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The corner of my mouth twitches.

I promise to accept your support so you don’t feel like an unworthy leech.

My lips dive into a frown. “You’re not unworthy.”

“Keep reading.” Willow leans over to tap the napkin.

I promise not to sell myself short, especially since I’m a ridiculously talented, secretly kindhearted sportsball player.

And in return, Willow will provide hours of endless—occasionally chaotic—entertainment, immaculate house-cleaning services, the best banana bread I’ve ever tasted, and one custom painting.

“You’ll paint for me?”

Her cheek jumps, but she doesn’t fully smile. “Anything you want.”

A bloom of satisfaction warms me, knowing one of Willow’s pieces will be mine. I’m under no illusion that our arrangement will last beyond a year, so being able to keep a part of her after all this goes away is comforting.

“I don’t want you cleaning, though.”

Willow groans, glancing at the water-stained ceiling tiles and giving me a glimpse of her delicate neck. I have the sudden impulse to lean over the table and brush my lips over her pulse point.

Mentally, I give myself a firm shake.

There will be no yearning for my soon-to-be bride.

“You have to let me clean. Otherwise, it’s too one-sided. Me smiling on your arm at a few public appearances and during one wedding isn’t enough.”

I snort. “You haven’t met my family.”

“Hockey royalty.” She waves a hand. “Big deal.”

My eyebrows lift.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t research me. Entering a marriage without some internet sleuthing would be reckless, even with an iron-clad prenup.”

Except, nowhere in the multitude of articles about my famous NHL father and the two eldest sons who followed him into the league does it mention how they’ll throw you against the boards in real life just as swiftly as they would in the rink.

Willow eyes me a moment before adding, “Do you agree to my terms?”

I quickly reread her handwritten contract, pick up the pen, and sign it.

“I’m surprised you didn’t put something in here about me not wearing all black,” I say, dropping the pink glitter pen on the table.

Her face lights up. “That’s a great idea! Give it back.”

When Willow scrambles for the napkin, I hold it aloft.

“No takebacks.”

She huffs, folding herself over the table. “That’s what addendums are for.”

“Addendums aren’t allowed on napkin contracts. It’s in the paper-goods bylaws. Section forty-nine, line seven.”

When Willow rushes to stand in front of me, I shift the napkin behind my back.

“Give it back, Shane. I want to see you in blue. No, green. Something that really highlights your eyes. Or maybe a complementary color, like bronze. That would bring out those golden flecks.”

Willow practically plasters herself against me, trying and failing to snatch it back. I keep shifting the napkin from hand to hand to keep it beyond her reach. Then Willow blows out a frustrated breath and climbs on my lap, straddling me. I squeeze my eyes shut when her robe gapes open, only to realize that playful polka-dot pajamas are layered beneath.