Page 31 of Gloves Off

“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.

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