Rule #3: Never Fake Marry the Coach’s Son (Hockey Rules #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

O skar

The doorbell’s harsh buzz jerks me awake. My hand reaches beside me, but of course Dmitri isn’t here, and I stifle my urge to sigh. There’s no reason for him to have stayed overnight.

No light streams through the windows yet, and I shiver. I clutch the blanket—Dmitri must have draped it over me before he left. Maybe I imagined the doorbell.

“Oskar! Oskar!” Banging sounds on the door.

I rush forward at the sound of Dmitri’s voice, my bare feet cold against the hardwood, and swing the door open.

He looms in my doorway, all six-foot-four of scowling Russian hockey player. “You need double locks on door. I told you before. Is easy to break in.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t announce that in my hallway.”

“Why not? Next time you will have proper lock. Double lock. With chain. I install for you.”

I roll my eyes. “Just come in.”

Dmitri saunters in, then sets a bag down. I tilt my head back to look up at him. At five foot six, I’m never considered tall—but especially not next to an NHL player. It might be early, but he’s still put on cologne, and the spicy scent follows him, making my apartment feel smaller.

I remind myself not to stare at him in wonder or something similarly embarrassing.

“I make you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to make me breakfast, Dmitri.”

“Need protein. Not mushy vegetables.”

“Those are called smoothies, Dmitri. I can make one for you if you’d like to try...”

His aristocratic nose wrinkles. “No. Never offer guests mushy vegetables. What would you do without me?”

“Maybe I would be waking up beside a handsome blond Canadian man.”

His dark eyes flash. “Is not funny, Oskar.”

“I wouldn’t actually do that,” I say softly.

“I know.”

I tense, uncertain how much he knows. At twenty-three, I should be somewhat experienced. Boston is hardly rural Sweden. But there’s something I haven’t done, something that makes me flush every time the guys talk about hookups.

My eyes flick up to Dmitri as he moves around my kitchen, every move elegant and certain. Does he know? Is that why he is so protective of me? My stomach clenches. I don’t want that to be the reason.

I wish I’d lost my virginity my first week at Harvard. That I’d accepted those drinks thrust into my hands, followed those invitations upstairs. That I hadn’t announced I wanted my first time to be special, then waited for someone who never appeared.

Dmitri’s dark eyes study me. “Sit down. Low blood sugar makes you faint.”

“That was one time,” I protest. “And I didn’t actually faint.”

“No, you complained you were dizzy. Dizziness is first step of fainting.”

“I’m fine—”

Before I can finish, his strong arms wrap around my waist and lift me off my feet. His cologne surrounds me, cedar and pine mingling with something distinctly Dmitri. He grips my waist and glares down at me like he’s a professional mover and I’m an especially troublesome piece of furniture, then deposits me into an armchair.

“Stay. Today will be a big day.”

That’s not right. “I’m not doing anything today. Except, I guess laundry.”

Dmitri lowers his gaze, and if I didn’t know any better, I would call him nervous. But that can’t be right. There are many things Dmitri is, but he’s never nervous.

Then he narrows his eyes, and he’s the same Dmitri as always. “Never let laundry pile up, Oskar. Maybe you’ll need to travel.”

“I have some fresh clothes...” I halt. “Why are you talking about travel?”

“Eat first.” Dmitri opens my refrigerator, removes the eggs, then starts breaking them into a bowl. An unusual pink sheen spreads across his chiseled cheekbones.

“Dmitri?” I keep my voice stern.

He grimaces and busies himself with the pan, olive oil shimmering as it heats. “Go shower. I tell you after meal.”

“What happened?”

Dmitri looks nervous and guilty, two expressions I’m unaccustomed to seeing on him.

“Fine.” The eggs hit the hot pan with a sharp sizzle.

Finally, Dmitri takes the eggs and puts them onto a plate. He places it on the counter. “Eat.”

I scowl but Dmitri’s face says no-nonsense, and I do. I mean, the eggs aren’t exactly bad. This isn’t a hardship. Just slightly weird.

“Now can you tell me?” I ask.

He bites his lip. Also weird. Uncertainty isn’t a Dmitri trait. But then Dmitri would say he likes to encompass all the traits.

“Maybe you need more food,” he says. “Do you have oatmeal? Is good for heart.”

“My heart is fine, Dmitri. Just tell me.”

He sighs. He flicks his gaze to me, then looks away. “I bought us plane tickets.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

My heart stutters. This is definitely weird. Dmitri and I have never ever gone on vacation together. Dmitri has never hinted that’s something he’s wanted to do.

But then he’s leaving the country soon. Maybe he wants to do some sort of sightseeing thing. That’s sort of sweet. He is very patriotic, even though this isn’t technically his country.

“You need to pack. Don’t forget hair products.” He gives a fond smile. “You complain when you don’t have them.”

“That was one time.”

“Won’t be a second time when I’m here to remind you.”

I sigh. “Where are we going?”

He inhales. “Vegas. Flight leaves in three hours.”

I stare, then I understand. “To see the Grand Canyon?”

He blinks. “I’m not dragging you across country to see hole in the ground.”

“It’s a big hole.”

He sighs. “But we can see it, if you would like.” He nods. “Yeah.” He flashes me a wobbly smile, and I see that odd nervous glint in his eyes again.

Okay. This is seriously super strange.

“You’ve been to Vegas before,” I say slowly. “Is that really where you want to go before you leave the States? You don’t gamble.”

“Of course not. Is waste of money.” His look turns stern, like the statues of Roman generals in the MFA. “And you shouldn’t gamble either. We have plans.”

“What plans, Dmitri?”

“I am not leaving the States,” Dmitri vows, his expression serious.

“But—”

Then a wide grin splits his face, and his eyes turn to diamonds. “We are going to get married.”