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

“What are you doing?” Alexei asks a few nights later as I stand in the foyer of his home, applying lipstick in front of the hallway mirror. His gaze catches on my mouth, flickering with distaste before it drags down my sparkly floor-length gold gown.

Right—those are his horny eyes. Poor guy is attracted to the last woman he’d ever want to be with.

“Waiting for my ride.” Why is he home so early? He wasn’t supposed to get home until late tonight.

A bouquet of flowers arrived at my office today. Yellow carnations. The second I got home, I looked them up in the book Maria had slipped into my work stuff. Yellow carnations—disdain, rejection.

He won’t ruin my good mood. I splurged on getting my hair done after work, big and wavy and shiny, and my makeup is practiced and precise. This dress has been hanging in my closet, waiting for the perfect moment. Between work and the soccer team this week, I’m exhausted, but there’s something about dressing up and looking hot that supercharges my ego.

“Where are you going?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know?”

His gaze drops to my mouth and heat flashes through me. It’s the same look he wore before he kissed me at the airport, pissed off and wound up.

Tension thickens in the air. He steps closer and my pulse jumps. Goddamnit.

“I’m going to a hospital benefit.” I twist the lipstick tube closed and tuck it in my clutch.

“Isn’t that the kind of thing you should invite your husband to?”

Honestly, I didn’t even think to. I’m so used to being single. “You weren’t supposed to be home in time.”

He studies me with a frown. “You’re wearing that perfume again. The Friday one.”

I hate that he notices things like this, and now that I know he grew up helping Maria in her flower shop, I realize that’s how he identified the violet note in my perfume.noveldrama

“I don’t just wear it on Fridays,” I rush out. “I wear it when I want to feel—” I don’t know why I’m talking about this with him.

“What?” His stare turns to a glower.

The perfume makes me feel pretty and optimistic and happy. “It doesn’t matter. Breathe through your mouth if you don’t like it. Or better, stand farther away from me.”

He studies me, and I have the urge to squirm.

“The other night,” he says, voice low, and my skin prickles. “At the airport.”

The kiss, he means. I squint, pretending to think. “What happened at the airport?”

It’s like I haven’t even thought about it once. Haven’t obsessed about what we did each of those nights.

His nostrils flare. “When we kissed.”

“Oh. When you kissed me.”

His eyes flash. “We shouldn’t be doing stuff like that anymore. No more kissing, even if it’s for show.”

I’m both disappointed and relieved. “I agree. I’m supposed to be professional in front of the team.” I’m actually impressed at how cool and disinterested I seem. The devil inside me lifts her head, though, and the words slip out before I can stop myself. “Besides, it wasn’t very good.”

A muscle jumps in his neck. “You kissed me back.”

“I was thinking about someone else,” I lie.

He stills. “What?” he asks in a low, deadly voice.

My blood starts sparkling the way it always does when we spar. “I was picturing someone else.” I wince up at him. “To get through it.”

My grandfather can expect me in about seventy years, because I’m going to hell.

“Who were you picturing?” He’s still using that low, scary voice that makes my stomach dip.

“It’s not important.”

“Georgia.” He steps into my space and I step back, hitting the wall. His scent surrounds me, making me dizzy. “Who. Were. You. Picturing.”

“Just a colleague.”

Volkov clenches his jaw so hard it looks like it hurts, and his gaze locks to mine before it drops to my lips. Is he going to kiss me again? My pulse pounds in my ears. I don’t know why I love fucking with him so much.

“He’s going to be there tonight?”

It takes every ounce of me to hold his gaze, lifting my chin. “Yes. Dr. Handley is picking me up any moment. Dr. Handsome, the nurses call him.”

His gaze hardens, and my stomach flips at the furious, possessive look in his eyes.

This game feels dangerous, but I can’t stop. Adrenaline whizzes through me. Dr. Eric Handley is gorgeous in that big blue-eyed, corn-fed country boy way. A true nice guy, like Hayden Owens. Safe and kind. We’re 100 percent platonic, though.

Volkov’s eyes drop to where I hold my clutch. “Where’s your wedding ring?”

“It doesn’t go with my outfit.”

His glare turns to a raging glower. More adrenaline floods my body.

“Oh, come on,” I laugh. “You bought me an ugly ring on purpose.”

He holds up a hand, where his glints. “I’m wearing mine. What do you think it looks like, when you don’t wear yours?”

Why is the sight of that ring on his big hand so hot?

He sucks in a deep breath, closing his eyes, and when they open again, they flash with something possessive. “Tell Dr. Handjob you don’t need a ride.” He starts walking up the stairs. “I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

My heart stops. “What? No.”

He ignores me.

“You don’t have a ticket,” I call after him, panic spilling through my stomach. My colleagues know I got married—they saw the photos online—but I don’t want Alexei Volkov anywhere near the work I love.

“Figure it out,” he yells from upstairs, before his door closes.

Ten minutes later, he returns with damp hair and dark eyes, wearing a sharp, navy blue tux. It’s clearly bespoke, with the way it fits his broad, towering form. For a man who spends all his time working out or playing hockey, I’m surprised to admit Volkov has style.

Hockey players shouldn’t wear tuxes. It makes them look too hot.

My nerves whir as our eyes meet, and the clawing, desperate, hungry airport kiss replays in my head. Best kiss of my life. Not good, I tell myself. Very concerning.

And tonight, with him looking so deadly handsome? This is a bad idea.

Before I can say anything, though, he tosses something through the air, and I catch it. My wedding ring. His hard, determined expression burns me.

“Put your fucking wedding ring on. Now.”