Page 57 of Holding Penalty

26

NASH

“Seriously, no offers at all?”

I’m on the phone with my agent, Colson. Last week, I got in touch with him and asked him to start putting out feelers for sponsorship deals.

When I kissed Piper last night, I didn’t want to stop. Ever.

That’s a problem.

I need to get back into the right mindset about this fake marriage. I told Piper that the reason I proposed was that I wanted to make more money by getting some sponsorships, and even though that was bullshit, going through with it might help remind me that this whole thing is nothing but an arrangement.

It’ll remind me that no matter how much I can’t stop thinking about the taste of her lips or the smooth slide of her tongue against my own, there’s no reason for it to happen again.

“If you recall, Nash,” Colson begins, a chiding tone in his voice, “we got plenty of offers when you first started making a name for yourself in the League. You turned them all down because you didn’t want to deal with it. Once enough companies got rejected, they stopped thinking about you.”

“But doesn’t me being married, like … make me more marketable or something? In the advertising world?”

Colson huffs a laugh that makes me feel stupid. “Are you kidding? We’re literally closer to the twenty-fifties than the nineteen-fifties, Nash.”

My lips flatten. Shit, if Colson can’t find me anything, the entire motivation I gave to Piper for why I agreed to this is going to look as phony as it is. What kind of conclusions will she draw from that? Will she think I just wanted to do this because I have a thing for her? Will that make living together awkward?

“I’ll keep looking, don’t worry,” Colson says.

I sigh. “Alright, thanks.”

I set my phone down and step outside. The creaky sound of the wooden boards of the covered porch eases my tension. I like this little house. It’s the first place I’ve lived that truly feels like my own. It’s become a sanctuary to me, a place I can let my guard down and feel at ease.

Even though I’m sleeping on the living room couch now, living with Piper hasn’t changed that. Not a bit. I wondered if it would, but it hasn’t. Interesting.

I still have to argue with Piper every night about sleeping on the couch. Maybe she thinks she needs to go through the ritual of insisting I sleep in my bed to be polite. Or maybe she likes finding a reason to argue with me like old times. Maybe she just thinks it’s fun. Maybe I do, too.

It’s a dusty, hot late afternoon. I look out at the wide, empty, flat expanse of land where shadows from trees and shrubs and signposts are starting to elongate as the sun slants lower in the sky.

There’s another long shadow, moving down the long road that passes the ranch, perpendicular to the rays shed by the sun. It’s Piper’s car, driving home from the bakery.

Driving home, to our house.

Something hooks in my chest at the thought. I bought this place because I wanted solitude. But the idea of Piper coming home, here, after a day of work at the bakery, doing what she loves, and me waiting for her …

I try to push away the feeling. I also try to push away the buzzing sensation that dances up my back as I remember planting my palms on her hips and pulling her flush against me so her shitty ex could see exactly whose wife she is now.

The jealousy that lit up his gaze when he looked at us was far too satisfying. What a fucking idiot that guy must be, to have a woman like Piper and throw it all away.

Shit. That’s another thought I shouldn’t have, thinking about what a catch Piper is. Because when her inheritance finally hits her bank account, we’re getting divorced and going our separate ways.

That thought makes me feel like an injection of ice water just hit my veins. Which I guess is a good thing. I shouldn’t be worked up with charged memories and heated blood when my fake wife steps out of her car.

But when she does get out, and I notice the tired but satisfied look on her face, and I think about an activity other than work that could give her that same mix of emotions, the hum of arousal comes right back.

Her tied-back hair is messy from constant activity, her shirt and shorts decorated with colorful dabs of frosting. Seeing her like this after a busy day at her bakery reminds me of when I look in the mirror after a hard-played hockey game, seeing myself with sweat-matted hair, my face lined with exhaustion, and maybe a fresh bruise or two. I can tell she had a tough day, but I can tell she loved every minute of it, just like I do on the ice.

I don’t know why it turns me on, but if I said it didn’t, I’d be one hell of a liar.

“Good day at work?” I ask as she walks toward the porch.

“Exhausting,” she says with a tired smile, “but, yeah, it was a really good day, actually. I tried making this new kind of cupcake, and the customers loved it.”