Chapter 4
TERMS AND CONDITIONS APPLY (WESLEY)
The locker room is chaos after a win. Music, towels snapping, reporters yelling. I shower fast, pull on my suit, stuff the tie into my pocket. My brain is racing ahead to what’s next.
It’s her. Joy. The deal we just made. The fact that in three hours, we’ll be on a plane to Alaska, pretending to be in love.
Out in the tunnel, she’s waiting.
Coat belted, scarf snug at her throat, camera bag slung crossbody, carry-on standing at attention by her boots. She looks mission ready. We mapped the whole thing last night—fast, dumb, certain—the kind of plan you make when the clock is louder than common sense.
“Glad you’re not backing out,” I say.
Her brow arches. “I don’t back out. I win.”
My pulse goes stupid. That line should not make me want to pin her against the nearest wall, but it does.
I snag her carry-on before she can argue, and we step into the December night. Cold bites my face. Christmas lights blink. She hums under her breath—steady, relaxed.
A black SUV slides to the curb. We climb in, city streaking past the windows. She doesn’t waste time.
“Let’s set some rules,” she says, pulling out her phone. “We’ll need them.”
“Got a list?” I grin. “Nerd.”
“Obviously.” She scrolls, voice crisp. “Rule one: no falling in love. Nonnegotiable.”
“That’s not rule one,” I say. “Rule one is lots of PDA. Bristol Bay is full of gossips.”
She blinks. “Define lots.”
“Hand-holding. Hugging. Kissing. Constant skin-on-skin.” I keep my face straight while my brain files a panic report. If we’re going to sell this to my folks and Hannah, I’m going to be all over her in public.
“You could have led with that,” she says.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Her ears go pink. She types something into her phone, then, “Fine. Rule two: no sex.”
I choke, recover. “Okay.”
Monk mode it is. Public cuddles, zero follow-through. I can do that. I’m a professional athlete—I have discipline.
I’m so fucked.
“Rule three: no telling teammates or staff.”
Then I lay down the one that matters. “All the time, Joy. In public, we’re on.”
She swallows. “All the time.”
Traffic crawls. Red lights paint the dash. My palms sweat. Blood roars in my ears.
She grabs her phone and types fast—thumbs flying—then hesitates, staring at the screen.
“You didn’t tell your family yet?”
She shakes her head.
“You don’t have to call right now,” I say.
“It’s better if I do it now.” A smirk plays on her face. “Besides, this is exactly what’s expected of me, right?”
She hits call and puts it on speaker.
“Darling.” Her mother’s voice could cut glass even through the static.
“Hi, Mother. Quick note, I’m not coming home on the twenty-fifth. I’m spending Christmas in Alaska…with my fiancé.”
Silence. The kind that has weight.
“Your what?”
“My fiancé. Wesley Kane. You’ll meet him at the opera on the twenty-seventh. Let the trustees know. I texted Lila the details. Love you. Bye.”
She hangs up before her mother can fire back. The phone starts buzzing again. She silences it, drops it into her bag, and exhales—a quiet, satisfied rush.
Then her fingers find mine. The move is casual enough to fool a stranger. Her palm fits too perfectly, her thumb brushing once, twice before she looks up.
The city lights slide across her face—gold, shadow, gold again. Her pupils are dark, huge. Her lips part slightly, and I track the movement like it’s a puck dropping.
“Wesley?”
“Yeah?”
She sneaks a peek at my mouth. There’s a question there.
“Might as well practice now, right?”
The words barely register before she fists the front of my coat and leans in. A quick press of her lips on mine, a moment of lingering where she searches my eyes, light and testing.
I freeze.
Tick. Tock. Boom.
Instinct detonates. I catch her jaw, pull her closer, swallow the startled breath that slips from her. She opens for me, and that’s it—everything I’ve been holding back since that damn dance snaps. Her tongue brushes mine, her fist knots in my collar, and the sound she makes rips through me.
My heart nearly detaches itself, it’s pounding so hard.
I’m wrecked. Every nerve lit, every thought stripped to need. I taste pure sorcery. My hand tangles in her hair. I want her under me, against me, out of the damn coat that’s in my way.
A taste of cocoa lingers, her perfume clings to my skin, her breath shudders against me when I tilt deeper. For a second I swear I could live right here, between heartbeats, with her breath on mine and the world locked outside.
The driver clears his throat.
Reality sucker-punches me.
I tear away, chest heaving. She doesn’t look fazed; she bites my bottom lip on her way out of the kiss, smooths her coat, and says, brisk as hell, “This will do.”
No. This will not fucking do.
Because somewhere in the last thirty seconds, this stopped being about Hannah. Stopped being about proving anything to anyone back home.
This is about the way Joy tastes of cocoa and trouble. The way she looks at me like I’m solid ground.
I try to remember how to breathe while she scrolls her phone casually, as if she hadn’t just shifted the axis of my world.
She won’t look at me. Her cheeks are pink, her breathing not quite steady.
My skin tingles. My heart won’t settle.
She’s in my bloodstream already.
LaGuardia is holiday hell—Santa hats, crying toddlers, rolling suitcases clipping ankles. We weave through the mess, me hauling her bag, her boots sharp against the tile.
Then I stop dead in front of an airport jeweler. Bright lights, glass cases full of diamonds.
Joy frowns. “Wesley. No—”
“We need proof,” I cut in. “A ring.”
“We could get something cheap. This is just for a few days. A costume jewelry place. Or, I don’t know, a Ring Pop.”
“A Ring Pop.”
“It’s economical!”
“Joy.” I steer her toward the door. “My hometown gossips for sport. They’ll spot a fake diamond from the parking lot.”
“This is insane—”
“If we’re doing this,” I say, gaze locked on the case, “we’re doing it right.”
The clerk lays out trays. I point to a classic round cut, platinum band. Clean, brilliant, stupidly expensive. The kind you don’t fake with.
Joy stares. “You can’t be serious—”
I catch her palm before she can yank it away. Slide it on. Perfect fit. For a second, everything stops. The airport noise fades. My heart kicks once, hard.
This is supposed to be fake. A prop. But looking at that diamond on her finger, I feel like I just jumped out of a plane without checking for a parachute.
“Do you like it?”
She blinks, startled. For once, she doesn’t have a comeback. “It’s...beautiful,” she says finally, voice unsteady.
Good enough for me. My card hits the counter before she can protest again. The clerk beams and hurries away.
Joy stares at her hand. “This is too much.”
“It’s a loan,” I lie. “We’ll return it after.”
But even as I say it, something possessive and primitive coils in my chest. The idea of her taking this ring off—of another man putting a different one on—makes my jaw lock.
She keeps staring at it, working through an equation only she can see. I take her wrist, thumb settling over it.
“For the girl who counts slow, slow, quick-quick,” I grin. “And makes me look like I know what I’m doing.”
Her throat works. “Wesley—”
“It’s just a prop,” I lie. “For the show.”
But the way her pulse jumps under my thumb says she knows I’m full of shit.
Boarding call. Jet bridge. We turn left. First class.
Her eyebrow lifts. “This is how we fly?”
“I play professional hockey,” I say simply.
We settle into wide leather seats. Champagne flutes wait on the console. She buckles in, still staring at the band.
The plane hums back from the gate. She shifts, thigh brushing mine. Doesn’t move away. Neither do I.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dmitri:
Big Russian: Saw you leave the arena with Joy. Bags packed. Are you eloping?
I nearly choke on air.
Me: What? No.
Big Russian: Then what?
I glance at Joy, her hand with the ring resting on the armrest between us.
Rule three: no telling teammates.
But I also can’t lie to Dmitri. The man has a sixth sense for bullshit.
Me: Going home. She’s meeting my family.
Big Russian: !!!!!
Big Russian: KANE brINGS GIRL HOME. This is BIG.
Me: Don’t tell anyone.
Big Russian: Who would I tell? Santa? Your secret is safe. Besides, Alaska and Russia—neighbors, da? We keep each other’s cold secrets. And Wesley, this is good, yes?
I look at the weight on her finger, at the way she’s curled against me, trusting me completely.
Me: It’s complicated. And good.
Big Russian: Then do not ruin it. I am watching you, Alaska Bear.
I pocket my phone, half smiling despite myself.
The flight attendant brings blankets. Joy accepts one with a quiet thank you, then shifts closer—not dramatically, just a lean that brings her shoulder against mine.
“Tired?” I ask.
“Long day.” She settles, her breathing evening out. I cover her fingers with mine. She doesn’t wake, just shifts closer, her temple resting against my shoulder.
Fake, I tell myself. It’s pretend.
But that feels like the biggest lie of all.
Because somewhere between the Rockefeller bench and this airplane seat, between “deal” and the way she kissed me in the car, I stopped pretending.
The plane climbs into the dark. Below us, the city glows, a thousand lights strung together
I close my eyes and let myself have this: her warmth, her trust, the ring on her finger that’s supposed to be temporary but feels anything but.
For two days, she’s mine.
And if I do this right, she won’t want it to end.