Page 15 of Gloves Off

Not pretty. Just interesting. Sparkly, with tiny threads of gold. Rich like a glass of bourbon. A little is perfect but too much would kill you.

“Maybe I want to stay in my place. Maybe I don’t want to move,” she adds, glancing at her nails, inspecting them. They’re a deep maroon purple, neat and trim.

“I’m sure you’d love to stuff me in some broom closet and call it my bedroom, but my place has plenty of room for both of us to stay out of each other’s way.”

A few years ago, I bought and renovated a home in North Vancouver. It wasn’t the largest home I looked at, but it had good bones: tucked away in the forest, overlooking the trees, arched and slanted ceilings, loads of natural light, and a massive stonefireplace. Mid-century modern, my real estate agent called it. It’s private, quiet, and the neighbors don’t bug me.

“I’m not moving. Besides, during the season, I’m either away for hockey, at a game, or training. I won’t be home to see you carting in your shopping bags.”

She sighs like talking to me is exhausting. “It would probably be too much hassle to move all your medical equipment anyway. I’m sure your place is set up like a care home.” She rests her chin on her hand, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll need a big closet.”

“Yes, Hellfire, I’m aware you’re a consumer.” My eyes drop to her shoes and her eyes flash at the nickname she hates so much.

“You’ll have to cut out comments like that or no one will believe us.”

“You have your own comments to cut out.”

“I’ll save those just for you, Volkov.”

Our gazes hold, and my shoulders tense. This year is going to be fucking terrible.

“We need to get our stories straight,” I tell her. “People will ask questions about how we got together and why we didn’t tell anyone.”

“Easy. I was humiliated.” She gestures at me. “You’re twice my age.”

“In that case, you look terrible for eighteen.”

The corner of her mouth tightens like she’s trying not to laugh, and I get a weird hit of something warm in my chest. Annoying.

“We’ll tell people we hooked up after the double date.”

Last year, Owens clearly had a thing for Darcy but wouldn’t make a move, so I asked her out in front of him to spur him into action. It worked like a charm—except Owens insisted on bringing Georgia.

“We didn’t want a relationship. We just wanted to,” she arches an eyebrow, “blow off steam.”

Fuck, she means. We just wanted to fuck.

I bet the doctor is incredible in bed. I picture her beneath me, naked and desperate while I thrust into her, those plush lips parted and eyes on me, letting me do what I want to her. Arousal pounds through me.

My thoughts slam to a halt. Even if we put our weapons down, messing around with the doctor would be a fucking disaster. She’s marrying a guy she hatesfor money. Her morals are paper-thin.

She’d tear my heart out and sell it for this season’s newest heels, and she wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse while doing it.

My watch is beeping—that fucking heart rate alarm again—and I silence it, ignoring her raised eyebrows and tilting, catlike smile.

“Are you picturing it, Volkov?”

“The thought of fucking you makes me feel sick.”

“Right.” She smirks like she doesn’t believe me. “Sick in the excited way? Like your pants feel tight?” She sends a pointed glance to my crotch.

I close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose. This woman is infuriating.

“So we didn’t think it was going anywhere, we were just hooking up, and then we decided to get married.” I make a face. “Who’s going to believe that?”

“You’re an intense guy. You fell madly in love with me and insisted I marry you.”

“Maybe you fell madly in love withmeand begged me to marry you.”

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