Chapter 4: The Public Debut

The ink on the contract was barely dry before Eve found herself standing in the middle of Terry Wilde’s world. And his world was ridiculously expensive.

His penthouse occupied the entire top floor of a glass high-rise overlooking the Boston harbor. It was all polished concrete, floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalist furniture. It smelled like rich leather, expensive wood, and a faint hint of ice.

"Drink this," Terry said, tossing a bottle of green juice across the kitchen island toward her.

Eve caught it with one hand, blinking up at him. He was currently standing by his massive sub-zero refrigerator, bare-chested and wearing nothing but grey sweatpants. His dark hair was damp from the shower, and his torso was a map of muscle, shadows, and a few jagged hockey scars.

"I don't need a drink, Terry. I need a coherent strategy," Eve said, sitting on one of his leather barstools. She had been forced to borrow one of his oversized team hoodies because her father's security team had warned her that the paparazzi were already staking out her own apartment. The hem of the hoodie swallowed her shorts completely.

"The strategy is simple, spreadsheet," Terry said, leaning his massive frame against the marble counter and taking a bite of an apple. "We leave the building, we look happy, we let them take the photo. Marcus said the press is already waiting around the corner."

Marcus, the team’s frantic PR director, had spent the last two hours blowing up their phones. He wanted a soft launch. Something that looked organic to the media but proved Terry was cleaning up his act.

"Marcus is a panicked mess," Eve muttered, typing a command into her analytics database on her tablet. "And you look like you forgot how to button a shirt. Put something on. The media strategy starts in ten minutes."

Terry chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in his chest. He rolled his broad shoulders as he walked past her, deliberately stepping close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Relax, Brooks. I've been dealing with the press since I was a teenager. Just follow my lead, don't look like you want to murder me, and don't freeze up when the cameras flash."

Ten minutes later, Terry was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans. He looked rugged, effortlessly handsome, and entirely too confident.

They left the luxury lobby of his building and walked down the cobblestone street toward a small, upscale café two blocks away. The morning air was crisp, but the second they hit the sidewalk, Eve felt the invisible weight of a dozen eyes on them.

"Smile, Brooks," Terry murmured, his voice dropping into a low, casual register.

Before she could prepare herself, his massive, heavy arm slid around her waist. He gripped her firmly, pulling her flush against his side.

Eve stiffened instantly. Her heart gave a sudden, panicked thud. It wasn't attraction—she felt absolutely zero spark for the man—but the sheer physical dominance of him was overwhelming. He was a wall of solid muscle.

"You're stiff as a board," Terry whispered, his lips brushing against the crown of her head as if he were whispering a sweet genuine nothing for the cameras. "Lean into me. Act like you actually enjoy my presence."

"I prefer the presence and the sweet scents of women," Eve muttered through a fake, bright smile, forcing her body to relax against his ribcage. She wrapped an arm around his waist, her fingers digging slightly into the firm muscle of his lower back to warn him not to push his luck.

A sharp, metallic click echoed from across the street. A photographer was kneeling behind a parked SUV, a long lens pointed directly at them.

Terry didn't even blink. He just tightened his grip on her waist, shielding her slightly from the wind as they walked into the café. He ordered for both of them, paying with his black card and flashing the barista a charming smile that had the young girl blushing furiously.

They sat at a small table by the window, completely visible to the street. To anyone watching, the wealthy, eligible hockey captain had finally been tamed by a beautiful, serious woman.

But the moment Eve’s phone began to vibrate violently on the table, the reality of their trap snapped back into focus.

An alert from a major Boston sports blog popped up on the screen, accompanied by a high-definition photograph of Terry’s lips pressed against her hair outside the café.

The headline read: BLIZZARD BEAST REFORMED? CAPTAIN TERRY WILDE SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY WOMAN.

Underneath the article, a text message slid into view from her billionaire father.

Good start. But the board needs more proof of a stable relationship. Move your things into his penthouse permanently by tonight.