Page 20 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

And smiling.

His golden hair was a mess, windswept and unruly as though he had run a hand through it a dozen times. His face, flushed with excitement, held a joy so pure it nearly blinded her. It wasn’t just happiness—it was something more, something breathtaking, something that sent a sharp ache through her chest. She had thought him handsome before, but this?

This was staggering.

This wasdevastating.

Her heart clenched, squeezed tight by a force she didn’t understand, something far more powerful than attraction. It was a pull, a gravitational force dragging her toward him with undeniable certainty. It made her breath hitch and her fingerstremble. She had never felt anything like this before—never wanted something so fiercely, so desperately, with every fiber of her being. It stole the air from her lungs and left her unsteady on her feet.

And Matthieu wasn’t interested in her.

Shesawit.

Sheknewit.

Shelivedit.

The realization hit like ice water down her spine.Sharp, jarring, and painful. She wasn’t the type of girl guys went for – and Matthieu would be no different. She was scrawny, her backside being the largest part of her. Her hair was chin-length and poofy, and her eyes were hidden behind glasses much too large for her face. She would never be a beauty queen… and the man she was supposed to be pretending to be married to looked like an angel.

Sighing heavily, Jeannie tried to focus as the last of the things from Matthieu’s condo was emptied, and her time in Seattle was over. She was unexpectedly closing another chapter of her life and a little confused about the direction that the book was now heading.

Hours later, it was nearly ten o’clock at night when Jeannie’s plane finally touched down in Quebec. She was drained, her body aching from the long flight, her mind sluggish from the whirlwind of emotions that had chased her across the sky.

As she followed the slow-moving crowd toward the exit, she listened to the announcements overhead, first in rapid French,then in English. The foreign syllables rolled over her, a stark reminder that this was her new reality. A new country. A new life. A new set of challenges she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she neared the doorway markedSortie. Just one more step, and then?—

Her breath caught.

There, standing just beyond the barrier, was Matthieu. Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, her pulse roaring in her ears.

He was waiting for her.

Dressed in a Wolverines T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, he looked effortlessly handsome, golden hair tousled as though he’d run his fingers through it a dozen times. But it wasn’t just the sight of him that stopped her dead in her tracks—it was what he held.

A bouquet of flowers.

Not just any flowers, but roses, impossibly soft-looking and vibrant, their petals a fiery orange with playful hot-pink edges. They were striking, unexpected. Beautiful. They made her chest tighten and her throat burn.

For one blissful, aching second, she let herself believe. Let herself pretend they meant something. Then he smiled—easy, casual. Lifted a hand in greeting like this was nothing.

“Hey!” he called out, his voice warm and familiar, hitting her like a jolt of electricity. “I was wondering if you’d make it today or if there was another delay. How was your flight, Jeannie?”

She swallowed hard, struggling to form words. “Oh, it was good,” she managed, though the word felt hollow in her mouth.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and handed her the bouquet. The scent of the roses swirled around her—sweet, rich, intoxicating. But before she could get lost in it, before she could let herself fall, he winked.

“Gotta make it look good, remember?” he murmured, amusement dancing in his deep brown eyes.

The moment shattered.

Jeannie barely kept hold of the flowers, staring down at them as if they had suddenly withered in her hands. The colors seemed duller now, their warmth faded. Of course, they weren’t forher. Not really. This wasn’t a gesture of affection. It was aperformance. A show. A perfectly choreographed move to keep up appearances.

The sting was sharp, immediate.

“Ah, yes,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even though it felt like something inside her had cracked. “That whole‘we’re a couple’thing.”

She lifted her gaze to him, studying his face, searching for—what? Some sign that he cared? That he felt even a fraction of what was beginning to take root inside her?

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