Page 52 of Gloves Off

A few evenings later,I pull my car into the garage. His car is here, all sleek black lines, which means he’s home.

My face burns hot with mortification at the memory of his shocked and weirded-out expression after Iclimbed into his bed. My god. It’s like the universe hates me or something. There’s nothing like the jarring realization that I’m not in my own bed. Waking up in Volkov’s, though?—

I’m ashamed to admit how comfortable I was. Warm and sleepy against him, so at home I could have stayed there forever.

I shudder.

Liam thought the sleepwalking thing was bizarre.Creepy, he called it. That summer in Toronto, I’d wake up on the couch, at my desk, at the kitchen table. One time, on the floor of his closet. Anywhere but his bed.

Since I woke up in Volkov’s bed, I’ve been avoiding this house—and him. Svetta, his housekeeper, was thrilled at the sight of the bunnies, and although she speaks very little English, she communicated she would be happy to help take care of them.

I think about her over-the-moon enthusiasm for our marriage.A good man,she kept saying about him. Right. I’m sure.My husband snores, too,she said about our separate bedrooms situation.

When I tried to repeat the Russian phrase he called me, the onethat apparently meanssweetheart,she made a face and started waving her hand in front of her nose, like something smelled bad. I don’t think I got the phrase right.

Inside the house, he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, almost like he’s waiting for me.

“Hello.” My tone is polite and unaffected, like I’m talking to a stranger on the street. Like the sleepwalking thing never happened.

His gaze trails over my clothes and his expression turns unimpressed. “Where were you?”

I was at soccer practice, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about where I’ve been.”

Please don’t bring up the sleepwalking,I pray.

“Ross Sheridan sent us a gift,” he says, nudging his chin toward a box on the counter.

It’s a framed picture from the team dinner—the shot of me shoving cake in Volkov’s face with a wicked smile while he glares at me.

“Wow,” I drawl. “Look how hot I look. Maybe I’ll use this as my dating profile pic after we’re done.”

His jaw tenses, and his eyes drop to the protein bar wrapper in my hand. “Was that your dinner?” Disapproval drips from his tone.

“Let’s not do this, Volkov. I don’t need a lecture.”

I’ve grown to hate the texture of the protein bars I buy in bulk—way too sticky and chewy, like glue—but they’re a decent source of nutrition when I don’t have time or energy to cook for myself. I keep a box in both my offices and another handful in the glove box of my car. If I don’t eat enough, I get cranky.

“Someone your size needs more calories per meal.”

I close my eyes, laughing at the situation I’ve found myself in. “Someone my size. Okay, thanks. Goodnight. Don’t die in your sleep.”

His head tilts back in exasperation. “I meant?—”

“I know what you meant.” I walk out of the kitchen, but he steps forward and wraps a big hand around my arm, stopping me.

He’s about to say something else before he goes silent, tilting his head like he’s listening. I open my mouth but he cuts me off. “Be quiet.”

I’m about to tear him a new one for ordering me around when he strides out to the foyer. Curiosity has me hot on his heels.

He stares out the window at a car pulling into his driveway. “My parents are here.”

I jolt. “What?”

He sighs.

“Now?” I ask, stupidly.

He runs a hand over his hair, like he’s in distress. “Yes. Now.”

---