I lean forward to grab a pen, as Amelia slides the papers toward herself, her rings clinking against the polished table, her expression hardens into something unreadable.
“Any stipulations you want added?” Maggie asks without looking up. “Any personal clauses?”
Amelia pauses.
“I choose my own clothes, no coordinated outfits.”
I cough, half-choking on the air in my lungs.
Maggie doesn’t even blink. “Noted.”
“And,” Amelia adds, voice like honey laced with threat, “if he fucks this up and embarrasses me, I will go on record about it. NDA or not.”
Now Maggie looks up. “You planning to embarrass her, Hayes?”
“No.”
Amelia finally turns to look at me, her green eyes hard to read.
God help me, I grin.
She glares.
Maggie sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If you two are done with the sexual eye contact, we can proceed.”
Amelia signs her name with a graceful flourish, her long fingers steady, unbothered. I follow suit with a scribble, and then we swap, signing each other’s copies.
Maggie slides over the next set of documents as she straightens her blazer, flipping the page over with a snap of her wrist. “This is your public relationship contract.” She taps the header with the pen, sharp enough to leave a dent in the paper.
“It states the entirety of the NFL season, which is four months. You will attend required events together, maintain a consistent social presence, and participate in all photo ops.” Her eyes lift briefly, cutting me a look over the rim of her glasses before dropping back to the page.
“You will not date other people, you will not disappear without notifying me, and you will not hook up with your exes, trash each other online, or get arrested.” She pauses to underline the last point, the pen squeaking against the paper like a warning siren.
“That last one feels personal,” I mutter.
“Itispersonal.”
I chuckle.
Amelia doesn’t.
She signs the last page, calm as ever, like this doesn’t change everything.
Like this isn’t the moment I realize I’ve officially handed my heart to a woman who might break it without blinking.
Maggie gathers the papers, tapping them into a neat pile. “Congratulations. You’re now legally fake married.”
Amelia gets up from the couch, already heading toward the stairs.
“Amelia, wait,” Maggie calls after her.
She turns her neck quickly, facing Maggie as she crossesher arms over her chest, her glare daring Maggie to keep going.
Maggie pats the cushion beside her, a silent summons. “Come sit.”
Amelia stalks back and sinks onto the couch. Maggie clasps her hands together, shoulders dipping as she exhales.
“The paperwork’s done,” Maggie says at last, eyes steady. “But the wedding has to happen fast. The press needs to catch wind, see photos, spin the story the way we want.” She draws in another breath. “And by fast, I mean a day or two. Small chapel in town, just the two of you. Let them believe you wanted something sweet, private, intimate.”
