Page 42 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

“I mean,look at this,” he said, pointing at the screen in disbelief. “Did you really build this one?”

Jeannie’s gaze followed his, landing on her most recent project. It was a commission that had been giving her fits for days. The client wanted flowers to bloom on both sides of the homepage for her seed and bulb website, but so far, Jeannie had only managed to get the animation to work on the right.

“It’s not finished,” she murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m trying to fix something, and it’s really frustrating me because I can’t get it to work. It’s only halfway done and…”

“It’s amazing,” Matthieu breathed, his voice thick with genuine admiration. “Can you build me one?”

“What?”

“This is incredible,” he said, his enthusiasm palpable. “I’d love to have something like a fan page or something pushing some of our stuff. I know there’s licensing junk to mess with, but if we could lead people to the Wolverines’ gear with our name on it…”

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she moved closer, finally sinking onto the couch beside him. “I could do that,” she said thoughtfully. “I’d have to make sure it’s approved by the Wolverines, though, since it involves their logo.”

“I can get you the number for someone,” he offered immediately, his eyes still fixed on the screen. “But you could really do this?”

Jeannie hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. “You look so surprised,” she teased lightly, reaching for her laptop. A warm blush crept up her neck. “This is still a work in progress. It’ll look better when it’s finished.”

Matthieu exhaled slowly, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “I’m so freakin’ proud of you,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “I was terrible at computer stuff when I was younger, but get me on the ice, and I felt right at home.This? This is intimidating to me.”

Jeannie lowered her gaze, his words wrapping around her heart like a protective shield. She had spent so long defending her passion, justifying her choices. Her parents had fought her on it, dismissing her work as a hobby at best, and a waste of time at worst. They wanted her to shut it down, push it through their publicity team, make it part of their carefully curated image. But Matthieu…

Matthieu was proud of her?

“Everybody is different,” she murmured, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Do you have business cards or something I can hand out?”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“I want to help you,” he said simply as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to help you succeed in this because I think it’s fantastic that you are able to build something like this online.”

Jeannie stared at him, utterly stunned. He wasn’t just impressed—he wanted to support and lift her up in a way no one had ever done before. The weight of that realization pressed into her, making her chest feel tight.

“You’re so sweet,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Matthieu arched a brow.

“I’m telling the truth.”

“I know,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “That’s why I said you were being sweet.”

Her heart swelled as he reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. And in that moment, something inside her shifted. This wasn’t just admiration. This wasn’t just support.

This was someone who sawher.

She swallowed, feeling all emotional, and she didn’t want to start their date with her bawling like a baby – especially when she could smell the aroma of heady pasta in the air.

“What’s in the bag?” he asked, his gaze flicking down to her hand before lifting back to hers, his brow raised in suspicion. He hesitated, then his lips curved into a knowing smile, something soft and teasing in his expression. “Is that what I think it is?” His voice dipped lower, rich with amusement. “Did you find a veil?”

Her heart fluttered, heat rushing to her cheeks as she quickly spun, tucking the bag behind the couch and out of sight. “Hush,” she chided, but the sound of his delighted laugh sent warmth skittering down her spine.

He didn’t hesitate. With the ease of an athlete, Matthieu flexed, stretching his arm over the edge of the couch to snatch the bag from its hiding spot. She let out a playful yelp and leaped onto the cushion beside him, grabbing at his wrist and laughing as they wrestled for control. His strength was effortless, but he let her win, allowing her to pry his arm away by shoving another bag into his chest.

“Here,” she said, breathless from their scuffle. “You can open this.”

Matthieu smirked, his fingers closing around the new bag, but his gaze flickered toward the hidden one with clear mischief. “I bet that bag is more fun…” he teased, winking.

“But this is more your style.” She bit her lip, hesitating before meeting his eyes. A nervous thrill rushed through her, uncertain yet eager. “I was going to wait to give it to you—but I think you can use it now. It’s just a little something.” She shrugged, but the emotion in her voice made her words feel heavier and more meaningful.

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