Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Holly
The situation is both easier and harder than I anticipated.
His mother’s reaction wasn’t over-the-top or emotional.
She’s being very polite, hugging and kissing me along with the rest of the family.
Her smile even reached her eyes for a moment, as I asked about their flight and such.
It was all very civilized, all things considered.
What I didn’t expect was for a complete and overwhelming wave of jealousy to shoot through me when I saw Olga.
I knew there was a plan to marry him off.
I knew there was a chance she would bring someone with her to Atlanta.
I did not picture a statuesque blond with piercing hazel eyes and legs longer than my entire body.
She’s really beautiful.
And I suddenly wish I’d taken more time with my hair and makeup. I’d gone with casual, since it’s daytime and I didn’t want to seem like I was trying too hard. Instead, now I feel dowdy and plain next to this striking of a woman.
Fuck.
I mentally count to five, evening my breathing, though it doesn’t seem to do anything to still the hammering of my heart.
Viktor is busy at the front desk, and his family is clustered a few feet behind him as he gives the hotel his credit card and collects keys.
“Olga, you will share with Irena,” he says in English, probably for my benefit.
Olga’s mouth does something weird but she nods.
“Would you like to rest?” Viktor asks in English. Then he changes to Russian and everyone starts to nod. He turns to me. “They are hungry. We’re going to have something here at the hotel and then I’ll take my father to pick up his rental car.”
I nod. “Of course.”
He smiles warmly, slowly leans in, and presses his lips to mine, letting them linger.
And I kiss him back.
Because my heart skipped a beat.
Because my stomach did a funny little flip.
Because it was incredibly sexy. Far sexier than such a chaste kiss should have been.
It’s all an act, my subconscious mind reminds me, ruining the moment.
But I paste a happy smile on my face, let Viktor take my hand again, and he leads us into the restaurant.
The place is quiet since it’s too late for lunch and too early for dinner.
We settle around a table and everyone digs in when the waiter brings two baskets of warm rolls.
Viktor is beside me, one arm slung casually over the back of my chair and I lean a little closer, so that our thighs touch.
His hand moves, warm fingers slowly stroking the side of my arm.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He’s obviously a much better actor than I am.
Or maybe not. Because I lean into his touch, a faint smile playing on my lips as we eat and chat.
The conversation goes back and forth from English to Russian, with Viktor or Olga translating.
She speaks excellent English, so she’s involved in everything.
“What do you do?” she asks me, eyes focused on me.
“I have a master’s degree in finance,” I reply.
“Wall Street?” Mr. Maslak asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “I was with a firm in downtown Atlanta, but I took time off to plan my wedding. And after the break-up, I wanted to see if I could find something that didn’t require me to commute downtown every day.
I don’t know if Viktor has ever mentioned it, but Atlanta traffic is horrible. ”
My mother glances at him. “No, I don’t think he has.”
“And what about you?” I turn to Olga politely, even though I know I’m going to hate the answer.
“I’m in medical school. I’m going to be a plastic surgeon.”
“How exciting,” I say, hoping it doesn’t come out as sarcastic as I’d like it to be.
“Many years of schooling,” she says, lifting one shoulder. “Dedication.”
“I’m sure.”
“She is very dedicated,” Mrs. Maslak says, beaming. “Very smart.”
Olga smiles back at her.
Viktor just continues to trail his fingers along my shoulder, my arm, almost to my collarbone, and then back again. It’s really quite lovely. Honestly, it’s starting to make me relax.
We order food and conversation turns to hockey.
“I won’t have much time,” Viktor says quietly. “Tomorrow is game one in New York. We leave early.”
“We are also leaving early,” his mother says. “I will do the shopping in New York.” She turns to me. “You will come?”
“Of course she will,” Viktor interjects before I can respond.
I had no idea I was going to New York.
But I don’t think Viktor did either. This was definitely spontaneous and I’m not sure how to behave, so I just smile.
He gently squeezes my arm, letting me know he’ll explain later, and now my thoughts are racing because…
three days in New York wasn’t in the plans.
And I don’t know how I’ll manage with his family on my own.
I hoped they would go and I would stay. Gather my thoughts.
Finish things up at Serena’s old apartment.
Instead, I’ll be playing babysitter? Tour guide? I’ve been to New York City half a dozen times, but I’m no expert.
“I would like to see the Broadway,” Mrs. Maslak says. “This is possible?” She looks right at me.
“Of course,” I reply smoothly. “Do you know which show you’d like to see? I’m sure we can get tickets.”
She says something in Russian to her sister, who replies enthusiastically. Olga chimes in and then they all look at me.
“Moulin Rouge.”
“Okay.” I smile pleasantly, even though my heart is beating a little too fast. I wasn’t planning to spend any time alone with them except at the games. And I figured they’d be focused on the ice, not on me.
This changes everything.
We eat and make small talk, and though Viktor doesn’t have his arm around me anymore, he sits close and every so often puts his hand on my knee.
It’s innocent enough, I don’t feel like he’s groping me, but it makes me feel like he’s got my back.
Because his mother is definitely intimidating. And Olga even more so.
Luckily, they’re all tired after the long trip from Moscow, so we part after lunch and they go to their rooms to rest and clean up. Viktor says something about coming back for dinner later, but they leave it open because everyone is tired.
“When did you decide I was going to New York?” I ask once we’re in the car heading home.
“At that minute,” he admits. “I am sorry, but we don’t want to give them a chance to try to throw me together with Olga.
And they will try. Do not doubt this. Mama is on good behavior—this means she is planning something.
She thinks our marriage is just piece of paper, so I am not allowing opportunities with Olga. ”
“I guess I need to pack.”
“I will put you on different flight,” he says with a soft smile. “And you will stay with me at hotel.”
I’m momentarily startled. “Is that allowed?”
He shrugs. “Eh, yes and no. Sometimes. With children, no. But just us, will be okay.”
I squint at him and then my next statement pops out before I can stop it. “Olga’s really pretty.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s comparing us or something. “She is attractive, yes. But not beautiful like you.”
For a minute I can’t breathe—does he really think I’m prettier than the Russian ? It makes me incredibly happy that he does. More than it should.
“You, um, think I’m prettier than Olga?” I ask finally.
He looks completely serious as he nods. “Very much so. She is hard. Cold. You are soft. Warm. Much more my type.”
I swallow.
His type.
Does he mean that or is he just saying that to spare my feelings?
It’s hard to know because his expression is more neutral than anything else.
I’m still having a tough time reading him.
It’s getting better but we haven’t known each other that long, so it’s going to take a while to understand the nuances of his expressions and body language.
And the truth is, I’m starting to want to.
A year is a long time to be with someone without any kind of connection. I’m married to this incredibly sexy, somewhat stoic, professional hockey player that’s starting to become important to me. And he just told me I’m his type.
What do I do with that information? Do I tell him that he’s very quickly becoming my type as well? Do I just leave it alone? Something else?
Since I’m unsure, I think I’m going to take the easier route.
“Serena’s going for game one and then she’ll watch the kids so Jayne can fly up for game two,” I say after a moment.
A flicker of confusion before he says, “It will be good to have your friend with you.”
“Totally.” I pause.
Then he squeezes my hand—we seem to be holding hands all the time now. “Do not forget, I will be there also.”
“You’ll be busy with hockey. But don’t worry, I can handle it.”
“Yes, but I will worry.”
“Don’t. Just think about hockey. You have a championship to win.”
There’s something in his eyes that resembles gratitude, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it appears. Then he leans over and presses a soft kiss on my forehead.
“Thank you.” He trails his fingers along my cheek before turning away. “I know everything is difficult.”
“I should be thanking you. You’re making it a lot easier than I thought it would be.”
“This is my job,” he says softly. “To take care of you. Maybe not forever, but for now? You are my wife. I will be the best possible husband under circumstances.” His eyes are laser focused on mine and if I were with anyone else, I would swear he’s going to kiss me.
Is it wrong that I would let him?