Chapter 3
Jaxon
As I grin at her, she throws her head back and laughs, streetlights spilling through the windshield and catching the highlights in her hair. “That’s what you took from that story?” she asks, voice teasing.
“Well, I mean. Yeah. If you’re going to make it all about me…”
She laughs harder, the sound curling in my stomach like warm whiskey. “You hockey players and your healthy egos.” She shakes her head, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek, but her eyes flick sideways at me, sparkling. She knows I’m playing.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, flicking on my blinker. I’m not one of those guys who struts around like he’s king of the rink, cock of the walk. I’ve never been the knight in shining armor type. Or any kind of prince. So what I’m about to do is way off brand.
“Anyway,” I begin, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “We were talking about hot coffee shop guy.”
“Matt,” she says softly, watching the scenery blur by outside her window.
“Right. So, uh, this is going to sound a bit odd…”
Her lips quirk. “I’m a reporter, Jax. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard and seen it all.”
I cut a glance at her, taking in the way she’s sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, one hand resting on her knee, the other absently fiddling with the vent.
“Okay, what if we play a game.”
Her brows rise. “What kind of game?”
“Well, something to get his attention. Something to show him just how stupid he was to stand you up.”
Something warm flickers across her eyes. She twists in her seat so she’s facing me more fully, her knee bumping the console. “You think he was stupid?”
“Fucking right I do.” I glance at her, then back at the road, my thumb worrying the seam of the steering wheel. “Any guy with half a brain cell would jump at the chance to date you.”
“Would you?” The words slip out of her like a reflex. The second they’re in the air, her eyes go wide. “I’m only asking for research purposes,” she adds quickly, lifting both palms. “It’s the reporter in me. I don’t want to date you, Jaxon. You’re my friend and that would be weird.”
“Weird,” I echo, but my grip on the wheel tightens. My body disagrees, a slow heat pooling low, and my cock—traitorous bastard—shifts against the seam of my jeans. When did weird start sounding so damn good?
She goes quiet, chewing her bottom lip, then her eyes brighten with realization. “Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting we continue to pretend to be a couple to make him jealous.”
“You’re quick, Rowyn.”
She exhales a slow, low whistle. “Okay, so color me wrong. I haven’t seen or heard it all.” She wiggles in her seat, crossing her legs the other way, the leather squeaking softly. “Take a left up here.”
I flick the blinker and steer, the car humming as we coast into a quieter street lined with maples.
“You think it could really work?” she asks after a beat.
“I don’t know.” I glance at her again, her profile sharp against the window light. “But if you have a handsome—your words not mine—hockey player drooling all over you, I’m sure hot coffee shop guy will stand up and take notice.”
She tilts her head, biting back a smile. “Drool? If there’s going to be drool involved, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
I bark a laugh, the sound rougher than I intend. “Not real drool or slobber,” I assure her.
“Oh, well. I’d never say no to slobber.”
The image she plants in my head makes me choke on a laugh, yet my cock thickens even more, my brain tossing out all kinds of suggestions I’m absolutely not allowed to act on. Not with her. Not now.
“Jaxon.”
“Yeah?” My voice comes out lower than I mean.
Her fingers twist the edge of her sweater. “Why would you do this for me?”
The question hangs between us for a moment. Why would I do something like this?
It’s not because I enjoyed being with her tonight—though I did. Too much, maybe. It’s not because I liked the banter, or the way she makes it so damn easy to just be myself when everyone else wants the larger-than-life version of me. No, that can’t be it.
It’s because Snowberry is small. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.
And Rowyn… she’s had it rougher than most. No father.
A mother who carried anger like other people carry purses—always at her side, ready to use.
An obedient daughter who had to excel at everything she touched, because failure was never an option.
But tonight—tonight I saw something else.
Cracks in her armor. A glimpse beneath that polished, unflappable exterior.
And it hit me that maybe she was the model student, the perfect daughter, the picture of control not because she wanted to be, but because she had to be.
Maybe she needed to prove something, justify something, in ways I can’t fully understand.
What I do know is this, she’s always been there for me.
And if there’s anyone on this earth who deserves a happily-ever-after, it’s her.
I don’t see that kind of ending for myself—not anymore.
But for her? I’d fight for it. Maybe that’s why a part of me wants to help—so I can see it happen for someone else, even if it never will for me.
“You’d do it for me,” is all I say, because anything more would sound too much like a confession.
Her lips curve, teasing as always, though her eyes soften. “Somehow I doubt you’d need a wing woman, Jaxon.” She winks, playfully. “Not with being so hot.”
“Oh, handsome and now hot,” I tease back, but there’s a warmth in my chest I can’t laugh off.
She laughs, and even in the dim glow of the dashboard, I swear I catch the faintest pink in her cheeks. “I meant handsome.”
“Right. It’s coffee shop guy who’s hot.”
“Take another left,” she says quickly, pointing toward a tall, narrow home tucked behind an overgrown hedge. “I’m right there.”
I slow the car and take in the place as we pull into her driveway. “Nice place.”
“It’s older, but it’s mine.” She hugs her purse to her chest like it’s proof of all her hard work. Quiet pride shines in her voice.
Something in me stirs. I know what it’s like to work for something no one thought you’d get, to build a life with your own two hands. Seeing that same pride on her face—yeah, it does things to me I don’t want to name.
“Want to come in? See the place?”
“Sure,” I say after a beat, not even pretending to resist. “If you’re not too tired.”
“Not too tired for the guy who’s going to help me.” She tilts her chin, half-smile tugging at her lips. “Also, I want to cook you dinner sometime. As a thank you.”
“I’m not going to say no to that.”
She smirks knowingly. “Because you’re a bachelor who lives off frozen and boxed food.”
If she only knew the truth. “Something like that,” I mutter.
She slips from the car with the kind of energy that makes me forget that it’s been a long-ass day. I follow her up the walkway, the night air cool, the quiet of the neighborhood wrapping around us. She fishes in her purse for her keys, the porch light casting a warm glow over her.
“Have you lived here long?” I ask, trying to fill the silence, but also because I want to know more about her life in the city.
“Just a couple of years. I was in an apartment for a while. I got a great promotion at work, and it allowed me to move out of the downtown core and into my own place.”
There’s that pride again, threaded with independence. And as she pushes the key into the lock, I realize something dangerous. I like this side of her—this softer, unguarded version that doesn’t show itself to just anyone.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s why I’m not quite ready to go another year before we see each other again.
She struggles with her door for a minute.
I’m about to ask if I can help when it finally swings open and she steps inside, the faintest draft curling past me before the warmth of her place greets me.
I follow, and right away I catch the scent of vanilla—soft, sweet, the kind of smell that makes a space feel lived in.
“It’s small,” she says, as she sets her keys on the little table by the door. “It still needs a ton of work.” She laughs and points to the windows. “The main level windows have been painted shut over the years, but I don’t mind. It makes me feel safer living alone.”
I let my gaze travel as we move through the main level.
Small, yes, and while I expected it to be overstuffed with her things, it’s rather…
empty. Her living room is lined with tall bookshelves that look well-worn and loved, spines of paperbacks and hardcovers tucked every which way.
But there are no pictures of her childhood or family.
Just a few landscapes, each one with its own mood, its own light.
I stop, drawn to them. “Did you take these?”
Her voice softens. “I enjoy photography. It’s a hobby.”
“These are really good,” I tell her honestly, leaning in to study one of a lake at sunset, water caught in that perfect shimmer of gold. “If you ever give up the journalist gig…” I trail off, teasing, but the smile on my face falters when I catch the flicker in hers.
It’s small, the kind of thing most people might miss—the tightening around her mouth, the way her eyes shift away too quickly. But I see it. I feel it.
She loves her job… right? I’ve always assumed she did. You can’t be that sharp, that relentless, that good at something unless you love it. I’m pretty sure of that. And yet, the shadow that passed over her just now makes me wonder if I’ve stepped too close to something she’s keeping tucked away.
“Thanks,” she says after a moment, her voice light but just a touch too careful, like she’s steering us back to safer ground.
I want to press, to ask what that look meant, but I hesitate. It’s not my business, but I can’t help but want to understand the parts of her she doesn’t show the world—the doubts, the cracks, the pieces hidden behind the confident headlines she writes.
“Do you have any other hobbies?” I ask.
“I actually really enjoy drawing.”
“Really? What kind of things do you draw?”
“Animals, landscapes.” She crinkles her nose. “Not much time for it, though.”
She steps closer, and maybe it’s only me—but the air shifts. Tension sparks, sliding through me and waking up a hunger I haven’t felt in a long time.
“Drink?” she asks, shifting the topic of conversation.
I drag in a breath. “I should probably get going. Rest day tomorrow and then a game on Sunday.”
Her lips curve. “Congratulations on your team’s standings. You’re going to make the finals. I can feel it.”
That catches me. “You’ve been watching?”
“Of course,” she says, like it’s obvious. “I have to root for my homeboy.”
“Handsome homeboy,” I correct, which makes her laugh.
But then I go serious. “Sunday’s game again Montreal is crucial. We’re currently tied.”
“I know. I love the new lineup with you and Penn playing together.”
I grin, surprised and a little impressed. “You know your hockey.”
She laughs lightly. “You don’t grow up in Snowberry Falls and not know a thing or two about hockey.”
“What are you doing Sunday?” I ask, the words out before I’ve fully thought them through.
She taps her chin, mock-serious. “Hmm. Let me think.” Then she grins and points to a cushioned chair by the fire. “Sitting there, watching you play.”
“Forget that.” My voice drops, more certain now. “Come to the game. Sit with the WAGs in the box.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“Of course. Give Jaylynn a call and I’ll talk to Penn.” I nudge her gently, playful, though my chest is tight with something else. “As my girlfriend, I’d love to have you come. Plus this will really help seal the deal that we’re a couple, for the ruse, of course.”
Her gaze lingers on me, skeptical, searching. “And how exactly is this helping me with hot guy at the coffee shop?”
Shit. Right. That.
For a second I honestly forgot what this whole charade was supposed to be about.
“Let’s just hope he watches hockey and follows the players,” I say, though the words feel thin compared to the weight of the moment between us.
“If we’re seen together after the game, someone’s bound to post a picture.
That’ll get his attention.” I exhale slowly.
“I get asked all the time why I’m still single, so if I’m seen with you, that’s going to raise questions. ”
“Most eligible bachelor,” she teases softly, but then her hand lands gently on my arm. Her touch is light, but it burns straight through my skin. “Jax, I can’t say I blame you. After…”
Her words trail off, and she doesn’t need to finish.
The memory is there between us anyway—the engagement disaster, the public fallout, the whispers and headlines.
My jaw tightens. Christ, Ember had even shown up at Christmas, like she had any right.
Thank God the people of Snowberry Falls are protective. Boston isn’t so forgiving.
Any time I did hook up here, I kept it hidden. Meeting in shadows, sneaking around. Nothing about it ever felt good, and after a while it just felt… empty. Wrong. So I stopped.
Still, standing here in her little living room, vanilla in the air, I can’t ignore the part of me that aches.
That wants. Not just the physical stuff, though God knows it’s been a while.
No, what I crave is what I see in my teammates’ lives—the steady hand on their arm, the way someone’s face lights up when they walk into the room.
I fill my hours with hobbies, with distractions, with the game that has always carried me. But none of it touches the hollow place inside me that longs for something more. Everything more.
And for the first time in a long while, as I stand here with Rowyn, I feel dangerously close to remembering what that could look like.
Not good, dude. Not good at all.