Home?As if this isourhome. Which I know it’s supposed to be, but he sure hasn’t made it feel like one.
Every time I’ve come back late at night during the week, with him already here, he’s not lounging on the couch bingeing Netflix or hogging my TV like every other guy I’ve ever dated. No, Boone retreats to his room like some kind of disciplined monk who doesn’t want to disturb me.
I know there’s no TV in there—unless he snuck one in while I wasn’t paying attention. And it’s always so quiet. Too quiet.
The guy genuinely prioritizes self-care in a way that I’ve never understood. He seems utterly unbothered by the outside world and is focused on nothing but his hockey career. And that includes leaving zero mess or personal effects in my apartment.
I don’t know what I was expecting rooming with a professional athlete, but it wasn’t this.
Boone takes another huge bite, then washes it down with a long gulp from an ice-cold water bottle that's sweating all over the countertop. I half expect the chair beneath him to groan under his sheer size, but it holds steady.
“I was starving. I’m always starving after a game day,” he says, wiping his mouth again.
I set my briefcase on the counter and lean a hip against it, crossing my arms as I watch him eat.
“I’m pretty sure you’re just always hungry. I saw the mountain of food you stocked in the fridge.”
He grins; a lazy, confident curve of his mouth that makes me feel like I’ve walked into a trap.
“Does that bother you?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m glad you moved your stuff in. But please know you can bring your other stuff over. You don’t have to keep everything in your room or at Penn’s place.”
He studies me for a few beats like he’s trying to understand me, then nods.
“Sure, Rosie.”
He takes another bite of his sandwich, this time holding my gaze. His eyes sweep over me slowly, like he’s cataloging every detail.
The way he looks at me feels intimate. Too intimate. Like he shouldn’t be staring at me that closely, especially when we’ve barely exchanged more than a handful of words sincethatalmost-kiss during his interview. The one I dodged during the interview for both of our sanity and, let’s be honest, to protect his career from my father’s wrath.
It’s not like I’ve been avoiding him outright... except, okay, Ihavebeen avoiding him. Work’s been crazy, sure, but mostly I’ve been dodging Boone because I knew I needed to.
Whatever compelled him to lean in on camera—whether it was the heat of the moment or some misplaced sense of connection—it was dangerous. For both of us.
It’s my job to keep him grounded, to remind him that this is nothing more than a business arrangement, an act we’re playing for the cameras and his contract. We’re acquaintances, cohorts working toward a mutually beneficial goal. But standing here, watching him now. relaxed, messy, unapologetically himself, it’s another reminder of exactly why I dodged him.
Because Boone Tremblay isn’t just good at making bad decisions. He’stemptingto me.And I’ve got no business being tempted by a professional athlete I’m fake married to.
He’s just so damn… cute. I can’t explain it. Out on the ice, Boone’s like a grizzly bear—ferocious, intimidating, all raw power and precision. But off the ice? In private? He’s more like a cub. He’s playful and kind.
“You look pretty,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Just that. Nothing more, nothing less. He takes another bite of his sandwich, his eyes searching mine for a reaction.
The simple compliment makes heat creep up my neck. I wet my lips, shake my head like I can brush it off, and scoop up my briefcase.
“Thanks. I’m going to shower, and then I’ll be heading out early to Brookhaven. You’ll have the place to yourself again this weekend.”
“Wait!” he calls after me. I pause mid-step, turning back to find him grinning at me, leftover sandwich abandoned on the countertop.
“Cain didn’t tell you?”
I frown. “Uh... Cain didn’t tell me what?”
Boone’s grin widens. “That I’m coming with you this weekend.”
I blink because no, my brother did not tell me that. “Um, no, you’re not.”
Four weeks of marriage, and Boone has never come with me to Brookhaven. That’smyplace. My sanctuary away from the chaos of New York City, away from my double life as Rosie Prescott, fake wife of a Tremblay, and I can’t, for the life of me, imagine why Cain would ever agree to this.
