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

He opens the door, and I’m ready for Ms. Trunchbull from Matilda, mean and bitter. Towering over me at seven feet tall.

The woman on the front step is tiny, though, barely reaching my shoulder, holding a potted plant, her warm smile reaching ear to ear. Behind her, a tall man gives my husband a friendly nod.

She starts talking to Volkov in fast Russian, eyes shining as she launches into the house. She gives him a playful tap on the ribs, saying something in a scolding tone. I catch the word Svetta in there.

When she sees me, she falls silent and her smile broadens, the apples of her cheeks popping.

She’s adorable. I could put her in my pocket. This can’t be his mother.

“You must be Georgia,” she says in a light Russian accent, handing the plant to Volkov, who’s staring at it with a dark expression.

She beams harder, coming at me with outstretched arms. Is she going to try to strangle me? Is her warm, welcoming smile a distraction while she elbows me in the solar plexus?

“Maria Volkova. So happy to meet you. My Alexei didn’t say a word about you. That’s how I knew you were pretty.” She looks me over like she’s pleased with what she sees. “But you’re more than pretty, aren’t you? You’re beautiful.”

I blink at her. My words don’t work.

Maria wraps her arms around me, squeezing me tight. I’m frozen. She’s hugging me. Alexei’s mother is hugging me. She smells nice, like lilacs.

She tilts her head at my giant pink crystal. “That has a very good energy.”

“That’s what I said.” I smile in surprise. “Alexei thinks it looks like a—” I clamp my mouth shut, and Maria’s lips press together. The man behind her coughs like he’s covering a laugh.

“That shape and size can be very intimidating for men.” Maria nods with a serious expression, but her eyes glitter. She gestures at the man behind her. “This is Alexei’s father, Nikita.”

The large man looks like an older version of Volkov, has the same dark, almost black hair but with silver at the temples. Same brutal lines of his face. His eyes are kind, though.

“Nikita Volkov,” he says in a low voice, with a strong Russian accent, holding his hand out.

We shake hands. “Georgia Greene.”

“Good to meet you.”

He says it like he means it. There’s an air of calm about Alexei’s father that I don’t see in men often. Ward has it, too. Jamie Streicher, sometimes, when he’s with Pippa and his dog, Daisy.

“You too,” I say absently.

Maria gestures to the plant Alexei’s still holding. “This is for you. Myrtle. It represents good luck and love in a marriage.”

“Oh.” I guess I’ll need all the luck I can get. “Thank you.”

I can barely take care of myself, though. That thing’s going to be dead within the week.

“Alexei will take care of it,” she adds, like she can hear my thoughts. He says something in Russian to her, glowering; she responds in a firm tone. His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t respond. “Alexei knows all about plants and flowers from—” Her gaze falls to the yellow flowers from the other week and her eyes narrow as she slowly turns to her son. “—my florist shop.”

His throat works, and he almost looks guilty.

“Your florist shop?”

“Yes.” She loops an arm through mine, leading me to the kitchen. “He worked there growing up.”

Back in the foyer, Nikita says something to his son in Russian, who answers in Russian, sounding irritated before he sighs and grabs my car keys from the bowl.

Over my shoulder, I shake my head at him, but his dad is already out the door with my keys.

Volkov calls something after him, probably directing him to the nearest source of water for his father to drive my car into.

“Where’s he going?” I ask Maria.

She just smiles that warm smile that reminds me of the way the sun looks when it streams in through the library stained-glass window first thing in the morning. Over her shoulder, she glances at her son before looking pointedly at the bags she brought. Without a word, he picks them up and follows us to the kitchen.

I can feel him glaring at my back the entire time.

“Svetta said you’re a doctor?” She gestures at the bar counter. “Sit, I’ll make us tea.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay.” My expression is apologetic. “I should be getting upstairs to bed⁠—”

“No.” She gestures at a chair at the bar. “Sit.”

My husband’s large, warm hand lands on my shoulder. “Sit, Doctor.”

He raises his eyebrows. I raise mine. He knows I hate being told what to do.

His expression tightens like he’s in physical pain. “Please,” he murmurs, and when he presses into my shoulder again, I sink into the bar seat.

His mom moves around the kitchen like a hummingbird, opening cupboards and drawers with confidence like she’s been here a million times while he hovers behind me, leaning against the counter.

“Have you had dinner?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“No,” Volkov says at the same time.

Maria digs into the bags she brought, pulling containers out and transferring food to plates and bowls.

“Maria, can I help?” I ask.

“No,” she says firmly. “You probably worked all day. You’re tired.”

I start to stand. “I’m not tired.”

Volkov’s hand lands on my shoulder again, pushing me back into the chair. “She’s tired,” he says, and I shoot him a frown over my shoulder.

Maria gives him an arch look. “Would you sit down? You’re making your wife nervous.”

Your wife. A funny emotion perches in my throat, ready to escape. A laugh, maybe. Or a scoff. I’m this guy’s wife and I didn’t know a thing about his parents. Worse, I’m shocked at how nice they are.

She places a big bowl of soup in front of me with a spoon. “Eat.” She puts another bowl beside mine before giving her son an expectant look.

“Thank you, Maria. This looks amazing.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Volkov murmurs, taking the seat beside me. He catches my eyes, and his expression is clear: Eat the fucking food and don’t you dare insult my mom.

Maria’s back is turned while she makes tea so I roll my eyes at him, slip a spoonful of soup into my mouth and⁠—

“Oh my god,” I moan, and a muscle in Alexei’s jaw twitches. The soup is full of chicken, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, and what tastes like horseradish, among other herbs. “This is amazing.”

“Excellent, Mama,” Volkov echoes.

Maria waves us off, but she’s pleased. “Food and flowers are my ‘love languages.’ I heard that phrase on a podcast.”

She’s so sweet. How could she possibly be this guy’s mom? “Do you cook a lot?”

“Oh yes.” She nods resolutely, with pride. Alexei’s eyes are sharp on me, watchful, like he’s waiting for something. “When I have time. My flowers keep me busy.” She sighs dramatically, the corner of her mouth twitching, the same way Volkov’s does sometimes. “So many weddings.”

Oh god. She probably wished she could have been at our wedding. Guilt pinches in my stomach.

I need to change the subject, fast. “Where’s the shop?”

“Fourth and Lonsdale.”

“Oh.” I straighten up. “That’s close to here.”noveldrama

“You should come visit me.”

“The doctor doesn’t have time,” Alexei cuts in.

Her eyes close briefly. “Of course. You’re busy with your job, I’m sure.”

The embarrassment on her face makes me feel like the lowest scum.

“No, I have time.” I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this. I shouldn’t be spending time with her. “And I’d love to come by and see it.”

He glares at me, but I ignore him.

“Wonderful.” She beams that smile again. Her eyes snag on my left hand and she grabs it, frowning at the ring. She gives Volkov a dark look.

“Alexei.” Her tone is firm as she holds my hand up. “What is this?”