Gloves Off: a marriage of convenience hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 4)

My horrible husband does a double-take at my outfit, gaze snagging on my legs, my waist, my neckline, my hair before his jaw tightens.

His lip curls in disgust. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

I dug all the way to the back of my closet for this dress. Long sleeves, a low square neckline, a mid-thigh hem, every inch covered in copper sequins. Bold and loud and showy. A showstopper, my mom called it when she gifted it from one of her film sets.

His disapproval makes me see red. Fucking asshole! every cell in my body chants. Liam never liked me wearing flashy stuff, either. That sure is bright, he once commented about a dress I wanted to wear to a mixer for the new medical students and their partners. He didn’t like attention being drawn to me when it could be on him.

“Yes, Volkov.” I summon all the feminine power I can, straightening my shoulders. His eyes flick back to my cleavage, and I get a hit of satisfaction. “I want everyone to know how insecure I am.”

Clothes say something about us. They’re a way to communicate with the world. People see what we wear and interpret a message, whether we mean it or not. Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I wear sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun, and a T-shirt with a hole near the armpit I’ve had since university, and I don’t care what message people infer.noveldrama

Tonight, though, after the blowup we had this afternoon, I’m wearing a dress that says I’m not backing down. I’m ready for a fight. This dress says I know I look good and eat your heart out and I don’t need you.

Something flashes in his eyes. On a normal person, I’d call it regret, but I’m sure the only thing Volkov regrets is that he didn’t twist the knife in deeper.

“Besides,” I tuck my phone and cards into my clutch, “I’m sure your teammates won’t mind.”

I love my body. I’m hot. I have nice boobs and a great butt. I’m toned and strong from soccer. My body is awesome. Do I look like my mom or Darcy, petite and thin? No. But different doesn’t mean worse, or less.

It’s what I always say to the girls at soccer: you don’t need to look like the Photoshopped people in magazines to be gorgeous.

It’s clear what body type Volkov prefers, though, as his gaze finds the hem of my short dress, and he looks like he’s going to be sick.

He stares at me, unamused, before his gaze flicks to my heels. “Never miss a chance to show off, do you?”

The silver lining of this whole situation is that Volkov was forced to marry a woman he doesn’t find hot. These hockey players are used to getting everything they want. They’re so competitive, and they love to win. He won’t be able to change this ass or these boobs, though. He’ll have to live with them for an entire year.

My mouth curves into a smug smile. I’m about to make an aloof comment and breeze out of here, when something on the foyer table catches my eye.

A small bouquet of bright yellow flowers sits in a short vase. Each bloom is the size of a large coin. They’re not ugly, they just don’t look like a typical floral arrangement.

“For you.” He watches me with a weird look in his dark eyes. Interest mixed with . . . not amusement. Entertainment.

He’s laughing at me, but I don’t get the joke.

“For me.” I arch an eyebrow. Why would Volkov buy me flowers? “Are they poison or something?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Now, why would I poison my wife, Doctor?”

He probably got them as a gift and is just messing with me. “I can think of a few reasons, but you’ll have to wait a bit longer.”

The car ride is silent and tense.

How the hell am I going to do this for an entire year? Maybe I can move out but leave enough of my things at his place to make it look like I live there.

“What, are you nervous or something?” he asks, breaking the silence.

We’re almost at the restaurant, driving through Stanley Park on our way to the Teahouse. His eyes drop to where I’m fiddling with my necklace.

“You’ve been to this dinner before,” he says. “It’s for the new players. No one will be looking at us.”

Concern flickers in his eyes.

“I gave you my word,” I tell him as he parks in the crowded parking lot. “I’m not going to screw this up.”

“I know,” he says, and it feels like he means it, but I don’t wait for him to go on before getting out of the car and striding into the restaurant. I hear the chirp of his car before his footsteps follow.

“As long as we don’t have to kiss again,” I toss over my shoulder with a smirk, “no one will know the truth.”

He’s about to argue but the host greets us with a bright smile and leads us into the restaurant.

At the front of the dining area, I stop short at the giant image displayed. Alexei’s hard chest bumps me from behind.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

It’s the picture from our wedding day, of our terrible kiss. Beside the photo, a Congratulations! sign. All the Storm players and staff in the restaurant fall silent, smiling at us.

I turn to Volkov with wide eyes, heart pounding up into my throat. “No one will be looking at us, huh?”

This isn’t a dinner to welcome the new players.

It’s a wedding reception—for us.