Chapter Twelve
KATERINA
The flight into Kalispell is mercifully short. It’s just over two hours from Seattle, but my nerves make it feel twice as long.
Scottie dozes beside me for most of it, sprawled in a first-class seat in a way only a very large, very confident man can manage.
His head tilts back against the rest, mouth slightly open, lashes resting dark against his cheeks.
He looks younger like this. Less like the man who throws his body in front of pucks for a living and more like the boy his mother once put on a plane and trusted to chase a dream.
There’s something oddly private about watching someone sleep. I tell myself not to stare, but that’s impossible. The way his fingers occasionally twitch involuntarily, the way his lips almost seem like they want to mumble something from their dreams.
The captain announces our descent, and the shift in the engines jolts Scottie awake. He blinks, disoriented, then looks over at me and smiles like he didn’t just spend an hour snoring lightly through turbulence.
“Are we here?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yes,” I say. “We just landed.”
“Cool.” He stretches, arms above his head, the hem of his t-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of warm, tan skin and the faint line of muscle leading down—
I look away so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Katerina.”
There’s a warning in the way he says my name, like he knows better than to believe that.
“What?” I ask, too innocent.
“You’ve been fidgeting since we took off.” His gaze drops to my left hand. “And you only fidget when you’re anxious. You twist your ring.”
I look down.
Sure enough, my fingers are worrying the band around and around, like I could spin away the nerves.
“I don’t fidget,” I lie.
“You do.” His voice is gentle, not mocking. “It’s okay to be nervous. Meeting someone’s family is… a lot. And the Easton family hoard is a lot of people. But they’re also really good people, and they are going to love you.”
“I’m not nervous about your family,” I say.
Mostly true.
“Then what are you nervous about?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate, feeling the plane taxi beneath us. “What if they don’t believe us?” I finally whisper. “What if they see through this whole arrangement and then your mother hates me and your cousin hates me and your sisters hate me and—”
“Whoa,” he says softly. “Way to escalate.”
He shifts in his seat so he’s facing me more fully, broad shoulder blocking out the aisle.
“They won’t,” he says. His voice has a low, steady confidence he gets before a big game. “Because we’re not going to act like it’s fake. We’re going to act as if we’re married. Which, technically, we are.”
“Legally married,” I say. “Not actually—”
“Kat.” He reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together, the motion so easy and practiced that it makes my breath catch. “We’ve got this. I promise.”
His palm is hot to the touch, solid and grounding. I squeeze back before I can overthink it. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes, grinning. “Now come on. Let’s get our bags before my mom starts calling the airport demanding to know why they’ve kidnapped her son and his bride.”
Bride.
I pretend my stomach doesn’t flip at that.
Scottie rents a truck at the airport. A massive black Ford that looks like it could drive over an entire row of compact cars and not notice.
“Couldn’t get something smaller?” I ask as I hoist myself into the passenger seat, feeling approximately three feet tall.
“In Montana?” he snorts. “This is a mid-size.”
He pulls out of the lot and onto the road, one hand easy on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh in time with the song on the radio.
“Besides,” he adds, “we might need the extra space if my mom sends us home with leftovers. Which she will. There will be at least three types of casserole, two pies, and something in a Tupperware that might be soup or might be gravy. We won’t know until we get home.”
I try to picture his mother as I watch the landscape roll past.
Montana is… stunning.
The world opens up the farther we get from the airport. The sky feels wide and endless, with mountains rising in the distance, their peaks already dusted in early snow. Aspen trees line the highway, their leaves a blaze of gold against the deep blue.
Everything feels big here. Nothing like Moscow’s heavy stone or New York’s constant steel and glass or Seattle’s soft gray haze.
“Pretty, right?” Scottie asks, glancing over at me.
“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly.
“Wait until you see the lake,” he says. “Whitefish Lake is one of the best-kept secrets in Montana. Actually, it’s not much of a secret anymore, but it is beautiful.”
He rolls the window down a bit, letting the crisp autumn air wash through the truck. There’s pine in it. Wood smoke from people’s chimneys.
“This is home,” he says, almost to himself.
The word sits heavy between us.
“Do you miss it?” I ask quietly. “Living here?”
“Every day,” he says. No hesitation. “But Seattle’s good. The team’s good.” His fingers tap once against the wheel, thoughtfully. “And now I’ve got you, so…”
He trails off like he’s said too much, eyes fixed on the road.
I feel the sensation of butterflies in my stomach again, the slight kick up of my pulse.
Now I’ve got you. Almost echoes back on repeat in my ears.
Like I’m not a temporary solution. Like I’m not a ticking clock. Like, there isn’t an expiration date stamped somewhere on this marriage that only I can see.
I turn my face toward the window, watching the trees blur past.
And I have to remember that… even if he doesn’t. Even if he keeps looking at me like we’re building something instead of borrowing time.
Because the girls at the game night weren’t wrong. Scottie was built to be someone’s husband.
He was made for Sunday breakfasts and loud kitchens and kids running across hardwood floors with sticky fingers. He was created for a family who adore him, a town that claims him, a life that fits around him like a hand to a glove.
And I can already see how easily he fits here. Whether he realizes it or not, the sourdough-baking kindergarten teacher is probably a better match for his life than I ever will be.
Not the cold Russian ballerina with zero cooking abilities and social instincts shaped entirely by tutors and etiquette instructors and the quiet, suffocating expectations of my grandmother’s finishing schools.
I’m more comfortable navigating a room full of wealthy aristocrats than a warm Montana home filled with laughter and genuine affection.
And the terrible truth is… I’m starting to wish that weren’t true. That I could be the woman who makes sourdough from scratch and chases around barefoot toddlers through a house that we share. Which feels a little crazy since I’ve never considered that kind of life before.
Scottie’s family home is exactly what I expected and somehow more. A sprawling ranch-style house with a wide wraparound porch, a front yard big enough to land a helicopter, and what looks like half the town gathered on the lawn.
“Oh, God,” Scottie mutters, pulling the truck into the gravel drive. “She invited everyone.”
“Everyone?” I repeat, staring at the crowd.
“Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, probably the mailman… yeah. Everyone.” He cuts the engine and looks over at me, his expression softening. “You ready for this?”
“No,” I say honestly.
His mouth curves. “Good. Me neither. Just hold my hand and squeeze if you get nervous. I’ll fake an upset stomach, and we’ll get out of here, okay?” He leans over and brushes a quick kiss against my forehead as if it were the most normal thing on earth. “How was that… was that okay?”
I blink for a second. It was more than okay, and I want to ask him to do it again, but I don’t. “Sure, but what was that for?”
“Practice… and to make sure you’re okay with affection because the Eastons are very affectionate, and if I don’t show it towards you often, they’ll think something up.”
I like the idea of him showing affection. I’ll be honest; ever since my mother passed, I don’t show physical or emotional levels of affection all that much.
“I can handle it.”
He gives one of those grins of his that lights up my heart like a Christmas tree, and then he pats my hand and opens his door. He gets out and comes around the car to open my door for me. “Let’s go, Mrs. Easton,” he says and then offers out his hand.
The second my feet hit the ground, chaos erupts.
Children swarm out of nowhere, shrieking “Uncle Scottie” before latching onto his legs. A massive dog the size of a small horse barrels toward us, tongue lolling, eyes bright.
I have exactly half a second to brace before the dog launches at me.
Strong hands catch me around the waist and yank me back just in time.
“Moose, down,” Scottie orders, laughing as the dog skids on the gravel. “Buddy, we talked about personal space.”
Moose ignores him and leans happily into my legs, tail thumping.
“See. I told you that everyone would love you the minute they met you. Even the family dog is happy to see you.”
And then I see her.
Scottie’s mother steps out of the front door and onto the porch. She’s small, maybe five-foot-two, with blonde hair piled into a messy bun and warm hazel eyes that are so similar to Scottie’s that I hope it means they're as kind to me as his are.”
She stops dead at the top of the steps, her hand flying to her heart.
“Oh my God,” she breathes. “Arny–Arnold, get out here. Look at her.”
A man in a wheelchair rolls through the doorway behind her. He’s broad-shouldered despite the chair, with laugh lines around his eyes and a smile that looks like it’s lived on his face for decades.
“That’s Arnold,” Scottie murmurs near my ear. “My dad. He goes by Arny, though.”
“Isn’t she something?” his mom calls back to his dad, but she’s already halfway to us leaving Scottie’s father in the dust. “Scottie, you told me that she was a ballerina, but you didn’t tell me she was drop-dead gorgeous.”