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

The next morning, I pace in the kitchen, waiting for the doctor to get here.

I’m not used to living with someone, especially someone I can’t stand, but we’ll never see each other. I spend half the season on the road. When I’m in town, I’m at games, training, or working with health professionals, trying to undo years of damage on my body.

My gut drops when I hear the doctor’s car pull up outside. At the front windows, I watch an old sedan park in the driveway.

I frown. Is that rust on the wheel well? The car is old in the barely-running way, not in the vintage, collector car way. My new wife is way too superficial to drive something like that, but I’m not expecting anyone else⁠—

The doctor gets out of the car. Is this a joke? That car is probably older than I am.

A moment later, there’s a knock at the door.

I open it and lean on the doorframe. She’s in leggings, a windbreaker, and sneakers, and I’ve never seen her dressed so casually. Even dressed for the gym, she looks hot. Annoying. She’s breathing heavily, a little flushed, with strands of auburn hair escaping her ponytail, and my mind goes to dirty, depraved places. I bet this is what the doctor looks like in bed, rumpled and breathless.

Right before her jaw unhinges and she bites her partner’s dick off.

“Yes?” I act like I don’t recognize her.

She gives me a flat look. “Is this how you act when company comes over? No wonder you’re still single.”

My gaze drops to her feet. “Didn’t know you owned a pair of sensible shoes.”

“Go jerk off to my shoes in private, Volkov.”

The back of my neck heats, and I let my gaze trail over her again. As much as I can’t stand this woman, those leggings on her are something else.

My gaze lands on the giant thing on the step behind her.

“Uh.” My lip curls as she hoists it up. “No. That’s not coming inside.”

The crystal is at least four feet tall. A soft pink with jagged edges, tiny particles on its surface sparkling in the morning sunlight.

It looks like a giant dick.

I stare at it in horror, stepping back as she carries it into the foyer.

“I’m not leaving my crystal outside.”

She can’t be serious. “Why do you have it?”

“Because I love it.” She lowers it to the floor beside the entranceway table where I keep my keys and wallet. Jesus Christ, those leggings fit her ass like a dream. “And it’s pretty. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s heavier than you are. How are you going to get it up the stairs?”

She dusts her hands off, and admires it. “I’m not. It’s going right here.”

“No, it’s fucking not. This is a man’s home. Men don’t have crystals.”

I can’t have a crystal in my foyer that looks like an erect cock.

“What’s the matter, Volkov?” She rests a hand on the tip. The top, I mean. “Does it . . . intimidate you?”noveldrama

She trails a hand over it suggestively and I look away in alarm. I don’t like this game.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those quacks who think crystals gives you powers, Doctor? Maybe it can help you fly.” I give her a condescending, indulgent look that makes her eyes flash with anger. “Or maybe it’ll attract some poor sucker who wants to give you all his money.”

Her gaze sparks with fury, and a thrill runs through me.

“I don’t need any help with that,” she says with a tight smile before walking past me into the front room, gaze moving over the high windows, vaulted ceilings with warm wood beams, and stone fireplace.

Is that admiration in her gaze? If it is, I don’t care. Light filters in through the windows, catching on gold strands in her auburn hair, and my frown deepens. Her scent wafts over to me—violets, again.

My teeth grit. Dr. Georgia Greene has the personality of a fire demon but smells like pretty flowers, and I don’t like it. My florist mother has a book with flower meanings. Purple violets—my thoughts are occupied with love.

Unfuckinglikely.

She looks at the mid-century modern furnishings a decorator chose. “It’ll do.”

“So fucking spoiled,” I mutter under my breath. This home is nicer than any place I ever lived growing up, but the doctor and I had very, very different upbringings. She probably has a trust fund, had everything she ever wanted, and never heard the word no, whereas my family had to work their way up from nothing.

The corner of her mouth curves up at my disdain and her eyes linger on the built-in bookshelves around the fireplace.

“No family photos,” she says like she’s not surprised.

I removed them in anticipation of her moving in. I have nothing to hide and I’m proud of my parents, but I don’t want her snooty, nose-in-the-air attitude anywhere near them. If she insults my parents, their heritage, or their jobs, I don’t know what I’d do.

“I don’t see them much,” I lie.

My mind burns with the memory of Emma’s parents meeting mine. How they barely spoke to them. I was in my fourth year in the NHL, already making millions, but it didn’t matter. What we came from was shameful to Emma’s old-money family.

For the next year, I’ll keep my family far, far away. I told them I’m doing renovations. I can drag that out for a couple months at least.

“You can park on the left side of the garage.” I hand her the garage door opener, careful not to touch her hand again like when I put the ring on. Like last night at the bar when she smoothed her palm over my chest and I almost passed out. “What time is the truck getting here?”

She gives me a questioning look. “What truck?”

“The moving truck.”

“I didn’t hire a moving truck.”

“Then how are you moving your stuff in?” I ask slowly, and my condescending tone makes her nostrils flare. A thrill of satisfaction runs down my spine.

“My car.”

My gaze swings to the window, and I crane my neck to see her car in the driveway. It’s packed to the roof with boxes. “That’s all your stuff?” I thought she’d show up with a semitruck.

“Almost. I’ll have to do another trip or two.”

I almost offered to help her outside the bar after Darcy and Owens’ engagement party. If she were anyone else, I would have. I’d have roped in Owens, Miller, Streicher, and Walker, too. It’s the way I was raised. My parents would be horrified to learn I’m letting her fend for herself.

Acting like a decent person would give the doctor the wrong impression, though.

Something occurs to me and I frown. “You need furniture, then.”

Her cool mask slips, and she blinks with uncertainty. “I got rid of everything. You said I’d stay in the guest room.”

I cleared out the room I’m putting her in, moving all the furniture to the room beside mine. I gave her the room farthest from mine, at the end of the hall. It’s the smallest. Let her be miserable in there with not enough room for her precious shoes and tiaras, I figured.

Now I have to move it all back? I’m meeting my physio in twenty minutes.

“Fine,” I grit out.

Fuck. Now she’ll be in the room beside mine, sharing a bedroom wall with me. Sleeping a few feet away from me.

I lead her up the stairs, fighting my urge to take the box from her. When we reach the open door beside my room, I gesture inside.

“Here.”

I have to admit, everything looks better in this room than where it was before. There’s more daylight in here. The windows are bigger, and the bathroom is nicer, with a deep soaker tub. Just like the rest of my home, everything was chosen by a design team—the low, king-sized bed with a thick white duvet, the mid-century modern style bedside tables and the reading chair by the window, and the stupid little decor things my housekeeper, Svetta, must have put out.

It’s too nice for my new wife.

The woman beside me lifts her eyebrows once with a flat expression, like she’s unimpressed. “Great.”

My teeth clench. What a spoiled brat.

“Do you sleep in a bed?” I ask. “Or do you hang upside down from the rafters?”

“A coffin, underground if possible.” She yawns behind a delicate, manicured hand.

“Tired from a wild night?” I can’t hide the irritation in my voice.

“Absolutely raucous.” She holds my gaze, challenging me. “I’ve been busy every night this week.”

Tension snaps in the air. My attention snags on her mouth, how it tilts like she has a secret. She was probably out in something short and tight, laughing at some guy’s dumb jokes and tossing back free drinks. She probably left her wedding ring at home, too. My gaze drops to her other hand, to the plain silver ring I put on her finger a few days ago.

Before I can respond, she shoots me a wink, flounces down the stairs, and it’s hard to look away from the curve of her hips in those leggings.

Late that afternoon, I return, listening for sounds of my new wife moving like a tornado through my home. She has probably rearranged half the furniture by now. Or sold it.

Silence.

Upstairs, half a dozen moving boxes sit outside her closed door. A few are labeled Fragile—shoes!

“It’s not forever, Damon,” she’s saying quietly on the other side. “It’ll be over before you know it and then it’ll just be us again.”

The sweet softness in her tone has me standing straighter, listening harder. Damon? I’ve never heard the doctor speaking to anyone like that. Who the fuck is Damon? Hot, sharp alarm races through me.

My fake wife failed to mention she has a boyfriend.

My teeth clench so hard my jaw hurts as I glare at her door, burning a hole in it. I picture some faceless guy all over her, hands in her hair. Does he take her out and spend money on her? Is he a nice guy, someone the doctor can push around, or is he an asshole like me?

It pisses me off because she didn’t tell me, and her having a boyfriend could blow up this entire deal. That’s why I’m mad.

Before I can stop myself, I lift a fist and pound on the door.