Chapter 43
PIPER
ME
Can capybaras eat chocolate? Or other sweets?
NASH
No. Definitely not
ME
Awww. I have a bunch of stuff I’m bringing home today. It would’ve been cute to see Cheesecake munch on a cookie or something
ME
Isn’t it kind of cruel? To name her after something she can’t eat?
NASH
I think she’d appreciate it if she understood the situation. She seems to have an ironic sense of humor
Ilaugh in the bakery kitchen.
ME
That’s true
ME
See you soon
The heart react Nash leaves on my last message shouldn’t make me feel as good as it does.
I was confident that I’d be able to compartmentalize my feelings for my fake husband. That we’d be able to sleep together without things getting emotionally complicated and messy.
I’m starting to doubt that confidence.
But I’m damn sure not regretting my decision. Because I’m fairly convinced that Nash’s dick is literally magic, and the possibility of a messier-than-expected parting when this fake marriage finally ends will be a small price to pay for all the orgasms I’m going to have in the meantime.
I hope.
On a day when the bakery closes early, I get the urge to visit Nash at the arena. He’s scheduled to spend a long day because of some kind of media event they have planned in the evening.
I’m not in the mood to drive home to an empty house. I want to surprise my husband at work.
Maybe I had this planned subconsciously all day, because I baked way too many pastries this morning. Wrapping them up and bringing them to the arena for the players and stuff under the guise of me “not wanting them to go to waste” turns out to be the perfect excuse.
The staff at the arena recognize me by now. They tell me I can go back to the catering area where the players are hanging out as they wait for their media session. It’s kind of a cool feeling to just be nodded past security and have free rein to walk around a professional hockey arena.
I turn a corner in one of the hallways and almost walk straight into a woman I recognize but haven’t really been introduced to yet. We both gasp and leap back at just the right time, avoiding a collision.
She lightly strikes her forehead with her palm. “Sorry, totally my fault. I had my eyes glued on my phone. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
I smile and shake my head. “No problem. I’m sure working with a team like this, you’re always juggling about a dozen tasks at once.”
She gives me a confidential smile. “That’s true, but I can’t use that excuse this time. I was actually paying attention to this book I’m reading. I’m so obsessed that every spare moment I have I’m opening my Kindle app.”
My brow jumps in excitement at meeting a fellow reader, especially a fellow reader who gets wrapped up enough to wander hallways with her eyes pointed at a book, even to the point of bodily risk.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
“The new Susie McCabe book. Do you know her?”
I gasp. “Are you kidding!? I love her! That’s the next book I’m going to read after I’m finished my current read. Is it as good as the others in the series?”
“Better.”
I twist my shoulders with excitement. “Ohh, I want to ask for details so bad, but I know I can’t do that to myself.”
“I’d never spoil a book for a fellow reader, even if she asked me to.”
I nod my head gravely. “That’s the highest ethical standard any person can hold themselves to.”
“I’m Ines,” she introduces herself.
“Piper,” I reply. I try to shift the shrink-wrapped tray of treats in my arms to extend my hand to her, but she waves me off.
“Those look so good I’d kick myself if I were responsible for you dropping them. Let’s take a page from my home country.” She leans forward and air-kisses me on both cheeks.
I laugh. “Very Mediterranean.”
“Yep. I’m from Portugal. We call them beijinhos.” She tilts a shoulder. “I went to school in America, though, so no accent. Which kinda sucks. I think it would be hot to have an accent.” She sighs. “Oh, well.”
Ines doesn’t need anything extra to be hot, that’s for sure. She’s a kind of gorgeous that’s borderline intimidating. Olive skin, raven black hair, piercing dark eyes, perfect makeup, and dressed in a way that exudes professionalism and confidence.
“You’re here to visit Nash?” she asks.
“Yep,” I nod.
“I’ll walk you back to where they are. I was on my way to my office to do something, but it can wait. Besides, I’m eyeing that red velvet cupcake you’ve got there, and I know those damn hockey players will inhale that entire plate in a matter of seconds if I don’t snag it first.”
“It’s yours,” I say.
When we walk into the catering room, Adriano Zikos, one of Nash’s teammates, directs his eyes at us and gasps. “Piper!” he calls. “Stay away!”
I knit my brows. “What are you talking about?”
“From her!” he exclaims, pointing his index finger straight at Ines next to me, like a scene in a horror movie.
Ines sighs. “Try to ignore him. Really, take advantage of the privilege of being able to. I wish I could.”
“Nash, this is a serious problem,” Adriano says, playing up his agitation like he’s on stage. “I like your wife. She’s cool. We can’t let Ines ruin her.”
I fix the Greek player with a harsh gaze. “Adriano, if you don’t stop being mean to Ines, I’m not letting you have any of these,” I motion toward the full tray in my hands.
Adriano looks genuinely conflicted, mouth agape like he desperately wants to make another negative comment about Ines, but also like he’s spotted something on the tray that made his mouth water, and he doesn’t want to give it up.
For all Adriano’s grandstanding about how he can’t stand Ines, when she bites into her cupcake and lets out a moan of appreciation, I don’t miss the way Adriano’s jaw muscles flex, his eyes bulge, and how he has to discreetly adjust his pants.
“Hey!” Hayden exclaims at Nash as he gathers up as many pastries from my tray as can fit in his massive hands. “You’re hogging!”
“My wife’s pastries. I get dibs,” he says. Somehow his territorial greed for my baking sends a buzz of satisfaction up my back.
Their coach appears and tells them it’s time to head to the media room.
Nash slings his arm around my shoulder and walks me over with him.
He explains that they’re doing a mid-week press conference just because there’s so much demand from the Austin media to get as much coverage on the team as possible in response to their unprecedented success.
I walk into the media room with them and take an empty seat at the edge of where the crowd of media are gathered. The team steps onto a small, raised stage with a chair for each of them. It’s a more informal environment than the post-game media sessions I’ve seen.
During the first several questions, Nash is still munching away on some of the baked goods he gathered in the catering room. After Vaughn finishes tersely answering a question about his save rate this year, a reporter turns her attention to Nash.
“Nash Miller, should Austin Alligators fans be worried that your clear disregard for your nutrition plan is a sign of overconfidence?” It’s asked in jest, and chuckles break out around the room.
“Anyone who’s ever tasted my beautiful wife’s amazing baking wouldn’t be able to blame me,” Nash says, giving me a fluttery feeling in my belly. That feeling magnifies when he slides his gaze over to me and says, “Piper, come on up.”
I balk, feeling a wave of bashfulness hit me. But Nash just grins and stands up from his chair. Every pair of eyes—and camera—in the room is on me as he walks to the edge of the stage and holds out his hand toward me.
“Get up here,” he says, prideful tone ringing in his voice.
Something about the amused and eager gleam in his eye has me lifting my hand to slide into his. Despite my reluctance to have so much attention trained on me when I’ll be utterly out of place on a stage with NHL athletes in front of local media.
I’m not sure where I’m going to sit when Nash helps me onto the stage, but he quickly solves that problem when he drops back into his seat and pulls me firmly onto his lap.
A fuzzy warmth twists through me when he grabs my knee and swings my legs so that my feet are dangling off the shelf of his muscular thighs.
“If I’ve been playing the best hockey of my career for the last couple months,” Nash says, addressing the reporters, “this girl’s responsible for it. So, I feel in the mood to show her off a little bit.”
I’m blushing so much that my face feels like an oven. It’s rare enough that Nash is cool and composed while I’m flustered, and the wry grin that sits on his face when we make eye contact tells me he enjoys the switch-up.
Eventually, the reporters shift their attention to the defensive players, asking them what they attribute their incredible performances this season to. I make a move to get up and take my seat back in the crowd, but Nash tightens his grip around me.
“Nope,” he whispers in my ear, raising goosebumps on my skin from the warm sweep of his breath. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Isn’t this a little unprofessional?” I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper, too. “Having me up here like this?”
“Professional is the last thing I want to be,” he says, smirking, “with my wife.”