Page 17 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
I stiffen.
He didn’t.
Surely not.
Probably not.
But the glossy limo stops before us, and a short man in a uniform gets out, then opens the door, gesturing to us.
“You got us a limo?” My voice cracks.
“Marriages are special, Oskar.” His usual Slavic stoicism softens into something that makes my chest ache. “Happy wedding day.”
I step back, trip over the curb, and go flying.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dmitri
Oskar flails on the pavement. His arms swing up, as if hoping for a last-second rope from the sky. I rush forward and catch him.
I inhale his citrusy scent. His long lashes flutter, and his bright blue eyes stare. “Thank you.”
“Is no problem.” My fingers flex against his waist before I realize what I’m doing. I right Oskar up and guide him inside the limo, my hand pressed to his lower back, in case he displays more acrobatic inclinations.
The limo was the right move. Oskar keeps peeking at different spots in the interior, his gaze jumping from the cream leather seats to the polished mahogany panels. The amber LED lights render everything elegant and exquisite, sleek and spectacular.
“Special occasion?” the limo driver asks.
I frown, because obviously the company should have informed him. I slide my arm around Oskar’s narrow waist, noticing how he fits against my side. “We’re getting married.”
The limo driver grins, laugh lines deepening. “Congratulations! We have champagne cooling in the fridge and chocolate-covered strawberries.”
I give him a curt nod, because I didn’t hire a limo to make conversation with the driver. I turn my attention to Oskar. His pink lips have parted somewhat, and something tightens in my chest when his long lashes swoop up.
I retrieve the champagne and lift out the crystal flutes. When I pass one to Oskar, our fingers brush against the stem.
“I-I can do it,” he stammers.
I smirk. “Hold the glass, Oskar.”
“Okay.” He stares as shimmering liquid fills his glass and bubbles leap and twirl.
I pour a drink for myself.
The limo glides from the airport, and I clink glasses with Oskar. “To our marriage.”
“To our marriage,” he echoes, gaze wider than normal, and his voice more husky.
I frown. “You’re catching a cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your voice is strange.” I buzz the limo driver. “Turn up heat, please.”
Hot air pours through the vents, but Oskar still trembles. I tighten my grip around the glass. God, is this my fault? We left too early.
I put down his champagne flute, then take his hands in mine. I rub his hands. They don’t seem cold, but maybe prevention is good in these situations.
