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Recipe (For Disaster)
Last Updated:
2025-04-15 14:03:47
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Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Plan B + Author’s Note
EMILIAIt’s kind of amazing, honestly — how every step hurts like I’m walking on nails. I can barely breathe by the time I flip the sign to CLOSED and collapse into the nearest chair. It’s not even noon.“I think I need to hire help,” I mutter, tying my curls into a messy knot. It’s freezing outside — cold enough to make my toes ache — but I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon through hell.Tessa slides in, clocking me from behind her phone. “Finally decided to stop being a cheapskate?” She snorts, but whatever she sees on my face makes her dial it back. She puts the phone down, opens the crumpled paper bag she brought for lunch. The smell alone is enough to make my stomach growl.“Okay, okay,” Tessa says, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll stop laughing. It’s just... shocking. I always figured you’d rather keel over on the bakery floor than hire help and part with money.”I roll my eyes, but my attention shifts fast as she pulls out containers of steaming food and hands
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Put The Wine Down
EMILIAI don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the spot Diana just left.Everything feels unreal — like the air’s been punched out of the room and hasn’t returned. I clench my fists, willing myself to move, and head for Tessa’s room.I try not to think about what Diana said. Try not to picture her face. Try not to feel anything at all.When I reach the door, I notice the lock — turned from the outside. The key’s still in the handle. All I have to do is twist it.I open the door.Tessa’s on the floor, legs crossed, laptop balanced on her knees. Reading glasses perched on her nose. She squints at me.“You’re dressed up,” she says, dryly. “So I’m guessing the surprise went well? I’m also guessing you got rid of the psychopath? I would’ve called you, but she took my phone like I was being punished.”I don’t answer. Just move to the ground beside her, awkward in my dress. I smooth it out and lean over to peek at her screen.“Are you working?”“Was.” She lets out a small sigh and cl
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Slab Of Man-god
DIANAI have no one to blame but myself.This is what happens when you overestimate people. Emilia really is as pitiful as I remembered — not even interesting enough to provoke. Just exhausting.I’m already heading for the elevator when I text Amanda.> You have three minutes to get a car and prep the jet. Miss that window, and start rewriting your CV.I don’t care how impossible it is — that’s what she gets for spying on me and not having the brains to do it right. No job that involves me is easy.As I near the elevator, the doors slide open and someone steps out — tall, broad, hoodie up, arms full. A bouquet of slightly wilted flowers in one hand, greasy paper bag in the other. It smells like overpriced pasta.I pause, tilt my head.So this is the idiot who’s been pacing outside like a lost mutt.I should ignore him. I almost do. But then I feel it — that tight coil behind my ribs. Not curiosity. Not interest. Just pure, sharp irritation.And I act on it.He doesn’t see me until I r
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Foolish, Foolish Older Sister
EMILIAThe rage comes in waves — sharp, hot, impossible to swallow. Diana doesn’t even flinch. She sips her water like we’re talking about the weather, eyes locked on me like she’s measuring the exact second I’ll snap.And suddenly, I’m not here anymore. I’m thirteen again, watching a younger Diana scream because the housekeeper trampled her strawberry garden. She’d nearly burned the woman with a curling iron. She didn’t cry, didn’t throw a tantrum. Just calmly cornered her and flipped the switch.Mum and Dad sent her to therapy. She came back quieter. Smarter. But she never stopped believing she was right.“Bad actions should have bad consequences,” she used to say, like it was simple maths. “Good actions should have good ones. That’s fair.”She was never cruel for no reason. That’s what made her dangerous.“It must be the curse of brilliance,” Luther used to joke. “Her brain works too fast to make room for empathy.”He didn’t know how right he was.I take a breath. Then another. “So
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Where's The Camera?
EMILIALiam watches me walk into Tessa’s building like he’s sending his kid off to boarding school. Like he’s still half-ready to circle back and kidnap me.We’d grabbed ice cream after the speakeasy, but it got late fast — and he has practice tomorrow — so I’d practically shoved him into driving me home. He spent the ride working in every excuse to remind me that I have a spare key to his place. That I could just come back with him. Permanently. No pressure, of course. Just a lifelong commitment.I say no every time.Maybe — maybe — I’ll think about it in a few months. Right now, it’s too early, too intense, and I’m still getting used to the part where someone actually loves me out loud.I’m still smiling when I reach Tessa’s floor. I tap my key card, push the door open, and step inside.Something’s off.I frown as I kick the door shut behind me, the dress clinging to my legs, my heels unforgiving. “Tessa? Did you get new furniture or something?” I ask absently, reaching for the ligh
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Husband Material
LIAMThe lights dim a little more just as Mar steps onto the stage, and immediately, the room changes.He doesn’t say a word. Just lifts the violin to his shoulder, settles it under his chin, and starts to play.Mar picked up the violin out of pure boredom. There’s no dramatic backstory. Just something to do when I was off at hockey camp and he wasn’t sitting in the bleachers at my games. Julie — in one of her endless phases — had tried and failed to learn it, guilt-tripped our mom into buying the thing, then tossed it at Mar one summer like a frisbee. Said he had pretty hands. Figured he might as well give it a shot.Funny how fate works out.I’ve heard him play a hundred times. Still guts me every time.The first notes are soft, just barely there — like he’s warming up, like the song’s still making its way through him. But then the bow finds its rhythm, and the room shifts. Everything slows down. Conversations trail off mid-sentence. Glasses are lowered. Even forks hang in the air,
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