Page 23 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
CHAPTER NINE
Dmitri
Oskar is still trembling when I lead him to the wedding chapel. In the elevator, he keeps darting glances my way, then pressing himself against the far wall as if the metal rail might protect him from something.
The elevator display flashes: WEDDING CHAPEL.
“Think they label it that way to inspire spontaneous weddings, or because their guests are too drunk to read smaller text?” Oskar asks.
“Neither applies to us. I knew we should marry, and I’m completely sober.”
“You had some champagne.”
“Unlike Noah, I am not lightweight.”
Oskar snorts. “I wish I’d gone to that party. I just saw the aftermath on the ice.”
I shake my head. “One does not wish to hear someone throw up, Oskar. The sound is...”
“Unpleasant?”
“Worse than those Broadway songs you make me listen to.”
“Hey! Don’t insult musicals!”
“They are too happy. Is unrealistic.”
“Guess I’ll have to make you watch more of them.”
“Is impossible task.” I hesitate. “Which one will you torture on me first?”
Oskar scrunches his forehead, and I’m glad he’s thinking about something besides whatever is making him nervous.
He’s still thinking as we step from the elevator, and he’s still thinking as we walk to the wedding chapel room.
“Mr. Volkov!” A man with perfectly gelled hair waves us forward. “Right this way. Just fill out these forms and we’ll begin.”
He guides us to a room that would make French royalty gape. Gold leaf spirals across every surface, crystal dripping from the ceiling. Even the air smells expensive - some floral scent mixing with polished wood.
Oskar scans the opulent space. “I expected Elvis.”
“Is your wedding. I not let guy with questionable hair marry us.”
“Sideburns were the thing to wear at that time,” Oskar says.
“Is good we live now.”
Oskar’s lips swerve up. “You could pull off sideburns.”
“I can pull off anything. You though...” I trace his hairline, then move my fingers along his high cheekbones, where his sideburns would go. “If you had sideburns, they would go here and stop here.”
Something makes my fingers zing, and I drop my hands.
“And?”
I shrug, trying to steady my voice. “Wouldn’t be worst thing. You could hide them under a hat.”
His eyes flash. “I wouldn’t need a hat to look good.”
