Chapter 3

Jenna Flynn POV:

At nine-fifty the next morning, I smoothed down my white tweed suit and walked up the gray granite steps of Boston City Hall under a pale winter sun.

A black armored Maybach waited at the curb. The rear door opened, and Hughes stepped out in a dark gray cashmere overcoat.

"You're punctual," Hughes said, stopping beside me and offering his right arm.

I hesitated for a second before slipping my black-gloved hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Contractual compliance is basic professional ethics, Captain."

Hughes's stride hitched slightly at the title, his lips pressing into a thin line, though he said nothing as he led me through the revolving doors.

Inside under the vintage dome, his personal assistant, Jarvis Nichols, was already waiting by the VIP elevator to escort us past the public lines. Within five minutes, we were seated across from an officiant in a private mahogany-paneled office with two marriage registration forms on the desk.

I pulled off my gloves, picked up the heavy pen, and glanced at the man beside me. Hughes had already signed his name in bold, sharp strokes and was watching me steadily.

I pressed the nib to the paper and signed "Jenna Flynn."

The clerk pressed the heavy steel seal onto the paper with a dull thud.

"Congratulations, Mr. Mitchell, Mrs. Mitchell."

My heart skipped a beat at the new title. Hughes stood up and buttoned his coat.

"Let's go, Mrs. Mitchell. Time to pack your luggage."

I frowned, standing up beside him.

"Luggage? I thought I only needed to show up for public events."

"Do you think the tabloids will buy a loving couple who live in separate zip codes?" he asked, holding the office door open for me.

Half an hour later, the Maybach pulled up in front of my peeling apartment building. Ignoring the stares of my neighbors, Hughes bypassed his driver and followed me up the narrow, dimly lit stairwell.

I unlocked my door and gestured helplessly at the cramped room.

"Captain, it's a mess in here. You can wait in the car while I pack."

"I'm not in the habit of letting my wife move heavy boxes alone."

Hughes shrugged off his cashmere overcoat, draped it over the sofa back, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing his muscular forearms. Left with no choice, I pulled out two cardboard boxes and started rolling up my blueprints.

The studio was barely big enough for one person, let alone a professional hockey player. Every time we turned around, the scent of cedar and his crisp aftershave filled my nose.

Reaching on my tiptoes for a thick architectural yearbook on the top shelf, my heel caught on the edge of the rug. My foot slipped, and I pitched backward.

A broad, calloused hand caught me squarely around the lower waist, pulling me back against a solid chest. The heat of his palm burned straight through my thin blouse.

"Careful," he murmured, his breath brushing the shell of my ear.

My face grew hot as I scrambled to my feet and stepped away.

"Thank you... I've got it."

Hughes lowered his hand, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips before turning toward the closet. I faced the bookshelf, taking a slow breath to calm my racing pulse as I shoved the drawings into a plastic tube.

Behind me, the closet door slid open, followed by the heavy thud of things being thrown.

I turned around just in time to see Hughes toss a men's gray-blue wool scarf and a faded Boston Bruins hoodie straight into the metal trash can in the corner.

Those were Gary's old clothes that I hadn't gotten around to throwing out yet.

"Captain, what are you..."

Hughes turned to face me, his jaw set hard and the air in the small room dropping ten degrees.

"I don't need another man's scent in my house."