Chapter Eight
KATERINA
I wake up in the penthouse bedroom. My room, across the hall from Scottie’s.
For a few slow blinks, my brain is reliving every moment from yesterday.
The wedding. The reception. Scottie, carrying me over the threshold and then helping me undress. And then turning to find his very obvious arousal.
There was an urge to stay with him last night, but it wasn’t stronger than the desperate need for self-preservation.
I glance over to see the wedding dress draped over the chair in the corner, the veil spilling over the edge like a puddle of white, and then I feel the heaviness on my ring finger and remember the diamond he put there.
Scottie’s ring. The one he placed on my hand after our vows. A gorgeous ring I hadn’t expected.
I got married yesterday.
To a man I’ve known for four days.
The wedding had been nice. Okay… More than nice.
It was the first time in months, maybe years, that I didn’t feel like I was waiting for something bad to happen.
I push up slowly, every muscle in my legs protesting.
I danced all night in five-inch heels. We walked from the rooftop ceremony to the reception at Oakley’s and then the few blocks to The Commons.
I’m no stranger to putting stress on my feet, but my calves are feeling the workout today.
They’re begging me for a good stretch, and I’ll need it, especially before the audition I have lined up today.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I reach for it, squinting at the screen.
Irina: Soooo… How was the wedding night? Details. Now. Every last inch of it and him.
I groan and flop back against the pillows.
Of course.
I thumb out a reply.
Me: There was no wedding night. We have separate bedrooms.
It takes her approximately three seconds.
Irina: BORING. That man is sexy, and the way he was looking at you? Are you telling me you didn’t even take him for a test drive?
Me: You know that I’m still a virgin, and sex would just complicate things.
Irina: You’re killing me. Okay, fine. But how is everything this morning between the two of you?
I stare at the question for a long moment.
On paper, I should be panicking. Planning escape routes. Calculating angles and risk, and how fast my father can move his pieces across the board.
But instead, I feel…like I might have a chance to make it out of my father’s expectations.
Me: Good, I think. He carried me over the threshold last night.
Irina: Oh my God, he’s perfect. I can’t believe you didn’t give him your V-card last night.
I roll my eyes.
Me: I’m not discussing this. I have to get ready for my audition. Goodbye, Irina.
Irina: Good luck today at auditions, though I can think of one thing I would be doing all day long on my honeymoon rather than going to an audition. And he’s conveniently right across the hall.
I drop the phone back on the nightstand and dangle my legs off the bed. My bare feet hit the cool floor, and I shiver, the reality of everything pressing in at once.
A brand new city, a marriage certificate, and my father on the other side of the world, waiting for me to show up in Russia, willing to marry whoever will do his bidding.
I pull on my cream silk robe, one of the few luxuries I allowed myself to pack from my old life, and tie the belt tight. The ring flashes again as I knot it, catching on the light.
It feels wrong and right at the same time.
Like it’s been waiting for my hand, and also like it belongs to someone else entirely.
I’m already starting to like the weight. Dangerous.
Music drifts down the hall. Something light and easy, mixed with the sizzle of… is that bacon?
My stomach answers before my brain does. Butter and maple syrup and coffee wrap around me before I even clear my bedroom door.
I follow my nose, the hem of my robe whispering over the floor.
The penthouse opens up in front of me as I step out of the hallway—an office tucked to the right, dining room and a huge terrace to the left, living room and kitchen stretching forward in one big, airy space that screams Haynes money and the kind of entertaining life my mother used to host but never enjoy.
But none of that holds my attention.
What holds my attention is the six-foot-two man at the stove who hasn’t realized I’m here yet.
Scottie stands in front of the range in loose sweatpants riding low on his hips, barefoot, with an apron tied around his neck and waist.
He’s swaying with the music as he flips bacon, shoulders moving, back muscles shifting under warm skin.
His hair is damp and curling at the ends, where he clearly towel-dried it and gave up.
Faint lines mark his left shoulder and along his side—old scars, the kind that come from years of impact and injury.
A tattoo spans his upper back, dark ink over solid muscle, something I definitely didn’t notice last night.
To be fair, I was preoccupied with… other things.
The counter looks like a brunch bomb went off.
Pancakes stacked high. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Sausage. A huge bowl of cut fruit. Hash browns, toast and jam, orange juice, and a full carafe of coffee. Half of the breakfast section of a cookbook lay out on one island.
He’s feeding half the team.
“Morning,” he says, without turning around.
I blink. “How did you know I was here?”
“You’re not exactly stealthy in those slippers,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. The grin is already forming. “Morning, wife.”
The word sparks when it hits me.
Not like a sting.
More like the feeling of hot shower water hitting you after a long day.
“Good morning,” I manage.
I drag my eyes off his shoulders and focus on the chaos of food. “What… is all of this?”
“Breakfast,” he says, like I’m the one being ridiculous. He switches off the burner and sets the pan aside. Then he turns to face me fully.
The apron, in all its horrifying glory, comes into view.
I press my lips together, fighting a smile. It’s the headless cartoon body of a man—hairy chest, round beer belly, one hand clutching a spatula, the other proudly holding a plate of burgers.
“What?” he asks, looking down. Realization dawns. “Oh. The apron. Birthday present from my youngest sister. She’s eight. She thinks it’s hilarious.”
“It’s a very…” I search for diplomacy. “…colorful representation. It suits you.”
“That is absolutely not the vibe I was going for,” he mutters, but his mouth curves anyway. “Anyway. I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I made… kind of everything?”
I look at the spread again. “This is kind of everything?”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugs, like this is just math. “First morning as husband and wife. Figured we should start it right.” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Although, for the record, I find the constraints of conventional eating habits unsustainable.”
I blink. “Do you?”
“Only three meals a day?” He scoffs. “Who’s surviving on that?”
I climb onto one of the stools at the island. “Three meals a day isn’t enough for you?”
He shakes his head, deadly serious. “Absolutely not. It takes at least seven square meals and a few snacks to keep up the stamina and maintain a body that looks like this.”
He smirks.
My jaw drops before I can help it. “Seven meals… you’re joking.”
“Nope.” He grabs a plate and starts piling food onto it—pancakes, eggs, bacon, like he’s building a monument. “Okay, let’s see… there’s Snack-fast—”
“Which is…?”
“The snack I eat while making breakfast.” He says it as if this is self-evident. “Usually a big protein shake.”
“Of course,” I say slowly. “Then?”
“Then breakfast,” he gestures to his plate. “This. Though normally I’d put protein powder in the pancakes, I wasn’t sure if you’d be into that, so I showed restraint.”
I try to imagine myself eating all of that and feel my stomach flip in self-defense. “What’s next?”
“Brunch,” he says. “Obviously. Usually, a stop at Serendipity’s for their lunch special. BLT croissant or chicken salad on homemade sourdough. Plus a sticky bun.”
“You and sourdough,” I murmur.
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” he says. “If my mother had tried to arrange a marriage between the chef at Serendipity’s and me, I probably would’ve agreed.”
I let out a short laugh.
“Have you been to Serendipity’s Coffee Shop yet?” he asks.
“No. What’s Serendipity’s?”
The way his eyes light up is just… unfair. “Don’t worry. The girls will drag you there soon. You’ll never want to leave.”
“And that’s not lunch?” I ask.
“No, that’s brunch,” he says, like we’re in school. He reaches for the syrup and pours it over his pancakes, warm amber spilling down the stack. He catches me watching. “Carb load,” he explains.
“Right. So lunch.”
“Lunch is usually the pizza place down the street—all-you-can-eat buffet—or 5th Street Cafe. Bozeman’s got a crush on one of the waitresses there, and we all like to watch him sweat. Lunch plus entertainment. Sometimes we go to Oakley’s for burgers and shoot pool instead.”
I stare at him. “Do I even want to know what comes after this?”
“First dinner,” he says.
“Oh God.” I shake my head in disbelief, but in truth, his eating schedule is both mildly entertaining and a little stress-inducing at the thought of having to keep up with that schedule every day.
“Followed by either pre-game dinner and then team dinner… or just regular dinner and then midnight snack. Usually a large bowl of cereal.”
“Your eating routine is more like a full-time job.”
“The team doesn’t call me the human dumpster for nothing.” He takes his seat beside me and digs in like a man on a mission. “Also, I keep protein bars in my gym bag in case I get hungry, and on game days I have a Kit Kat and a Gatorade.”
“Only one Kit Kat?” I ask, honestly curious.
“Superstition,” he says quickly. “My mom used to buy me a Kit Kat during my peewee hockey days for a boost of sugar energy. The first time she did it, I got my first assist, and now it’s a ritual. I don’t go to a game without a Kit Kat.”
I file that away.
“You’re poor mother,” I say. “Did she have to feed you like this your entire life?”