The idea of putting on a wedding dress and standing beside him for staged photos is so absurd I almost laugh. Boone Tremblay, hockey star, imagining some kind of fairy-tale wedding for this sham marriage? Yeah, no thanks.
“No,” Cain cuts in, his tone sharp. “We have a backstory for how you met and fell in love. It’s simple enough for both of you to remember. You met on the dating scene in New York City through mutual friends. It was love at first sight. You’ve been keeping things private, that’s why no one knew, and now you’re madly in love and decided to get married on a whim. No ceremony, no city hall. You’ll sign the paperwork here, and I’ll file it with the courts tomorrow.”
“Okay…” Boone replies hesitantly. I notice a flicker of unease in his expression.
He’s clearly not used to operating under a lie. It’s almost endearing the way he shifts in his seat, like the idea of this whole charade is making him sweat. If he was telling the truth earlier—that the night at the club was his first time being there—then Boone might actually be as wholesome as his down-home charm suggests.
But that also means I’ve got my work cut out for me. If we’re going to sell this, I’ll need to toughen him up, add a little New York grit to balance out his honesty.
“Okay” my dad says, clapping his hands together. “All that’s left is for you two to sign the marriage license and make sure your stories align. Rosie, take Boone to one of the conference rooms to talk things through. She’s great at planning and optics. And while she won’t technically be your lawyer, since that would be a conflict of interest once you’re married, she’ll be coordinating behind the scenes with our PR teams.”
Boone nods, and I flash my brightest, most convincing smile around the room as I rise from my chair, exuding the confidence that I’m known for.
My dad’s fire, my brother’s ice, and I’m earth. Grounding everyone around me even when I feel like I’m floating in the clouds.
“Drop the marriage paperwork off in Room K. It’s already booked,” I instruct Cain.
“That’s my girl,” my dad says, pride dripping from his voice. And if I wasn't so professional, I think I'd burst into laughter and tears because my dad just married me off, legally, and is now congratulating me on taking it in stride with pride in his eyes.
“Come on, Boone. Let’s go chat,” I toss over my shoulder as I head toward the door.
Boone might not know it yet, but this isn’t just about him learning the backstory that we need to maintain to the media, this is about making sure he’s ready to sell it and not give away any details about the night we first met.
And I’m not about to let him screw up the most important move of my career.
Chapter 8: Boone
There’s no way.
There’s nofuckingway that this isn’t the same Rose who gave me a lap dance less than two weeks ago.
I narrow my eyes, studying her face head-on now.
In the club, it had been mostly her side profile—turned away as she grinded against me, making me regret every damn ounce of self-control I’d ever learned.
Yeah, it was dark in there, but when she spun around, straddling me like no woman should ever straddle a man fresh off a career win, testosterone coursing through my blood with nowhere to go, trying to keep his gentlemanly reputation intact, I’d gotten a full, unfiltered view of her face.
This is her. It has to be.
I feel like I’m losing my mind. Was I being gaslit by everyone in that board room? Do they all know something that I don’t? Why the hell was she dancing at a strip club on beginners’ night going by ‘Rose?’
And now, here she is, presenting herself as a lawyer at a prestigious entertainment law firm in New York City.
Maybe she has a twin.
“So, our first appearance as husband and wife will be this weekend after your game.”
Her voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She’s typing something on the tablet in front of her, swiping with the kind of confidence that screams this—whatever this is—is her real career. A sharp, polished professional lawyer. Every movement, every word she speaks, it’s all calculated. She’s not just pretending to belong here; she does.
The contrast between this buttoned-up, strictly business version of her and the one in New Jersey where the lights were dim, her hair was untamed, and her eyes were fiery is so stark it’s unnerving.
She’s still refusing to look at me and it’s bothering me. Like she can’t be troubled to give me her full attention, and this is all some sort of business deal to her.
I guess it is.
“Cain will bring the paperwork in a few minutes,” she continues, her tone matter of fact. “Once we sign, he’ll file it with the clerks. It’ll be official tomorrow morning, which means the gossip channels monitoring courthouse filings and marriages will likely break the story by this weekend. I’ll need to attend your home game on Saturday in the city.”
I nod, wetting my lips to stall while my brain plays catch-up.
