it. Nothing could ruin my good mood tonight.

When Zane pulls back his gaze moves to the paintings, and his eyes widen. He looks over at me, then turns to Lila. “I think I preferred your landscapes.”

She snorts a laugh, and to my surprise, Zane laughs, too. He moves toward me and holds his hand out…a peace offering? I’m not sure, but either way, it’s progress, so I grab his hand and give it a friendly shake.

“Is it weird that someone’s going to purchase these paintings of your husband, Lilabug?” Masha asks, keeping her voice low.

Lila shrugs. “He’s a work of art, and art should be enjoyed and appreciated.”

Masha’s eyes drop down my body like she’s wondering if I look like the paintings under my clothes. She giggles to herself.

I smile, but her comment gives me pause as I look at all the strangers in the gallery who’ve also been admiring Lila’s art tonight. I hadn’t really considered someone would purchase these and take them home to stare at them. It doesn’t bother me, but it does make me wonder whose home they’ll end up in. Just another person to admire the hard work I’ve put in at the gym.

Lila moves to stand beside me, and I wrap an arm around her, watching people mingling and complimenting my wife’s talent. I kiss the top of her head. “Being your muse makes me feel like quite the trophy husband.”

She laughs, her expression is full of joy, then her smile abruptly falls. Her gaze lands on something behind me, her eyes widening in a way that makes a pit form in my stomach.

Before I can turn to look, my father’s familiar disappointed tone rises over the small crowd gathered around us. “Proud of being a glorified trophy husband, are you, Archibald?”

I whirl around to find myself face to face with my father, who’s been radio silent again since we had dinner with him and Louis a couple of weeks ago, after Lila foiled his plan to disprove our marriage.

He’s dressed in one of his fine suits with his ashy hair perfectly combed, his face freshly shaven, and his shiny Italian leather shoes clicking against the tile. He shakes his head, his distaste for me obvious, before turning to the paintings. “You won’t stop until you humiliate our entire family and yourself, will you?” He asks, his voice quiet, but sharper than a knife.

“Father,” I stutter, shocked by his presence. Lila silently moves to stand beside me, slipping her hand into the crook of my arm, and her touch anchors me enough to get my next words out. “What are you doing here?”

My father stands with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands laced behind his back. He looks from me, to Lila, then back again. His eyes are cold, and so is his tone. “Son, I made a special trip here to tell you that despite your best efforts to fool me, I’ve left no stone unturned, and now I’ve proved to Granddad’s lawyer that your marriage is a sham. It wasn’t difficult seeing as there are no photos or receipts of the year you claimed to be together. Nevermind that the paintings you purchased were by an artist whose identity was unknown to anyone—including you.” Lila sucks in a sharp breath at these words, but my Father remains smug, not even a hint of doubt or regret on his face. “Your inheritance was transferred to your cousin’s campaign earlier today…which means you have no money to purchase the firehouse. Fisher Group will be purchasing and bulldozing the property as originally planned.”

A collective gasp echoes among the collective members—who, like all the other gallery patrons, are being subjected to this awful scene—but my father just tilts his nose up like he’s superior to everyone else in the room. “Your actions forced my hand. If you wouldn’t have stuck your nose in Fisher Group business, this wouldn’t have gotten so ugly.” He sighs. “I hope you’re happy. Now you’re free to annul your marriage to Lillian…or whatever her name is.”

I huff a disbelieving laugh. “First, you can show my wife some respect. Lila is kind, caring, insanely talented…and she makes me happy. She accepts me for the person I really am, which is something you’ll never understand, because you’ve never taken the time to understand me.”

My father’s regal brow scrunches. He opens his mouth to speak but I hold a hand up to stop him.

“Your actions forced my hand first. All I wanted to do was save a historic building.” I pause. “I tried to get you to choose a different property, but you refused to hear what I had to say. And if that’s what upholding the Fisher name is all about—letting you have your way and not caring who you hurt in the process—then I’m out. I don’t want to be a part of this family anymore.”

The man in front of me huffs a laugh like he couldn’t care less. “That’s your choice. Why would I care when you’ve always been such a disappointment?”

I roll my eyes. A couple of months ago, his cutting words would have wounded me. Made me feel even more like an outcast who can never do anything right. But now that I’m free of him, his words run off me like water. Now, I choose to believe better about myself. And I have Lila to thank for that.

Lila disentangles her hand from my arm and steps between us. “Respectfully, Mr. Fisher, or disrespectfully, I don’t care. Good character, honesty, and empathy aren’t things that can be taught, they’re not traits that depend on good breeding or a fancy degree. But your son exudes all of those qualities. And even more incredible is that they were self-taught—they obviously weren’t learned from you.” She laughs. “It’s actually funny.” She chuckles again.

“Are you…mocking me?” My father asks, his tone like ice.

Lila smiles. “I simply find it hilarious that you don’t realize that your son isn’t the disappointment here…you are. You can hoard all the money and power for yourself, throw all the insults you want at us, and even flatten our firehouse. But you’ll never take away our community. Our empathy. Our love and care for each other. And you’ll never get to experience those things for yourself. Which actually isn’t that funny, now that I think about it…it’s just sad. I feel sorry for you. You missed out on a relationship with your wonderful son because you were too blind to see how incredible he is.”

My father’s face turns a darker red than I’ve ever seen before, the vein in his forehead pulsing like it’s about to burst. His fists are clenched at his sides, and I do not like Lila being the one he’s aiming all that barely contained rage at. I step forward, pushing my brave little wife behind my back. Penn and Noah come to stand at my side.

“I think you need to leave, sir,” Noah says in his usual calm, cool tone.

“Yeah, we’ve heard enough from you,” Penn adds as he cracks his knuckles

My father sniffs. “I can do what I want to. And as I’ve thoroughly proven, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Oh, you didn’t just say that—” Penn balls his fists in anger, itching for a fight.

Masha, who I didn’t realize until now had left, strides around the corner with two security guards following closely behind her. She points to my father, and the security guards rush toward him.

“Sir, we need you to leave the premises,” one of them tells my father. “Now.”

“Do you know Mayor Davidson? Because I do, and he wouldn’t like to hear about a dear friend of his being mistreated,” Father says, unmoving.

The other security guard, who I realize is the same bouncer from Tommie’s, rolls his eyes. “If you won’t leave on your own accord, we’ll have to escort you out.” He grins, clearly enjoying himself. “Forcibly.”

My father sneers. “There will be no need for that kind of fanfare. I’ll go.” He dusts off the front of his suit coat and calmly walks toward the exit without so much as a backwards glance at us, both security guards on his trail. Once he’s gone, the shame of my father’s behavior hits me like one of those cartoon TNT explosions. My whole body is wrung out and tense, my shoulders ache from the tension.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell our group, feeling like the air has been stolen from my lungs.

“None of that was your fault,” Masha tells me. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” The others from the art collective nod in agreement, even Zane.

“Thank you.” I nod, then I turn to Lila. She has tears in her eyes that cause my heart to twist inside my chest. “Lila, I’m so damn sorry he ruined your night.”

She takes my hand in hers. The connection has my lungs finally filling with air so I can breathe again.

Penn places a hand on my shoulder. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I respond, looking into my wife’s heartbroken face.

A tear breaks free and streams down her cheek. I bring a thumb to her face to wipe it away. “Don’t cry, Lila, please. I promise I’ll plan another night to celebrate you and all your hard work. You didn’t deserve him waltzing in here and making everything about him⁠—”

She sniffs. “Fisher, I’m not upset about tonight. I’m upset because he’s so awful to you.” She looks at me and shakes her head, another tear falling. “And I’m sad your family cut you out of your grandpa’s will. It sucks that those assholes don’t appreciate you, and it also sucks that we no longer have the money to save the firehouse.”

“Don’t worry, Lilabug,” Masha says, her face stoic, and the other members of the collective murmur the same sentiment. “You did everything you could, more than anyone ever asked of you, and we’re so grateful for your efforts. We’ll find another property, or maybe another last-minute buyer who doesn't want to demolish the property will outbid Fisher Group…” She trails off, like she doesn’t even believe her own words that she’s trying to reassure Lila with.

Lila’s chin quivers as she wipes away her tears. “I just wish our plan had worked.”

I pull her into my arms, wrapping her in my warmth and comfort. “Actually…I kind of have a surprise for you.”

She looks up at me with wide eyes.

“And I think once I show you, you might not be so sad anymore…”

CHAPTER 34

LILA

The idea that life imitates art is something I’ve always identified with, but it’s never felt truer than in this moment. A thousand competing emotions and questions spatter across my mind like paint begging to form a coherent picture as my husband takes me by the hand.

“Come with me?” he asks.

“Of course.”

I allow him to lead me without asking where we’re going or why—because I’d follow him anywhere. I’d trust him with anything. He’s my person, and while everything else is swirling in confusion right now, this is the one fact that remains true in the midst of it all.

We walk outside onto the street, and around the corner from the gallery. The sky is dark now, the bay breeze cooling my skin. I smile, thinking back to the day just a few weeks ago when I found out Rebekah was selling the gallery and I anger-painted late into the night. The cherry blossoms on my canvas went from pink and full bloom to dark purple and bruised. I thought losing the firehouse meant all hope was lost, too…but that very same night, Fisher showed up at the front door. A beautiful, Herculean stranger who warmed my life from the inside out. It’s like he brought the spring with him when I’d felt dead inside, an endless winter in my soul.

Standing here tonight, the thought of losing the firehouse is still heartbreaking, but it no longer feels hopeless.

“So first of all,” Fisher says, interrupting my thoughts. “I don’t want you to feel sad that my family took my trust fund and my inheritance.” He turns to me, his green eyes locking on mine. “I don’t care what they think of me anymore, and I no longer want their money. I realized a while back that I truly want to make it on my own, and to do that I need a clean break. No handouts of any kind.” He smiles at me. “I may not be insanely rich now, but I feel richer than I ever have.”

I smile back up at him, my heart buoyant to see his new-found belief in himself—not the cocky veneer he’s worn for so long to protect his heart, but something much deeper. Real self-assurance, at a core level. Like he finally recognizes his worth.

“All I want is for you to fully be your own person, because that person is wonderful,” I tell him. “And you living in freedom means more to me than the firehouse ever could. I love it there and cherish the memories it holds, but at the end of the day, it’s just a place.” I put my hand on his chest, spreading my palm over his heart. “It’s no longer my home…because you’re my home now.”

“The first time I saw a Santi painting, I had the strangest feeling…I was comforted by it, like I was coming home.” Fisher’s voice cracks and his hands shake as they circle my waist. “I think my soul fell in love with you before we even met. And now, I can’t believe I get to know you, be married to you, love you. Because I’m so in love with you, Lila. More than I could ever express with words.”

“I love you too, Fisher.” My eyes, which were finally dry, well with fresh tears all over again as I press my hand into his chest, finding comfort in the way the echo of his heartbeat moves through me as I dare to say my next words. “And I love being yours.”

He smiles, and it’s pure sunshine. “Marrying you, crazy and impulsive as it was at the time, was the best decision I ever made. I know our initial contract is for a year of marriage, but I was hoping we could just rip the damn contract up and I can be your husband for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Screw the contract.” I laugh, fisting my hands into his shirt so I can pull him towards me.

My heart rate spikes, and my eyes flutter closed as he leans in. I need to feel his lips on mine, but just before he kisses me, he stops.

“Good,” he whispers against my mouth. “Because I want forever with you, Wife.”

And with that, he’s kissing me with a desperation that is only matched by my own need for him. The kiss is heat and fireworks and passion, but it’s underlined with an achingly tender love for each other. It’s a promise, spoken without words, that we belong with each other, now and always.

Fisher tangles his hands in my hair, angling his face to drive the kiss deeper, and I gasp into his mouth. I slide my arms around his neck and press my body against him, wanting to be as close to him as possible…

“Get a room, Fishy!”

“Seriously, or we’re going to have to bail your ass out of jail after you’re arrested for public indecency.”

Fisher and I spring apart, and I whirl around to find the 3B gang, not to mention my whole art collective, standing on the street outside the gallery, looking at us like we’re the guppies in the 3B Boy Aquarium.

My husband laughs. “I guess the show outside was just as good as the show inside, huh?”

“Well, that, and also we were really nosy about what your surprise for Lila was,” Penn says with a shrug.

I blink. In the rush of Fisher telling me he wants to cut himself off from his family completely, then telling me he loves me and wants to be with me forever, I’d totally forgotten why we went outside in the first place.

“I can tell you what it was.”

The voice comes from the back of the crowd, and my mouth falls open as Rebekah takes a few shaky steps forward, using her cane for balance. Masha rushes forward to assist her.

“Rebekah!” I cry in delight. “You made it.”

I’ve barely seen her lately; she hasn’t been well, so it means the world to me that she’s come to my show tonight.

I hope I can get a moment alone with her before she leaves. I want to thank her for having been so open to the idea of Fisher and I buying the firehouse, and to reassure her that even though our financing fell through and she will now have to go ahead and sell to the Fisher Group, I’m going to be okay. We all are.

“Perfect timing.” Fisher grins, then grabs my hand and leads me over to the older woman.

She reaches out with the hand not clutching her cane and pats my shoulder affectionately. “What a show, my girl. Your mother would’ve been so proud of you.”

My chest tightens. “Thank you so much,” I whisper.

“And I don’t just mean in terms of your art. She’d be proud of the person you are. Of the decisions you’ve made.” She looks from me to Fisher, her face softening. “Of the man you’ve chosen.”

“Yeah, he’s not so bad, is he?” I grin, then swallow as I look up at her. “I’m sorry our deal fell through.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, dear.” Rebekah smiles, her wrinkled face glowing. She reaches into her pocket and takes out a key. We all use a fob system to get in and out of the firehouse, but I recognize it as the master key to lock the deadbolts. “Congratulations, you two,” she says as she holds the key out to us. “It’s officially yours.”

I stare at the key, shaking my head as my mind goes numb. “No, we didn’t get the money so we can’t, you can’t⁠—”

“I could,” Fisher cuts off my incoherent rambling as he reaches out and takes the key. “I bought the firehouse, like we always planned to.”

My mouth falls open. “But how?”

Sure, my husband makes an excellent salary compared to what most people make, but it’s his first year in the NHL. Without his family money, it’s not like he has spare millions lying around to buy a whole damn building.

“He came to see me a couple of weeks ago,” Rebekah says in a fond tone. “Told me he wanted to try to buy the firehouse without using the family money.”

I gape at Fisher. “You were never going to take the inheritance?”

He shrugs, a little bashful. “I knew I wanted to be with you, Lila. For good. And I didn’t want my family’s money having any part in what I hope will be a very long and happy marriage. So I planned to buy the firehouse myself, and if I got the inheritance, I was going to donate it to the Arts program at the ‘crappy state school’ I graduated from.” He grins. “And put the donation in my father’s name, of course—on a plaque somewhere everyone would see it.”

I snort with laughter.

“I offered to give him a much lower selling price when I heard his story, but the boy insisted he wanted to pay full price,” Rebekah says, shaking her head in wonder. She’s clearly enamored with him—and I don’t blame her.

“Where did you get the money for this, Fisher?” I ask, frowning at him.

“Well, I got a five-year contract extension for the Lions, which helped a lot. I brought it to Rebekah, and she was kind enough to draw up an installment plan for payments.”

I feel a little sick all of a sudden. “You can’t spend all your money on this.”

“Not my money, our money. We’re a team now.”

“It’s too much…”

“It doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I’d do for you, Lila. You’re my world now. I love your art, and I believe in what you’re all doing at the firehouse as much as you do. Even if we weren’t married, even if I didn’t feel this way for you, I’d want to do this. It just makes it even better that we get to do it together.”

Gratitude fills my heart as I stare at the man I’m lucky enough to call mine. The perfect gentleman who never fails to make me smile, who understands my deepest needs and desires. A man who would stop at nothing to make me happy. He’s given me everything I could ever want and then somehow, managed to still give me so much more.

“Best surprise ever,” I tell him, reaching up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Well, I have one more surprise so don’t say that yet…” Fisher scratches the back of his head, glancing around at everyone. “I was planning to show you this alone, but I guess they’ll all find out soon, anyhow.” He gives Penn a look. “Just don’t make too much fun of it okay, Matthews?”

Penn grins. “Can’t promise anything, Fishy.”

Noah rolls his eyes. “What did you do, start an OnlyFans?”

“As ridiculously successful as an Archibald Fisher OF would be, I did not.” Fisher pulls a key ring from his pocket. He slides the key to the firehouse onto it, then presses the button on a battered-looking key fob.

On the street, a tiny red hatchback meeps, its lights flashing.

“What the hell is that thing?” Penn demands.

Noah squints. “I think it’s a…Fiat 500?”

“Do you even fit in it, Fisher?” Ally raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s European,” my husband says like this explains everything. “Very chic, if you think about it. Great on gas mileage, too.”

“Where’s your G Wagon?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I needed cash for the downpayment on the firehouse.”

“But you loved that car!” I say, aghast.

“Nowhere near as much as I love making you happy.” He smiles, then wrinkles his nose at the tiny vehicle on the street. “I just hope you’re not going to be too embarrassed being driven around in this thing for a while.”

“Not at all.” I shake my head, not sure whether to laugh or cry, so I end up doing both. “I love it. I love you.”

“And I love you, Lila.” Fisher smiles and puts his arm around me, drawing me close. I lean in, snuggling against this perfectly imperfect masterpiece of a man’s chest and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

CHAPTER 35

FISHER

I slump down on a bench in the locker room between Penn and Noah, drenched in sweat. We just played a grueling game seven against Vancouver, and despite giving it our all out there, we lost tonight…meaning our playoff run comes to an end, and our season is officially over.

Since the final buzzer went off a few minutes ago, I’ve been waiting for that familiar feeling of disappointment—of trying my best and still failing—to settle over me, but it doesn’t come.

It’s hard to feel disappointed when we made it much further than we ever expected to. And instead of failure, there’s an air of pride and camaraderie in the locker room as Coach Anderson and Coach Slater give us one final speech to wrap up the season.

“You all should be proud of what we accomplished this season,” Coach Anderson says. “We’re a newer, younger team than any other franchise in this league…still learning how to work together out there. You guys killed it this season, and I’ve no doubt next season will be even better.”

A ruckus of cheering fills the room.

Coach Slater raises his hands in a gesture for us to quiet back down. “Take care of yourselves this summer. Relax, have some fun…but be ready to come back this fall and kick ass. Because next year, we’re going all the way.”

More whistles and applause. I join in, pumping my fist in the air. I believe in this team…believe in myself and the decisions I’ve made that brought me to this moment. And even after a tough loss tonight, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.

My teammates rush for the showers, but I pause and turn to our coaches. “Have a great summer, try not to miss me too much.” I wink at Coach Anderson.

Coach Slater snickers, and Coach Anderson shakes his head. “You improved this season more than any other player out there, Fishy,” Coach Anderson says. “Keep it up next season.”

I nod. “Will do.”

Once Penn, Noah, and myself are showered and dressed, we stride out of the locker room. There’s a crowd waiting for us, and the sight makes my stomach dip. This is where friends and families of the players always wait to greet them after games, but all of my admirers up to this point have been fans, mostly of the female variety. Women who wanted something from me but didn’t know—or care to know—me as a person. My family never came to my games, never cared about my hockey career. But now my wife is smiling at me, her eyes filled with pride. She’s my family now. Alongside Noah, Penn, Ally, and Hazel…and having my loft 3B family feels better than having a big bank account or winning any game. This is what it’s like to be truly loved.

This, right here, is the real definition of success.

Lila crosses the space between us, and I pull her into my arms, kissing her hard.

She kisses me back but looks surprised when she pulls away to look at me. “Are you okay? I thought you’d be disappointed.”

I smile down at her adorable, worried brow. “How could I be disappointed…I have everything I need right here.”

Her cheeks turn pink. “Well, I must admit, a part of me is happy to start the off season and have you home more, Husband.” Her eyes glimmer with all the unspoken ways we can spend our free time together. “Are you ready to go celebrate the official beginning of summer break?”

“Yes, Wife. Let’s get out of here.” I reply with a smile. Because no matter what else happens, I know this will be the best summer ever…with Lila by my side.

Between the 3B gang, my teammates and their families…Tommie’s is packed. The live band plays booming jazz from the center stage, the food comes in a steady stream to our tables, and the beer and champagne are flowing.

Everyone’s smiling and having so much fun, you’d almost think we won our game tonight.

Lila, Hazel, and Ally are across the room from our table, dancing in front of the stage where the band plays. They’re laughing as they twirl each other, while the three of us guys inhale food like we haven’t eaten in days. We’re starving after our game…and now that we’re done with the playoffs, we don’t have to watch our nutrition for a while.

My eyes don’t move off my wife while I finish my meal and beer. I’m enamored by the way she moves her body, the sway of her hips, the sheen of her dark hair. She’s gorgeous. And she’s all mine.

“How’d we get so pucking lucky?” Penn asks, and I turn to find him watching Hazel.

Noah nods without taking his eyes off of Ally. “Seriously.”

I blow out a breath. “I’m not sure, but I feel like the luckiest son of a bitch on earth.” Huffing out a laugh, I shake my head. “If you’d have told me at the beginning of the season that by spring, Downsby would be madly in love with a dancer, Matthews would be smitten with a spider-loving genius, and I’d be married…I wouldn’t have believed you.”

“I would’ve bet money on Fishy being the last of us to get married,” Noah teases.

Penn takes a swig of his beer. “Same.”

I smirk. “Yet here we are.”

The three of us laugh, then clink our pint glasses together in silent cheers to the wild ride our rookie season in the NHL has been.

The girls spy us watching them with dopey grins on our faces and make their way over to our table.

“What are you three smiling about?” Ally chides, popping a hand on her hip. “Did you guys tell them the surprise without us?”

Hazel narrows her eyes on Penn. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

Penn raises his hands up. “I didn’t say a word!”

Noah smirks. “Well, we might as well tell them now.”

Lila sits in my lap, and I wrap my arms around her, nestling my chin in the crook of her neck. “Tell us what?” I ask.

“Well, we realized we never got you guys a wedding present,” Ally says.

I raise a brow. “You don’t need to get us anything.”

Lila nods in agreement, but Noah shakes his head.

“We wanted to. And we thought you and Lila could use a proper wedding…” Noah tells us. He opens his mouth to continue, but Penn jumps in and yells, “in Thailand!”

Noah rolls his eyes at Penn’s impatience but takes six printed airline tickets out of his back pocket and places them on the table.

“We’re all going together next month!” Ally claps her hands with an excited squeal and Hazel beams at us, awaiting our reaction.

“Wow.” I blink. “This is amazing.”

“You guys totally didn't have to do that!” Lila adds, then grins. “I kind of loved our weird little wedding.”

“Me, too.” I kiss her cheek. “But I’d love to see you walk toward me in a dress that doesn’t swallow you whole.”

Lila laughs. “Okay, I guess it would be nice to have some pretty photos of us in clothing from this century.” She relaxes against me. “And Thailand? This is going to be incredible…I haven’t been there since I went with my mom years ago.”

I glance at my wife, her eyes full of tears. “Thank you guys, this was incredibly thoughtful. Not to mention generous.”

“You’re welcome,” Noah says, then sighs. “But I have to warn you…Matthews refused to splurge on first class.”

Penn laughs. “Please, we’re twenty-three and in peak physical condition, not frail old ladies with bad hips who need to lie down—what would we need first class for?”

I shrug. “I’m no high roller these days, either…remember the Fiat we drove here in?”

Noah grabs my shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Laughing, Penn stands and loops an arm around Hazel's waist. “Let’s dance, Bubbles.” He spins her onto the dance floor without waiting for her to respond.

Ally glances at Noah expectantly. He acts like he doesn’t want to dance, but stands and allows her to drag him out for a dance.

“You want to dance?” I ask Lila, and she nods.

She slides off my lap and takes my hand as we join the others in front of the band. The fast-paced song that was playing fades to an end, and they start up a slow ballad.

I pull my wife against me, loving how she fits perfectly there. I love drifting into her current, letting her scent wash over me. My hands clutch her to me, her arms wrapping around my neck, then her fingers sliding into my hair. She tugs gently, a promise of what’s to come when we get home…I hope.

We sway in each other’s arms, allowing our friends, the bar, the band…everything…to fade into the background until it’s just the two of us in our own little world. Her body sliding against mine, my hands touching her, memorizing every dip and curve. Lila kisses me, angling her head and encouraging me to take the kiss deeper. I nudge the seam of her lips with my tongue, and she opens to me, allowing me to taste her. She tastes like champagne sweetness and naughty fantasies and everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I’d be lucky enough to have.

She moans softly against my mouth, and I pause so I can pull back to look at her. Her lips are swollen, her eyes heavy lidded, her cheeks flushed. She looks absolutely perfect. “I love you, Lila.”

“I love you, too, Hercules,” she whispers back, then sinks back into our kiss, and I’m home.

EPILOGUE

LILA

As the plane touches down on the tarmac, the boys all look so relieved that, for a moment, I worry they’re going to be those people who clap when the plane lands.

Thankfully, they don’t. But as the flight attendant announces over the speaker system that we have arrived on Koh Samui, Fisher reaches around to massage his shoulder.

“Finally,” he says with a groan.

“What’s wrong?” I tease as I lean over to kiss the shoulder he’s rubbing. “I thought you were well-traveled. A man of the world who was used to long-haul flights with multiple connections.”

My husband’s expression goes from pained to sheepish. “I’d never flown economy before today,” he admits. “I thought the Fiat had changed me, but I’m still a bit high maintenance, I’m afraid.”

On Fisher’s other side, Penn chokes on the water he’s sipping. “Dude, I’d never even stepped foot on a plane until I went to college,” he sputters. Then, he frowns, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Although I have to admit, I have gotten used to flying private this past year. I forgot how tiny these seats are.”

“Same,” Noah says. “And how the legroom is so…nonexistent.”

Fisher nods in agreement. “Economy wasn’t made for men of our size and stature.”

“Bunch of bougie little babies,” Ally mutters, and I giggle, even though the boys have a point—Fisher’s knees touch the back of the seat in front of ours, and after two connections and twenty-six hours in transit, I can’t imagine he’s comfortable.

Meanwhile, I curled my feet up under my legs and tucked myself against my husband’s arm and slept like a baby for most of the flight. With my head on my husband’s chest, I slept soundly and dreamt of tropical island breezes, endless fresh pineapple, and turquoise water.

“So what are we doing first?” Hazel asks, ever the planner. The Lonely Planet she was reading for most of the journey is still cracked open in her lap. “I was thinking we could go to a night market for dinner, and before that maybe stop at a viewpoint or waterfall, or…”

“Beer,” Noah, Penn, and Fisher all say in unison.

Hazel sighs. “I was going to say take a walk on the beach.”

“How about beers on the beach?” I ask.

“Say less.” Fisher laughs, and the others nod in agreement.

We get off the plane and out of the airport as quickly as possible, and a quick tuk-tuk ride later, we reach the little beachfront villa we rented. We don’t even bother to explore it—we all dump our bags, pull off our shoes, then race straight out the beach.

“I can’t believe we’re really in Thailand!” Ally squeals.

“It’s even more perfect than the pictures,” Hazel says, her eyes huge as she looks around at powdery white sand framed by palm trees that bend towards the ocean. Along the beach, clusters of colorful fishing boats bob on the gentle waves. The warm air smells like salt and tropical flowers in bloom. Faint music pulses from a bar nearby.

The boys all head over to the bar to get us drinks, and Ally, Hazel, and I walk toward the water.

“Wow,” Ally sighs once we make it to the shallows and dips her toes in the warm water.

“I’m so glad you’re both here,” I tell them with a big smile.

“We wouldn’t be anywhere else.” Hazel links her arm through mine. “It’s an honor to be here.”

After everyone gave Fisher and I our surprise wedding gift, the three of us girls went shopping—real wedding shopping, this time. Ally even broke out her binder again. We bought khaki shorts and white linen button down shirts for the boys, cherry-blossom pink silk sundresses for the girls, and I found the destination wedding dress of my dreams: a simple, flowy, lace gown with spaghetti straps and a plunging back.

Our plan is to have a recommitment ceremony on the beach at sunrise in a few days’ time. Fisher and I will make forever vows to each other—this time, from the heart, in the presence of the best friends anyone could ever ask for. We’ve even planned to livestream it so my art collective back in San Francisco can watch, too. That way, everyone we love can share our joy with us.

“Well, I know from experience you two make pretty badass bridesmaids,” I say with a giggle. I squeeze Hazel’s hand, then link my other arm through Ally’s. “And you know our boys are bonded for life…so that makes us bonded forever, too.”

“Sisters,” Ally says softly. “I always wanted a sister.”

“Same,” Hazel and I both reply at the same time.

I look out at the golden sun sinking low in the sky, thinking back to how I was so stressed about meeting my husband’s family, wondering what they’d think of me. But as it turned out, what they thought didn’t matter at all, because the real meaning of family is much deeper than blood. Fisher’s true family is the group of people on this beach with me. A family I’m now a part of.

“Drinks are here!” Penn yells, and we turn to see the boys walking towards us. They’re all laughing and look like they don’t have a care in the world.

The shimmering light catches in my husband’s hair, and he smiles at me. I love seeing him like this—sunglasses on, hair windblown, feet bare and the legs of his pants rolled up so he can walk along the sea’s edge. He looks as loose and relaxed as I feel.

They’re all holding a beer in one hand and our drinks in the other. Noah’s got a Piña Colada for Ally, Penn hands Hazel a glass of bubbly wine, and Fisher passes me a pink, frothy drink with a grin.

My eyes widen. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Nom Yen,” Fisher says with a nod, looking extra pleased with himself. “But with a splash of whiskey in it…for old times’ sake.”

I laugh in delight, thinking about how long ago that night feels now, the one where we got drunk together on a concoction of my favorite childhood drink mixed with vintage whiskey worth more than Fisher’s new car, then agreed to get married. Best bad decision ever.

“The bartenders were a little confused at first,” he says as he loops an arm around my waist, pulling me against him. “But we got there in the end.”

I turn my head to give him a secret little smile. “We did.”

He presses his lips to mine for a fleeting second, then pulls me even closer. I sink into the warmth of his body, breathing in his familiar warm vanilla and sweet tobacco scent.

Noah slides his hand into Ally’s, and she leans her head on his shoulder, while Penn wraps an arm around Hazel. On the horizon, the sun begins to sink behind the water, casting the beach in fiery orange and magenta hues. It’s gorgeous, a work of art, but I don’t feel the familiar itch creeping into my fingers of the artist in me demanding to paint.

Instead, I let myself exist in it. Let myself feel every part of this incredible moment in life. My mom’s presence is so close right now, I can feel her smiling down on us.

A lone tear trickles down my cheek as I silently tell her I love her. That I’ll always miss her, but I’m okay…at peace. I still don't know what the future will hold, but I’m no longer scared. I’m hopeful.

“I can’t believe we have to move out of 3B after we get home,” Penn says after a few moments of silence, and we all nod in agreement.

A couple of days after the boys’ last game, an eviction letter arrived at our door from Fisher Group. None of us were surprised Fisher’s dad was kicking us out of his property after what went down at my gallery opening…we were all just sad at the prospect of saying goodbye to 3B.

“Kind of feels like the end of an era,” Noah says as he gazes out at the sunset. He sounds sentimental, which is unusual for him.

“Best era of my life.” Ally smiles up at him, and his face softens as he turns to look at her. But then she smirks. “Even if it did start with you hating me.”

“I never hated you!” Noah protests. “If anything, I was grumpy all the time because I liked you too damn much.”

“Aww,” she responds with a grin.

“It’s going to be weird not living there.” Penn winks at Hazel. “Although it hasn’t been the same since the tenant below us moved out and I no longer had a downstairs neighbor to bug with my music.”

Fisher sighs. “Anyone have ideas of what they’re going to do yet?”

Everyone shakes their heads. After the eviction letter arrived, Noah talked about buying his own place now he had a contract extension with the Lions. He and Ally even went to a few open houses. Penn and Hazel also considered looking for something, as her studio across the road from the loft is on a month-to-month lease, and barely big enough for her and her tarantula. And Fisher and I thought we might rent a little apartment in the art district, near the firehouse…but none of us have acted on anything yet.

“We’re going to be homeless if we don’t figure it out soon,” Penn says.

Noah blows out a breath. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but what if we just…rent another place for the fall?”

Hazel scrunches her nose. “What, like, together?”

He shrugs. “I thought maybe rent a big house with a yard, something with plenty of room for the six of us and the menagerie of animals we’ve accumulated…” He trails off, scratching the back of his necks as his cheeks turn red. “I mean, only if you guys all wante⁠—”

“I want to,” Fisher cuts him off, at the exact same time as Penn says, “I’m in!”

Noah looks pleased. And a little relieved not to be the only one who wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the current living situation.

Ally smiles. “Plus, Harry Styles needs six parents. He’s a handful.”

“And I’d love to get out of my tiny studio.” Hazel nods in agreement. “Let’s do it.”

“Puck yeah, that’s my girl.” Penn kisses the top of her head.

Fisher looks at me, brows raised. “Lila? Do you want to live with all of us for a second time?”

In the distance, the last rays of the day’s sunlight spread over the water as the sun completes its descent below the horizon. The day is over, but a new one is right around the corner. I can’t think of anything better than to spend it, and the days beyond, with these incredible people. With Fisher—because ultimately, home is wherever he is.

Which makes my decision an easy one. “I do.”

READ MORE IN THIS WORLD

Hockey boys of Loft 3B

Rookie Season

Rival Season

Rebel Season

Katie Bailey

I Think He Knows (Ally’s parents)

Leah Brunner

Desire or Defense (Noah’s sister)

What’s Next From Leah Brunner

Take Me Home; a small town cowboy romance

Read a sneak peek here!

What’s Next From Katie Bailey

Merry Misconduct; Atlanta Cyclones book 3

Read a sneak peek here!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We can hardly believe we are writing the acknowledgments for the third and final Loft 3B book!

What started out as an idea we joked about a couple of years ago soon progressed into a second gen idea we were both in love with…and a quick weekend plotting trip to Cabo later, The Hockey Boys of Loft 3B were born. Over the fourteen months following that trip, we loved every minute of writing Noah, Penn, and Fisher’s books together, and the time flew by—so much so, that it honestly feels a little surreal to now say goodbye to these characters and their series.

First and foremost, we’d like to thank the readers who’ve supported us from the beginning with this series. New Adult was a new genre for both of us, and seeing so many of you fall in love with the 3B boys as much as we did has been an honor. 

The excitement surrounding this series has been incredible, and we’re both so grateful to have a community of such supportive readers behind us. We appreciate every review, post, reel, recommendation, email, and message we’ve received. We also want to say a huge thank you to our launch, ARC, and ALC teams for spreading the word about this book and for hyping up the series as a whole, 

To our beta readers who always give us invaluable feedback: Chelsea, Jess, Hannah, and Megan—who’ve worked on all three of these books with us! Your input has been so helpful, and your enthusiasm has been incredibly encouraging to us. We love and appreciate you all so much.

To the dream team of Emily S and Emily W who make up Booked With the Emilys, thank you for everything. You’re amazing at your jobs, and amazing humans, too. What would we do without you? 

Special thanks to Marta for bringing Lila and Fisher to life with this beyond beautiful cover, we’re obsessed with the cherry blossoms.

Thank you to Lori, for a wonderful edit. Lori always goes above and beyond, helping us turn our manuscript into the best version of itself.

Thank you to Brittney and the team at Lyric Audio for helping us find the perfect narrators in Connor Crais and Cindy Kay.

And last but certainly not least, to the romance book community as a whole. We’re honored to be a part of something so special, largely built on women supporting women…and without it, we would have never met each other in the first place. 

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Leah Brunner is an Amazon top 25 best selling author who writes romance filled with explosive chemistry and relatable, flawed characters. She loves writing character driven stories that will tug at your heart strings and also make you smile.

Katie Bailey is an Amazon top 25 bestselling author of rom coms with relatable characters and tons of chemistry. Her aim with every new love story she writes is to give readers a good laugh, maybe even a bit of a cry, but definitely leave them with a new book boyfriend.

You can find Leah on Instagram @leah.brunner.writes

Or join her Facebook reader group: Leah's Lit Lovers

And you can connect with Katie on Instagram @authorkatiebailey