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

For most of my wedding, I’m barely listening. The officiant talks about love, commitment, and devotion to each other—all things I couldn’t care less about.

A respectful distance away, people gather and take photos. He’s so private, I bet he hates this. That gives me a tiny boost.

“Did you prepare vows?” she asks us.

Volkov and I stare at each other. Another thing I didn’t think of. Neither did he, by his stricken expression.

I cover up the fumble with a warm smile. “We did, but we’d love to say them in private, if that’s okay.” I nod to Volkov. “He’s shy about these things.”

The officiant melts. “Of course.” She steps away ten feet and turns her back on us. Our witnesses shuffle away, giving us space.

Volkov holds my gaze with that cold, pissed-off look, leaning in until his mouth is inches from my ear. Alarm shoots through me as his scent washes over me, clean and sharp, deeply masculine, and the back of my neck prickles.

For a startling moment, I think he’s going to kiss me.

“I don’t love you and I never will,” he murmurs.

I huff a silent laugh. “This isn’t a real marriage, and when it’s over, I won’t miss you.”

He stares down at me, nostrils flaring, and god, I fucking hate him.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He calls the officiant back, and we continue the ceremony. She makes us repeat things. I’m only half listening, focused on saying the right words, not on what they mean. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t real.

“Do we have the rings?” the officiant asks, and my heart stops.

Was I supposed to get a ring for him? Before I can panic, he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out two rings, one small and one large. They’re cold, plain, and ugly, two bands of metal.

I make a horrified face. “Oh god,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

The officiant looks between us, concerned, and I school my expression into a smile.

“These are heirlooms.” I’m scrambling. “I thought they were lost.”

“How romantic,” she says softly, clutching her chest.

This is probably a good thing. I’d get attached to a pretty ring. I’d miss it when this was over. I won’t miss this ugly thing.

She says more words, and he takes my hand and slides the ring on my finger. My nerves jump from the surprising warmth of his hands. My focus narrows to where his fingers brush mine.

The ring is at least two sizes too big. He stares down at me, daring me to challenge him.

More words I barely listen to as I repeat, and I slide the ring onto his finger, holding his strong hand in mine.noveldrama

It’s weird, touching him like this. My stomach dips.

“Very well.” She sends us a serene smile, and when I look to Volkov, my heart does a weird, confusing clunk. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Our witnesses clap happily, the officiant beams between us, and the onlookers start applauding.

“Yeah, Volkov!” someone hollers.

The officiant pauses with meaning. “You may now kiss the bride.”

I stiffen. My cool mask of composure slips, and panic races up my spine. He’s not going to actually—is he? A question rises in my eyes.

He stares back at me with a cold glare.

“Mr. Volkov?” the officiant asks.

I’m not breathing. I clutch my stupid bouquet—why did I buy this? I feel like a child playing wedding with her friends.

“Would you like to kiss the bride?” the officiant asks gently, like she suspects he’s so overcome with love and devotion that he hasn’t heard her.

I see the barely perceptible curl to his lip, though. He’s disgusted at the idea. I don’t care about him or what he thinks, but still, the rejection stings. My face burns, and I pray he doesn’t notice. The only thing more embarrassing than him rejecting me at our wedding would be him realizing it hurts me.

He takes a deep breath. Oh. We’re doing this. Okay. My pulse picks up. We’re actually going to kiss. Of course we are. We can’t pretend to get married without a kiss. My heart hammers, my spine goes ramrod, and I’m frozen as he lowers his mouth to mine.

My eyes close, my palm comes to his chest, and under his dress shirt, I feel his granite muscles tense. People are applauding and cheering. I guess they can’t see how uncomfortable he is, kissing me. He probably hates my perfume, too, because he’s not even breathing. His lips don’t move. It’s like kissing a statue.

We pull apart. He blinks, stunned, like I just stabbed him in the gut.

“That was the worst kiss of my life,” I whisper so only he can hear, smiling serenely like the besotted bride I’m supposed to be. “That was like kissing the dead body at a funeral.”

A terrible kiss and absolutely no spark. Exactly what our marriage will be.

His eyes dart all over my face. There’s something weird in his expression—confusion. Or maybe surprise. Bemusement?

“That’s not how I kiss.” He frowns.

Relief covers up the fading sting of rejection. Imagine if the kiss with Volkov was actually good? Then I’d have real problems.

Deep down, though, I’m a little surprised. I hate the guy, but I have this annoying feeling he’s incredible in bed. I don’t know why I think this—these hockey players are rich, gorgeous, and famous. They don’t need to be good at sex.

Not that I’m thinking about it. And not that I think Volkov is gorgeous, either.

We thank the officiant, thank the witnesses, and walk back toward city hall to file the certificate.

“Put your arm in mine,” he demands under his breath as we walk, as the onlookers call their congratulations.

My pride crackles with defiance at him telling me what to do, but I force myself to slip my hand over the crook of his arm. His arm is like a steel bar, and the fabric of his suit is smooth and high-quality. Wherever he goes for suits, they know what they’re doing.

Inside city hall, it’s much quieter.

“I’ll file the marriage certificate.” He sends me a dismissive look, like when the officiant asked if he wanted to kiss me. “We’re done here.”

So arrogant. Before I can say something sharp and devastating, the elevator doors near us open and he steps inside. They close and he’s gone without another word.

“What, no wedding night?” I mutter to myself as I head to my car. “I thought we had something special.” I glance around to make sure no one can see before I free-throw my bouquet into the nearest garbage can.

And like that, I’m married.