As for me? I’m perched on a barstool, sipping tea and trying not to feel completely useless. Every time I so much as glance toward the flour, Aiden shoots me a look that says sit down and stay out of my way.
“So,” Aiden says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp as she smooths a layer of fondant over one of the cake tiers. “Tell me about this Ledger guy.”
“Can we not?”
“Oh, we absolutely can,” she replies, smirking as she rolls the fondant cutter along the edges. “You’re marrying him in, what, two days? I need details.”
“It’s a business arrangement,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. “He’s irritating and smug and?—”
“Hot,” Aiden interrupts. “I googled him. He’s a former hockey player. A very hot hockey player.”
“He’s a what?” I blink.
“You didn’t know?”
I barely know my future husband. Maybe we should sit down and talk about that, get to know each other before the big day. At least there won’t be a test after the ceremony to prove that we love each other or we would fail miserably.
Phone already in hand, I pull up a quick search. Ledger Timberbridge. There he is—six-foot-two of smug perfection, broad shoulders filling out a Seattle Summits jersey, helmet casually tucked under one arm, and that infuriating smirk plastered across his annoyingly perfect face.
Something unsettles in me, like a hiccup in my pulse.
“That’s him,” I mumble, scrolling through the article.
Ledger Timberbridge, former star power forward of the Seattle Summits. His career is over due to a devastating shoulder injury.
I stare at the screen longer than I mean to, at that photo of him mid-game—fluid motion, unrelenting confidence, like nothing could ever knock him down. It’s strange how someone can look so alive in one moment and feel like a shadow of themselves in the next.
I flip the phone face down, a flicker of guilt worming its way in. I remember the way his voice changed when he mentioned losing his career—so brief, I almost missed it—and the hint of something deeper when he spoke about his mother. The kind of loss you don’t just get over, no matter how many years pass.
And maybe that’s what gets to me.
Ledger carries himself like the world hasn’t touched him, but people like that—they’re usually the ones it’s bruised the most. It’s in the slight edge to his words, the way his gaze holds you at arm’s length, as if getting too close might expose something he doesn’t want seen.
Why do I even care? He’s smug, infuriating, and probably impossible to please. But it’s hard not to see the cracks once you’ve noticed them.
And now I’m thinking about him—about that jersey and the life that used to fit him so perfectly—and I can’t shake the thought that he’s spent years trying to grow into something else.
Stop it,I tell myself, pushing the image away. Ledger Timberbridge isn’t someone I need to know or . . . well, he’s definitely not mine to fix. And not someone I should be losing my focus over.
But even as I sip my tea, the taste a little off, I can’t help it. For just a moment, I wonder what Ledger might look like if he let the world in again—if he stopped wearing that careful mask and let himself just be.
ChapterNineteen
Ledger
The Doherty mansionis 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.
