I do. We’re both trying to prove something to people who don’t deserve the effort.
“I need two days from you,” he says. “Christmas in Alaska. We give the town a show. When Hannah sees us—happy, engaged, winning—maybe she remembers what she walked away from. And I get to enjoy myschadenfreude.” He grins. “That’s German for ‘scoreboard, bitch.’”
“And I get a fiancé to flash at brunch. Festive.” I lift my glass, mouth curving. “Frohe Weihnachten.”
“Yeah.” His grin sharpens. “But at least we’re honest about it. Well, to ourselves,” he corrects himself.
I study him. His gaze is steady. The tree glows, proud of itself.
I find myself picturing two futures: brunch with pearls, and a woman who lets a lumberjack teach her to stand on blades. My mother’s face. Bennett’s waxy smile. My uncle’s reassurance that says he’ll burn a building for me.
Ten days.
“Deal,” I hear myself say.
His smile goes feral. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out steadier than I feel.
He extends his hand like we’re closing a business transaction. I take it. His palm is warm, calloused from hockey sticks and God knows what else.
“Partners?” he asks.
“Partners.”
We shake on it, there on a bench at Rockefeller Center while snow falls and the tree glows and somewhere in Alaska, his ex-girlfriend plans a wedding.
My phone buzzes again. Mother, probably. Or Bennett. Or the universe, trying to warn me.
I silence it and turn to Wesley. “So. When do we start?”
He grins—the kind of grin that makes sensible women do reckless things. “How about now?”
4
TERMS AND CONDITIONS APPLY (WESLEY)
The locker room is chaos after a win. Music, towels snapping, reporters yelling. I shower fast, pull on my suit, stuff the tie into my pocket. My brain is racing ahead to what’s next.
We won. 3-2, O’Reilly with the empty netter. But what’s stuck in my head isn’t the scoreboard.
It’s her. Joy. The deal we just made. The fact that in three hours, we’ll be on a plane to Alaska, pretending to be in love.
Out in the tunnel, she’s waiting.
Coat belted, scarf snug at her throat, camera bag slung crossbody, carry-on standing at attention by her boots. She looks mission ready. We mapped the whole thing last night—fast, dumb, certain—the kind of plan you make when the clock is louder than common sense.
“Glad you’re not backing out,” I say.
Her brow arches. “I don’t back out. I win.”
My pulse goes stupid. That line should not make me want to pin her against the nearest wall, but it does.
I snag her carry-on before she can argue, and we step into the December night. Cold bites my face. Christmas lights blink. She hums under her breath—steady, relaxed.
A black SUV slides to the curb. We climb in, city streaking past the windows. She doesn’t waste time.
“Let’s set some rules,” she says, pulling out her phone. “We’ll need them.”
