Chapter 2 #2
Summer smiled at me tentatively, then stretched her grin wider for Alexei who had still not said a word. “Mr. Nazarov, welcome. You’re a little early and caught us unawares. If you’d like to come with me …”
“Actually, Summer,” I cut in. “Let’s meet in my office.”
My co-worker blinked, likely assuming I was throwing my weight around. As a recently anointed agent, this kind of player was a pretty big fish for her. I despised the idea of him wasting our time, so I would have to nip it in the bud and send him on his way.
I smiled through gritted teeth to put her at ease. I wasn’t mad at her, and I would explain it later—or an abridged version of it—but I realized my reaction made me look a touch crazed.
“Come in, Mr. Nazarov,” I said sweetly before turning back to Summer. “I apologize in advance for what you’re about to witness.”
“O … kay?”
“Lauren.” He nodded at Summer. “You must be Miss Landry.”
“Call me Summer.” She gestured to the spare seat closest to her, then turned to me to check in.
“Sure, sit down.” I took a seat and put on my sneakers, pulling tight on the laces and imagining them wrapped around a certain hockey player’s thick neck.
Esme was still hovering at the door.
“Mr. Nazarov won’t be staying long, Esme, so no need to offer him any refreshment.”
She raised pale, perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Got it, boss.”
Summer caught my gaze with a look of, so that’s how it is. Too right. I hadn’t ignored multiple calls and texts to spend time being messed around by a Russian hockey diva. We’d been down this road before.
“So, what can we do for you, Mr. Nazarov?”
He turned to Summer who had prompted that query. “I’m afraid I came here under false pretenses, Miss Landry. I am not looking for representation.”
“Oh!” Summer looked a touch crestfallen but perked up quickly as she realized she was slap bang in the middle of a spot of high school drama featuring her boss and one of the league’s most bankable stars.
“Well, I can’t say I appreciate being used for nefarious purposes, Mr. Nazarov. Your purposes are nefarious, I hope?”
“Absolutely. It is so hard to get on Mrs. Yates’s schedule, so I must resort to underhand tactics.”
“It’s Miss,” I said, but something about his error—Mrs.—grated.
“And you need to talk to her?” Summer’s accent was coming out a little thick there. That Mississippi backwoods gal loved a good gossip. “Urgently?”
“Yes, I do. And sadly, for your part in all this, privately.”
Summer smiled, then turned to me with wide eyes. “Okay to leave you alone with Mr. Nazarov, Miss Yates?” She added a hammy wink. Jesus.
“Perfectly okay. Though he might prefer a witness when I throat-chop him into the middle of next week.”
“Okay, then! Let me know if you need anything.” She slow-walked out of the office and closed the door.
I turned to Nazarov. “Why are you here?”
“You have been ignoring my texts and calls. And now I live in Chicago.”
“Yes, I know. Everyone knows.” Official news of Nazarov’s trade to the Rebels had broken a few weeks ago, but I already had the inside track because I had connections to the Rebels C-suite. “And I would have thought the block on your number told you all you needed to know.”
He stood from his seat. Already? And was that disappointment gnawing at my internal organs?
But he didn’t leave. He walked to the window and looked outside, drinking in the view from the tenth floor of Canary Tower in downtown Riverbrook.
Home of the Rebels, the bustling suburb was a scenic thirty-minute drive from the Chicago Loop.
I had taken a risk leasing this much space, but I expected to be able to fill the other offices in the next year.
“This is a good fit for you. Top of the world.”
“Instead of skates on the ground?”
“You have always fit in everywhere.”
Unsurprising that he would view me like that—the girl next door, every guy’s best bud, easy and malleable.
“Could you get to the point?”
“We had fun in Vegas, Silver Eyes.” A non sequitur? Not likely. Just as his use of that nickname was designed to soften me up, though for what, I couldn’t be certain.
“That was months ago. We drank too much. Let off some steam.” I shook my head at the memory. Nazarov in his Marilyn wig, me with an absurd Elvis pompadour, while a trio of impersonators sang “Suspicious Minds”—an ominous choice, for sure. “Did you find photos you needed to share?”
“Oh, much better than photos.”
“What does that mean?”
Still leaning on the windowsill, he had the look of a gleaming lion in repose in the midday sun. But I wasn’t fooled. Predatory energy shimmered off him, which meant I was the poor antelope being stalked by the king of the jungle.
I would not be sitting still to take this nonsense. Standing, I gestured with my hand for him to get on with it.
“About a month ago, I was packing up my belongings in preparation for the move to Chicago. I came across some memorabilia.”
“A Marilyn wig? A poker chip? An unused condom?”
“A marriage certificate.”
Dread trickled down my spine. “Excuse me?”
He extracted a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“What’s that?”
“I just told you.”
“Hilarious, Nazarov.” I did a gimme gesture with my hands. “Absurd piece of paper, please.”
Amused, he passed it over.
I unfolded it. Our names. Married. What the—?
My mind revolted at the evidence before my eyes. “They don’t let drunk people marry. And you said it was a joke.”
He remained silent, stoic, allowing me to process it in my own way, which involved saying most of the words in my head out loud, peppered with color commentary that was better suited for the ice rink.
“You have to fucking prepare. Go to the marriage license bureau.” Had I ever used the phrase “marriage license bureau” in my life? It sounded weird and absurdly old-timey on my lips. “Blood tests. Shit like that.”
“Not for this. We signed something, then we put on our wigs and said ‘I do.’”
No, no, no. I thought of that engagement ring, sitting in a drawer. The ring I wanted from the man I wanted. “I have a boyfriend.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Interesting. This was news to him, which meant I still retained some power in whatever game we were playing.
“My unfaithful little milaya. He would not like this, I think.”
“No, he wouldn’t. And you know something? Neither do I. I asked you the morning after if we did anything stupid. You said it was just a joke gathering of Elvises and Marilyns. And now you’re telling me I’ve been married to you for what, nine months?”
Enough to gestate a big old explosive device, now detonating the life I was trying to build.
“I only recently discovered it myself. I have done the research, and it is a real thing. I tried to call you, but you blocked me.”
As if this was my fault for not responding.
Never mind that. Thad would feel so betrayed, and who could blame him? Sure, I hadn’t met him before this disaster-piece. This was a pre-Thad mistake. But things were moving along nicely. My toothbrush. That ring …
“We need an annulment. Or a divorce. Have you researched that?”
“I have asked the lawyer. It will take a few weeks, maybe a couple of months. And then it will be as if it never happened.”
Thank God. I wasn’t a flighty person. Given my family history, I obeyed the rules, mostly, and didn’t make mistakes. I had too much on the line, and finally a chance at happiness with a decent, normal guy.
But Alexei … why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been a stranger who lit my fire and made me think of all that was possible? Once upon a time, I might have rejoiced at this news. But now? Not a chance.
That morning in Vegas, he had skulked away like a thief, then texted me that kiss-off. Clearly, he had regretted running into me in Vegas, but was it because he knew more than he was letting on? Was that sneaky exit merely punctuating a moment of “hell, I’m married” panic?
“Did you know this happened? That night? Or the next morning?”
“No. The certificate was in my jacket, and I didn’t look at it until I was packing up in Seattle.”
The document was somewhat crumpled, so he could have been telling the truth.
But he’d always had an amazing poker face.
Not that it mattered. If this was real—and you bet I would be doing my own research—then it could be dealt with in a real fashion.
Before anyone found out. Before Thad asked me to marry him …
Because I couldn’t go into an engagement with the Russian on my back.
“I’ll need a copy of that. And you’ll be hearing from my lawyer soon.”
He pushed off from the windowsill and came to sit on my desk. “Or we could try something else.”
“Such as?”
“We could give this marriage a shot.”