Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ledger
The Doherty mansion is quieter than usual. I’m in the library. A massive room lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and the kind of dark mahogany wood that makes you feel like you’re in a period drama. The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting a warm orange glow over the dark corners of the room. The air smells faintly of leather, old paper, and something floral—probably from the tea Galeana’s just set down.
Tea.
Not champagne this time, which is weird because it feels like anytime we’ve ended up in a room alone, there’s been a bottle chilling somewhere nearby.
She’s perched on the edge of a velvet armchair, one leg tucked under her, her hands wrapped around a mug that reads Best Fucking Teacher. I should get one of those instead of a porcelain teacup that looks so fragile in my big hands. It’s almost comical—Ledger Timberbridge, notorious for smashing beer bottles in locker room celebrations, cradling fine china like it might shatter if I breathe on it wrong.
“Are you now going to tell me why you summoned me here?” I ask, breaking the silence, my voice a low rumble in the massive room. “And what’s with the tea?”
She raises an eyebrow, her hazel eyes glinting in the firelight. “Tea felt . . . appropriate. Marriage talk over tea feels more civilized. Champagne felt too celebratory.”
She sips, watching me like she’s waiting for me to say something else. I take a slow drink of my own, letting the steam warm my face before setting the cup on the table beside me.
“Okay,” I say, leaning back in my chair, stretching out my legs like I belong here. “You said you needed to talk to me. So what’s this about?”
Her gaze flickers away, like she’s trying to collect her thoughts. Then she takes a breath and looks back at me, leveling me with a stare. “It’s a game. Truth or . . . truth.”
“Truth or truth?” I echo, smirking. “Why do I want to play that? I don’t see any benefits.”
“You’ll benefit from getting to know the person you’re going to marry a lot better,” she states.
“So, you’re not giving me an out this time?” I ask. “No dares with some previews of those pretty nipples or?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “We’re supposed to get married tomorrow, Ledger. You’re practically a stranger. It’s time we learned something about each other.”
There’s something about the way she says my name—soft but steady—that makes my chest feel tight. I don’t like it. Or maybe I do. Hell, I don’t know anymore. This is too fucking confusing.
“Fine,” I say, sitting up straighter, elbows on my knees. “You start.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a hockey player?”
The question blindsides me. “What?”
“You heard me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Aiden told me. Apparently, you’re some hotshot NHL player, and somehow, I had to find that out from my best friend and Google, instead of you.”
I run a hand through my hair, torn between irritation and amusement. “I’m a former hockey player. No reason to tell you what I was.”
“Don’t deflect,” she fires back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t matter,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal.
“Ledger,” she says, exasperated. “It’s part of who you are. How does it not matter? You had a successful career. The injury must have been devastating.”
It was devastating, but I don’t like to talk about that with anyone. I let out a long breath, my fingers tapping against my knee. “It’s not exactly something I talk about much anymore. I got hurt last year—badly. The kind of injury that takes you off the ice and leaves you questioning everything. So no, I didn’t tell you. Not because I was hiding it, but because it feels like . . . I lost it all.”
Her expression softens a little, and it bothers me how much that look gets under my skin. I don’t want her pity.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “That must’ve been hard.”
“It was,” I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. “But I’ll live.”
The room feels heavier after that, the fire crackling as if to fill the silence. Then she clears her throat and straightens. “Your turn. Truth or truth.”
I smirk. “You’re giving me no choice here, so fine. Truth. Why didn’t you call Chase to marry you? Or whatever guy you dated after him?”
Her fingers tighten around the mug, and for a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then, finally, she sets it down and looks at me. “I didn’t . . . I told you then. Our relationship had been over for a long time. I did love Chase, but I wasn’t in love and I’m sure it was the same for him. Once I came back and tried to reach out to get some explanation, I learned he was already dating someone new. Did he find her before we broke up?” She shrugs. “Who knows and I really didn’t care to find out.”
I watch her, the firelight catching in her hair, and something in my chest shifts—something I can’t name.
“And any dates after?” I press.
She shakes her head. “No one seemed . . . good enough. I wanted someone I could sit down and talk about everything with. I wanted that connection I thought we—” She suddenly stops and looks at her mug.
“Who is we and what connection are you talking about?” I press, irritation threading through my voice.
“It’s my turn,” she says, undeterred. “Why are you single? I saw the pictures of the women you dated. All beautiful and successful.”
I scoff, leaning back as if the couch itself might help me keep my distance. “I already told you. I don’t believe in marriage, not even relationships. Those pictures are just publicity.”
Her lips twitch into something between a smile and a smirk, like she sees through me. “But you’re marrying me,” she points out.
“Yeah, but it’s fake,” I reply quickly, maybe too quickly. Like I’ve rehearsed it. Like it’s the answer—simple, clean, easy to swallow. But it’s not. None of this is.
Because the truth is, fake is the word I use to make this whole thing bearable. It’s a shield I can hide behind, a line in the sand I can pretend exists. I didn’t agree to this because I care about business, or reputation, or whatever the hell I claimed at the time. No, I agreed because the thought of anyone else standing next to her—holding her hand, sharing her life—sits in my gut like a rock.
I don’t want her to belong to anyone else.
I glance at her, and she’s staring back, waiting for me to respond, completely unaware of the storm she’s kicked up in my chest. It’s always been like this with her—effortlessly stunning, endlessly exasperating. I remember that first time we played this game. The words just flew out of my mouth. It was as if I could trust her and it didn’t matter what she asked I would answer until she asked for that kiss.
I shake the memory off, but it’s too late—it always is. It’s been following me since that day, trailing behind me like some invisible thread I can’t cut. And every time I’ve seen her since, it’s been the same: this irritating, impossible pull that tugs me closer no matter how hard I fight it.
Protective, I tell myself now, as if that’s all it is. That’s a word I can handle. It’s practical, logical even—something I can blame on instinct or obligation. But deep down, there’s nothing practical about the way I feel when I’m around her. It’s in the way I notice the exact shade of her eyes when the light shifts.
It’s in the way I keep finding reasons to be near her.
And it’s in the way I’ve started to think of her as mine, even though I know she isn’t—she can’t be.
“It’s fake,” I repeat, softer this time. Like I’m trying to convince myself.
She arches an eyebrow, as if she can hear the lie buried under the words.
And maybe she can.
Before she can say anything I take my turn. “What’s your favorite color?”
She groans. “You’re supposed to ask real questions.”
“That is a real question,” I argue, smirking. “You didn’t say they all had to be deep and meaningful.”
“Fine. Green,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I tease.
She ignores me, pointing at me with narrowed eyes. “Truth: Have you signed the prenup yet?”
I lean back, smirking. “Obviously, since it’s already executed.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to scowl, but she doesn’t.
I grin wider. “Though, you never talked about the amendment . . . I take it you agreed to it since as I mentioned, it’s signed and executed.”
Her brow furrows. “What amendment?”
Oh, so this is why she hasn’t freaked out just yet, huh? I take my time sipping the tea, letting the anticipation build. Then I finally say it.
“I extended it.”
Her eyes snap wide. “Extended what?”
“Two years instead of one,” I say smoothly, enjoying the way she gapes at me. “We’ll be married for two years.”
Her jaw drops. “Two years? Ledger, I said one year. That was the deal.”
“You didn’t read the fine print?” I ask innocently. “You really should read contracts more carefully, darling. Once we’re married, we’re going to have to figure out how to ensure you check the small print and all.”
She sputters for a moment, her cheeks flushing with equal parts frustration and disbelief. “Why would you do that?”
I shrug, giving her my best devil-may-care smile. “Two years gives us more time. Time to make this believable. Time to make sure Maple Haven is stable. And time for us to . . .” I trail off, letting my eyes linger on hers. “Enjoy all the benefits of being married.”
Her mouth opens and closes like she’s trying to form a response, but all that comes out is a strangled, “Benefits?”
I lean forward, letting my voice drop just low enough to make her blush deeper. “All the benefits, Galeana. You know, the ones you agreed to.”
She glares at me, her face red as she mutters, “I should’ve amended that stupid contract. Who asks for sex twice a day?”
“Obviously me,” I say. Will we have time for that? Who knows, but I wanted to have something daring in that contract just for kicks.
But as she stands abruptly, muttering something about needing more tea, I find myself watching her walk away and thinking two years might not be long enough.
What the hell is wrong with me?