Chapter 2 Rory's Pov

By six forty-three, I had tried on six outfits and hated every single version of myself.

The black dress made me look like I was attending a funeral which, to be fair, was close enough. The red one looked like I was trying too hard. The jeans said I had not tried at all. The cream blouse looked too soft like something a woman wore when she wanted to be liked.

I did not want to be liked.

Especially not by Jaxon Kane.

I stood in front of my mirror wearing dark trousers, a fitted white top and a black jacket that said I had made an effort but would deny it under oath. My hair was down which was a mistake. Then I tied it up which was worse. Then I let it down again and glared at my reflection like she had personally betrayed me.

This was ridiculous.

It was fake.

It was business.

It was six months of pretending not to hate the man who had spent two years making my life on the Titans feel like a punishment.

The first day I walked into the Titans’ training facility, every man in that locker room had looked at me like I was either a joke or a problem. Some had smirked. Some had looked away. Some had stared too long while trying to decide where I fit in a world that had not been built to hold me.

But Jaxon had been different.

For one second, when his eyes first landed on me, I had not seen anger. I had seen surprise. Something sharp and unreadable had passed over his face, something almost like recognition as if I had stepped out of a thought he never wanted to admit he had.

Then it vanished. His eyes then turned cold, his mouth flattened and he looked me over like I was an error in the roster.

That was the Jaxon Kane I knew.

That was the Jaxon Kane I needed to remember when my doorbell rang at exactly seven.

I grabbed my purse and opened the door with my best expression of mild violence.

Unfortunately, Jaxon Kane was standing on the other side looking like a luxury advertisement with anger issues.

The suit should have been illegal. That was the first thought that came to me. It was dark charcoal, perfectly cut, fitting his broad shoulders like it had been sewn by someone who understood danger as an aesthetic. His hair was styled but not too styled and his jaw looked freshly shaved. He smelled faintly expensive. 

Clean. Sharp. Annoying.

His eyes moved over me once. Slowly. It was not in a way that made me feel small but in a way that made me feel seen.

I hated that more.

“You’re late,” I said with a huff. 

He checked his watch. “It is seven.”

“I opened the door at seven-oh-one.”

He rolled his eyes. “Tragic.”

“I could still close it.”

His mouth almost moved with a smile. “You look nice,” he said.

That threw me off so badly I nearly forgot to glare.

“Do not do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say things like that.”

“Compliment you?”

“Lie badly.”

His eyes dipped again, just for a moment. “I do not lie badly.”

Before I could answer, he turned and walked toward the elevator, clearly expecting me to follow. I did, because apparently the evening’s humiliation had only just begun.

Outside, a black car waited at the curb. It was sleek, polished and expensive enough to have its own tax bracket. Jaxon opened the passenger door.

I stopped just then. 

He looked at me with an arched brow. “What?”

“I can open doors.”

“I am aware.”

“Then why are you doing that?”

“Because if someone is watching, I look like a gentleman.”

“You look like a man attempting not to be punched.”

“That can work too.”

I got in because arguing on the sidewalk felt like giving him a victory. The inside of the car smelled like leather and his cologne. It was too quiet, too private and too easy to remember that only yesterday his hands had been on my hips while his voice had brushed my ear. Jaxon slid into the driver’s seat.

“Rules,” he said.

I turned to him. “Excuse me?”

“Rules,” he repeated, starting the car. “No kissing unless cameras are present. No personal questions. No improvising without warning me first. This is business.”

I huffed and folded my arms over my chest. “Fine by me.”

His hand tightened briefly on the steering wheel in response.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Somewhere we will be seen.”

“Of course. God forbid our fake relationship not have witnesses.”

“That is the point of a fake relationship.”

“You have done this before?”

His eyes flicked to me just then. “No personal questions, remember?”

“That was a business question.”

“It sounded personal.”

“It sounded like you were avoiding it.”

He did not answer to that. 

The city slid past the windows in streaks of gold and glass. For a few minutes, neither of us spoke as Jaxon drove. He then reached for the gear shift at the same time I adjusted my purse and his fingers brushed mine.

It was nothing. Barely a touch.

Still, both of us froze for half a second too long.

Then I pulled my hand back and stared out the window like New York traffic had suddenly become fascinating.

Jaxon cleared his throat just then. “Do not read into that,” he said.

“I was not.”

“Good.”

“Were you?”

His jaw ticked in response. I smiled despite myself. 

There it was, I thought. My first victory of the night.

***

The restaurant was the kind of place where the lighting made everyone look rich and emotionally unavailable.

There were photographers outside. Of course there were.

I stopped near the entrance and said dryly, “You tipped them off.”

Jaxon placed his hand lightly at the small of my back. “Lena did.”

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes, “Convenient.”

Jaxon looked at me. “Smile.”

“I am smiling.”

“You look like you are planning a murder.”

“That is my public-friendly smile.”

His fingers pressed once, almost like a warning before he guided me forward. The cameras erupted and flashes burst around us. Jaxon drew closer, his mouth near my ear.

“Try not to look like I kidnapped you,” he murmured.

“No promises.”

To the cameras, he laughed. Actually laughed. The sound moved through me before I could stop it.

Inside, the hostess practically melted when she saw him. I could not even blame her which irritated me on principle. 

Jaxon played the part perfectly. His hand remained at my back. He pulled out my chair. He drew in when I spoke, like every sarcastic thing I said was the most fascinating sentence he had ever heard.

It was disturbing. Very disturbing.

By the time our drinks arrived, I had forgotten twice that I was supposed to hate him.

“So,” he said, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Why hockey?”

I narrowed my eyes. “That sounds dangerously like a personal question.”

“It is controlled curiosity.”

“That is not a thing.”

“It is now.”

I should have ignored him. I should have made a joke, changed the subject or asked him whether his personality had been surgically removed at birth.

Instead, I answered.

“My dad played,” I said.

Jaxon went still in response.

I looked down at my water glass, suddenly annoyed with myself. “Not professionally. College, then amateur leagues. But to me, he was better than anyone on television. He taught me how to skate before I could spell my own name.”

Jaxon said nothing.

“He died when I was twelve,” I continued because apparently my mouth had decided to ruin my life. “Car accident. After that, hockey was…” I swallowed. “It was the last thing we shared.”

I looked up and immediately wished I had not. Jaxon was watching me without the usual ice in his eyes. No judgment. No sharpness. Just something soft that made my chest hurt more than his insults ever had.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Two words. And yet, they did something to my insides before I could stop it. 

Then his hand covered mine on the table. I should have pulled away. There were no cameras inside. No reason to perform. No reason to let his warm palm rest over my fingers like he had any right to comfort me.

But I did not move. I did not fucking move. 

For one reckless second, I forgot this was fake.

Then someone laughed too loudly at a nearby table and the spell cracked.

With a jerky movement, I slipped my hand away. Jaxon let me.

Dinner then passed in a blur of careful questions and careless lies. He asked nothing else about my father. I appreciated that more than I wanted to. Instead, we talked about safe things. Hockey. Training. How badly Coach needed a vacation. How Marcus pretended to be wise whenever he had absolutely nothing useful to say.

Jaxon laughed again when I imitated Marcus’s serious voice.

This time, I watched it happen. His face changed when he laughed. The sharp edges eased. The captain disappeared for half a second and underneath was a man who looked younger, tired and dangerously human.

I did not like that version. I did not like it because that version was harder to hate.

When we eventually stepped outside, the paparazzi were waiting like wolves who had been fed just enough to stay hungry.

“Jaxon! Rory! Over here!”

“Is it official?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Give us a kiss!”

My body stiffened even as Jaxon’s hand found mine.

He looked down at me and for once, he did not move like he owned the moment. He simply waited.

“May I?” he asked me. 

The question did something strange to me.

Maybe because I had expected him to just perform. To take. To decide. That was what Jaxon did. He controlled things. People. Games. Rooms.

But right now, he was asking.

I nodded before I could think better of it.

I expected a quick kiss. Something clean and staged. A press-friendly brush of lips that would give the cameras what they wanted without costing either of us anything.

Jaxon stepped closer. His hand came to my waist in a careful but firm manner. The other rose to my hair, not gripping, just holding me there as if giving me one more chance to pull away.

I did not.

Then he kissed me.

And the noise around us vanished.

There were cameras, shouts, flashes, the cold bite of evening air but all I felt was Jaxon. His mouth was warm, sure and far too convincing. It was not rushed. It was not polite. It felt like an argument neither of us wanted to lose.

And I kissed him back. That was the fucking problem. I kissed him back. 

My fingers curled into his jacket before I could stop them. I leaned into him like my body had been waiting for permission my pride would never give. When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing harder than we should have been. His eyes were dark as he stared at me. 

“That should…” His voice sounded rough and he paused like the words had gotten caught somewhere. “That should sell it.”

I could not speak. What could I possibly say after what had just happened?

The ride back was worse. The silence in the car was no longer tense. It was unbearable.

I stared out the window and tried not to touch my lips. Tried not to think about his hand at my waist. Tried not to remember the way he had asked before kissing me, as if my answer mattered.

“That was—” I began after taking a deep breath that was tantamount to a shot of bravery.

“Necessary,” he said simply, cutting me short.

The word landed between us like a door slamming shut.

I turned away from him. “Right.”

His eyes stayed on the road. “Do not make it complicated.”

I looked back at him with a glare. “I was not the one who kissed like my life depended on the reviews.”

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Careful, Callahan.”

“Why? Afraid I will start thinking you enjoyed yourself?”

He said nothing in response. That silence was answer enough.

When he pulled up in front of my apartment minutes later, I reached for the door handle, desperate to escape before my brain did something humiliating like replay the kiss in slow motion.

Then Jaxon said, “They are announcing the living arrangement tomorrow.”

I froze. “What living arrangement?”

“The one where I move in with you…for authenticity.”

I turned slowly with my eyes as wide as saucers. “Absolutely not.”

His mouth flattened and he looked away. “It is already decided.”

“By who? The same people who thought this entire circus was a good idea?”

“Management.”

“Management can move in with me.”

“Rory.”

“No. Do not Rory me. I agreed to fake dating. I did not agree to share my bathroom with you!”

He finally looked at me. Really looked. And there was something in his face I had never seen before. Frustration, yes. Anger, obviously. But beneath it, something raw enough to make my breath catch.

“You think I want this?” he asked quietly. “You think I want to watch you walk around my space, smell your shampoo, hear you laugh on the phone with people who are not me?”

My heart stopped. “What?”

His expression shut down so fast it was almost frightening. The captain returned in a cold, controlled and untouchable manner. 

“It is not a choice,” he said. “My lease is already terminated. I will take the couch.”

Then he looked away again as if the conversation was over. I opened the door and stepped out of the car but my legs felt unsteady. Before I could say anything else, he drove away.

I stood on the sidewalk, my lips still tingling, my world tilting on its axis.

Jaxon Kane just admitted… what exactly?