Chapter 8 Boone
There’s no way.
There’s no fucking way that this isn’t the same Rose who gave me a lap dance less than two weeks ago.
I narrow my eyes, studying her face head-on now.
In the club, it had been mostly her side profile—turned away as she grinded against me, making me regret every damn ounce of self-control I’d ever learned.
Yeah, it was dark in there, but when she spun around, straddling me like no woman should ever straddle a man fresh off a career win, testosterone coursing through my blood with nowhere to go, trying to keep his gentlemanly reputation intact, I’d gotten a full, unfiltered view of her face.
This is her. It has to be.
I feel like I’m losing my mind. Was I being gaslit by everyone in that board room? Do they all know something that I don’t? Why the hell was she dancing at a strip club on beginners’ night going by ‘Rose?’
And now, here she is, presenting herself as a lawyer at a prestigious entertainment law firm in New York City.
Maybe she has a twin.
“So, our first appearance as husband and wife will be this weekend after your game.”
Her voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She’s typing something on the tablet in front of her, swiping with the kind of confidence that screams this—whatever this is—is her real career.
A sharp, polished professional lawyer. Every movement, every word she speaks, it’s all calculated.
She’s not just pretending to belong here; she does.
The contrast between this buttoned-up, strictly business version of her and the one in New Jersey where the lights were dim, her hair was untamed, and her eyes were fiery is so stark it’s unnerving.
She’s still refusing to look at me and it’s bothering me. Like she can’t be troubled to give me her full attention, and this is all some sort of business deal to her.
I guess it is.
“Cain will bring the paperwork in a few minutes,” she continues, her tone matter of fact.
“Once we sign, he’ll file it with the clerks.
It’ll be official tomorrow morning, which means the gossip channels monitoring courthouse filings and marriages will likely break the story by this weekend.
I’ll need to attend your home game on Saturday in the city. ”
I nod, wetting my lips to stall while my brain plays catch-up.
My family has a reserved seat for every game, but it's rarely, if ever, filled. Both of my brothers are professional hockey players too, and with my mom’s declining health lately, she doesn’t travel down from Canada much to watch me play.
The seat being empty and available won’t be a problem.
“I’ll make sure the box office has your name for my seat,” I manage. “Unless you’d rather sit in the sky box with the other…” I hesitate, the words catching as I try to process this bizarre situation. “…girlfriends and, um, player’s wives.”
She nods again, still not looking up at me. “The seat is fine.”
I want to see her eyes—those soft, green eyes and that mouth that I haven't stopped thinking about since that night. Her heart-shaped lips had kept me in a trance, replaying the way they curved when she smiled and the way they felt when they got close to my neck as she moved.
Penn was right. Never fall in love with a stripper. Or correction: a dancer. And I hadn’t fallen in love, but I hadn’t forgotten about her either.
But dammit. Seeing her right now has me right back in that chair in the club.
“Okay, so after the game, we’ll head to dinner. I’ll have one of the PR interns make reservations at a spot that’s popular with athletes and paparazzi. That way we get photographed. Will dinner be a problem if you lose?”
My brows drop instantly. “If I lose? I don’t go into a game thinking I’m going to lose it.”
She sighs, clearly trying to recalibrate. “Sorry. Right. Of course you wouldn’t be thinking about that. I’m not used to working with athletes. I just want to make sure nothing messes up our plans if, you know, things don’t go as... expected.”
I shake my head, a small smirk tugging at my lips. “I’ll be at dinner. Win or lose.”
“Great,” she says, typing something on her tablet. “That’s when I’ll be wearing my ring for the first time in public.”
“Your… ring?” I echo, unsure how we jumped to this next level. Skip dating, skip a proposal, skip a wedding. Straight to wedding rings and carefully curated paparazzi photos.
She nods calmly, but before I can press her further on where this ring is coming from, the door to the conference room swings open. Her older brother Cain—my new lawyer—steps inside, holding a folder in one hand and a small box in the other.
“Here’s the paperwork for you both to sign.”
He slides two copies across the table. The documents are straightforward: legal jargon confirming that we’re entering a binding marriage recognized by the state of New York.
There’s a section where Rosie can indicate whether she wants to change her last name, but it’s already crossed out with a giant blue X. I almost laugh imagining her father doing that part with a growl, but I keep my mouth shut.
I sign first, the pen heavy in my hand as if it knows I’m signing my life away. Rosie doesn’t hesitate when it’s her turn. Her hand moves swiftly, no second-guessing, no pause, as if she’s done this a hundred times before.
And I sure as hell hope she hasn't.
When we’re done, Cain slides a blue velvet box across the table. The unmistakable very expensive jewelry brand logo that’s located on 5th Avenue is stamped across the top.
Rosie freezes for just a fraction of a second—the first crack I’ve seen in her armor all day—then lets out a quiet sigh as she flips the box open to look inside.
“Cain…”
Her brother nods, a silent exchange passing between them. Some hidden communication I can’t even begin to decipher.
“What’s going on?” I ask, glancing between them. “Is it her mother’s ring or something?” I try to piece it together, but I’ve got nothing. These two operate on a wavelength I’ve never experienced. If I didn’t already know that Cain was older than her, I’d assume they were twins.
Rosie just shakes her head and slides the ring onto her finger without another word. Then she snaps the box shut with more force than necessary and shoves it back at Cain.
“Nothing,” she mutters, voice tight.
Cain collects the paperwork, his expression serious as he levels me with a look that could cut steel.
“You’ll be legally married by morning,” he says coolly.
“Start acting like it. And while you’re at it, think about my sister’s reputation here too.
If you screw this up or get into any more trouble, it’s not just your name on the line anymore. It’s hers. Got it?”
I hold up my hands in mock surrender, trying not to roll my eyes.
“Damn, for a fake marriage, this feels an awful lot like a real one. Already getting bitched out and threatened by my new brother-in-law. Can’t wait for family Christmas dinner when I’m the butt of every joke.
And why does everyone think I'm going to mess this up?”
Cain shakes his head and leaves the room without answering me.
The moment he’s gone I shift my attention back to Rosie.
“Your brother seems charming. Can’t wait to bond with him.”
She has the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips, like she’s trying not to laugh.
“I’m glad you find this funny.”
The smile drops instantly. “Cain’s only concern is getting your case dropped and protecting our reputations.”
Yeah, I don’t think that’s his only concern.
“You know,” I say, rubbing my jaw as I rise to my feet, “the dancer you reminded me of—her stage name was Rose. I find it funny that your name is Rosie. That’s quite a close match, don’t you think?”
Her smile falters for the briefest moment before she straightens her posture, lifting her chin slightly as she meets my gaze. “Funny,” she says, her voice even and giving nothing away. “Must be a coincidence.”
I lean across the table, not willing to drop things that easily, "No, I really don't think it is a coincidence at all."
She shrugs, not meeting my gaze as she continues to shuffle some paperwork and slides her tablet into her briefcase with a click.
"You’re telling me you don't have a sister who lives in Hoboken?"
"No. It's just Cain and me."
“And you’ve never been to Hoboken to visit?”
“I never said that.”
My eyes narrow. "Ever danced on a pole while visiting the city?"
"Are you asking me if I've swung around a metal pole? Because if so, I do that every time I see a streetlight in New York City. I swing around it like I'm in a Hallmark movie with a smile on my face while singing a song."
My eyes narrow as I glare. She rolls her eyes and lets out a soft sigh.
“I think you should give this whole thing a rest. It’s a common thing for someone to have a look-alike. Also, the women who work in places like that prefer the term dancers, not strippers as you so lovingly called me a few minutes ago when I first walked into the boardroom.”
I straighten, eyes narrowing as I study her. She meets my gaze confidently now, not willing to crack.
“Okay then.” She rises to her feet. “We have a plan for this weekend. We’ll meet Saturday at your game, have dinner afterward to show the world that we’re married and in love, and then follow it up with a few more public appearances and outings while Cain works on your case behind the scenes.
By the end of March, we’ll divorce publicly and all should be well with your reputation and career with the Mayhem. Any last questions?”
Yeah, I’ve got questions.
Like how the hell are you able to treat all this so casually? So… robotically.
And why won’t you admit to me that you’re Rose?
And why does it even matter to me that you’re the same woman from that night?
But instead of voicing any of those, I say, “No. I’ve got it.”
She smiles, nodding like I’ve just given the correct answer on some test, then extends her hand across the table.
I shake it, my palm engulfing hers, and for the second time today, I’m struck by how soft and smooth her skin is.
She’s left-handed—something I’d noticed earlier—and so am I so weirdly this works.
It’s a great trait for a hockey player, but right now it means I get the full feel of that wedding ring on her finger.
I hate it.
The ring doesn’t fit her at all. It’s too gaudy, too impersonal, and something about seeing her wearing it grates on me in a way that I can’t explain.
Maybe that’s why she doesn’t seem to like it either. Or maybe she does, and I’m just projecting because I always imagined I'd be the one to put the ring on my wife's finger not her.
Hell, I have no clue. All I know is that if it were up to me, I’d have picked something completely different for her. Something softer and much more unique. Perhaps, even something with a bit of color like her.
Her hand lingers in mine for just a beat too long, and when I glance up, her expression has shifted. There’s a look behind her eyes, something tugging at the edges of her carefully composed mask.
Secrets. She’s got them.
And I’d bet my career they’re heavy like mine. But the difference is, mine are mostly out in the open, available to search for online. I get the feeling she keeps hers tucked away behind her carefully controlled expression.
“See you Saturday, Boone,” she says, her tone light and professional. Gone is the heat. Back is the mask.
Then she drops my hand like it burns her and walks out of the conference room without a single glance back.