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

The next day, I stand outside Vancouver City Hall under the cool September sunlight, questioning my life choices.

It’s a beautiful day to get married. My hair and the wedding dress I found last minute flutter in the light breeze and I take a deep breath. September is the best month in Vancouver, still warm from the summer but before the rainy winter season starts. I always tell people to visit in September.

If I wanted to get married, I’d get married in September.

“Congratulations,” an older man says as he walks down the steps.

“Thank you.” I clutch my small bouquet, hold my smile until he passes, before I let out a long breath and glance around.

If this were a real wedding, I’d get married under that big tree over there, the one that looks about fifty years old, solid and steady, branches reaching up to the sky. On the grass beneath it, sunlight dapples through the leaves. I’d stand under that tree and hold the hand of my dream man, gazing up into his eyes in adoration.

In another lifetime, maybe.

Inside city hall, more people give me encouraging, friendly smiles. Everyone loves to see couples getting married. When I reach the floor where they do the wedding ceremonies, I spot him immediately. Hard not to, with a guy his size.

He’s wearing a suit, arms folded, shoulders tense, impatient energy radiating off from him. Clean, tailored lines and rich, dark gray fabric. The way the suit fits him is a strange contrast to the brutal lines of his face.

If I didn’t hate Alexei Volkov so much, I might think he was handsome. I might be attracted to his broad shoulders, the way his dark hair is thick with a slight wave, or the sharp, intelligent focus in his eyes. I might have the urge to run my fingers over the scar in his eyebrow, or press my palm into his abdomen to test if his torso is truly as firm as it looks.

If I were attracted to him. Which I’m not.

His gaze flicks to me, pausing, lingering, sweeping up and down. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

Irritation throttles through me. How dare he? I look hot. “Wait until the wedding’s over before you spit on my new dress, okay, Volkov?”

The gown is floor-length silk with a deep V and flowing sleeves. Seventies bridal goddess is the look I’m going for. I found it on the rack this morning at the wedding dress store I pass every day on the way to work. The fabric is smooth and drapey, skimming over my curves with a slight pearlescent sheen. My hair is down around my shoulders in smooth waves, and my makeup is light and simple except for a swipe of blood red lipstick, which I wear when I need confidence. Or to establish dominance.

More than ever, I need the confidence boost of looking incredible.

His eyes linger on my neckline, my waist, and a rush of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. “Last chance to change your mind.”

Am I sure about this? No. I’m petrified. Even though it’s just on paper and it would be a frigid day in hell before this marriage between me and Volkov includes real feelings, every cell in my body screams at me to run.

This marriage will never be real, though.

“I’m sure. Let’s get this over with.”

He nods once, scowling over his shoulder where an older woman with a sweet smile waits. She steps forward and he tilts his head at the door. “We’re doing it outside.”

As we walk, he tucks his fingers beneath his shirt collar, pulling it away like he can’t breathe.

“Don’t worry, Volkov,” I tell him in a low voice so we aren’t overheard. “The nightmare of being married to me will be over before you know it.”

As we pass a window, I catch our reflection. We look spectacular together, I’ll admit. He’s all towering height and broad shoulders, brutal features, and a sharp, expensive suit, and I’m feminine elegance, red lips, and long wavy hair.

What a shame. What a waste.

We make our way out of city hall in silence, people sending glances our way.

“Is that Alexei Volkov?” someone whispers.

As we descend the front steps, I lift my hem so I don’t trip. Like always, his eyes go to my shoes. A victorious feeling bubbles up my throat.

“Like them?” I’m all innocence. “They’re my something new. You know how much I love to shop.”

His eyes cut to mine, flashing with fury, and my grin broadens.

Like most of my shoes, they’re outrageous and impractical. A deep, bloodred to match my lipstick. A red that says, I am here to fucking play, and I will win.

“This necklace is from my mom, handed down from my grandmother. Something borrowed.” I push my hair back to show him the amber stone hanging from the thin chain, and his eyes dip to my collarbone. My mom lent it to me when I was a teenager and insisted I keep it, but good enough for a fake wedding that’s probably already cursed.

He sighs, exasperated with me, and deep in my chest, I feel joy. The more I talk, the more annoyed Volkov gets.

“My ‘something blue,’ well…” I press my lips together like I’ve said too much, my smile turning coy. “That’s hidden beneath my clothes.”

His jaw flexes. Ooooh, I’m really getting under his skin now. He shakes his head and mutters something to himself.

I lower my voice so the officiant, walking a few feet away, can’t hear. “Don’t you want to know what my ‘something old’ is?” A smile stretches across my face. To an outsider, I’m the picture-perfect bride, beaming at my groom, excited to hitch my wagon to his and sign my life away.

“I wish you would stop talking,” he mutters under his breath.

“It’s you.” I’m still beaming at him like he’s the love of my life. “You’re the something old, Volkov.”

He glares at me like he’s regretting all of this.

“Tell me,” I whisper, because around him, I just can’t help myself, “what happens to our prenup if you kick the bucket early?”

“Here,” he tells the commissioner, ignoring me. “Let’s do it here.”

With a start, I realize he’s led us to beneath the big maple tree I admired earlier.

“Why here?” I ask.

I’d rather get married inside city hall, under ugly fluorescent lighting, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning and people coughing or arguing parking tickets. Not out here, where the sun is shining.

I don’t want any of this to feel real. I don’t want it to be nice or romantic or memorable.

“It’s public,” he says in a low voice.

When I glance around, I spot the people already looking at us. A couple marrying outside city hall already attracts attention, but there’s an aura of power around Volkov that draws notice. I think about the restaurant last night, how my eyes went to him like a moth to a flame.

He has a point—the Storm social media accounts will be buzzing within minutes.

The officiant smiles again, her innocent, pleasant nature so out of place next to me and Volkov. A lamb in a snake pit. “Are your witnesses joining us?”

My stomach drops and I look to Volkov. I didn’t even think of witnesses. Of course we’d need them.

“They’re here.” Volkov tilts his chin at an older couple approaching. She’s wearing a dress and he’s wearing a suit. They look to be in their sixties, and they’re speaking in Russian, beaming at Volkov.

Oh god. His parents are here? He invited his parents?

They say something to him in Russian, the woman giving him a hug and the man shaking his hand. The woman’s eyes sparkle like she’s holding back tears.

She turns to me with a big, cheerful smile, and pulls me into a tight hug. “Congratulations,” she says with a Russian accent. I give a startled look to Volkov before the woman steps back and the man shakes my hand.

“So happy for you,” he says.

I force a smile. “Thank you.” I keep that smile pasted on my face as I lean in to the man I’m about to marry. “You invited your parents?” I ask through my teeth.

He looks at me like I’m insane. “Svetta is my housekeeper, and Dmitri is her husband.”

“Thank god.” My exhale is pure relief. I don’t want to meet his parents. This isn’t real, and the less ties to our personal lives, the better. Knowing him and his personality, his parents are probably assholes, just like him.

“Everyone ready?” the officiant asks us.

“Ready.” Volkov’s gaze slides to me, challenging and assessing. Last chance, his expression says.

Uncertainty flickers behind my ribs. What choice do I have, though? I can’t let the program lose funding. Those girls need it. They need one another and they need me.

I draw myself taller, inhale a steadying breath, and nod at the officiant.noveldrama

“Ready.”