Page 26 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
Oskar
Dmitri sets me back on my feet as casually as if he hasn’t just kissed me breathless. He grins, then takes the paperwork from the effusive officiant whose eyes are doing that softening thing like the women in the jewelry store.
“We’re married, husband,” he declares.
“Uh-huh,” I croak, because my throat has totally dried.
Dmitri kissed me.
He actually kissed me.
One of those Hollywood kisses that come at the end of movies and make the audience collectively coo in delight, despite their sticky popcorn fingers and overconsumption of soda and sweets.
I slide my gaze to him, because I’m pretty sure straight guys are supposed to have meltdowns after kissing men. Dmitri simply walks to the elevator with his customary swagger, all confidence and athletic grace, as if he’s on the ice and the hockey announcer has just said his name in a booming voice and ten thousand strangers are cheering and clapping.
I hurry after him. “So...”
He swings around, his face glowing. “Thank you, Oskar. I am very grateful.”
“Happy to help.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“You did what immigration attorney couldn’t,” he says, and I smile back. It’s hard not to smile in the face of so much joy.
“Our flight’s tomorrow morning,” he says. “We should celebrate with dinner.”
“That sounds nice.”
“So this is our honeymoon?” I try to keep my tone light.
“Exactly!” His eyes sparkle. “Happy honeymoon, Oskar.”
The casino pulses with more energy than earlier, blackjack tables now filled with players. Dmitri takes my hand as we weave through the crowd, and I try to ignore the zing that springs through me at his touch. I try to pretend that this is totally cool, that we’re just two bros, even though bro has never been a word to describe me.
Dmitri oozes dudeness, and I tell my heart that it doesn’t need to beat like crazy. This isn’t a normal marriage. It’s not even a date.
Just two friends having dinner after some legal paperwork. Nothing more.
The Eiffel Tower restaurant hostess greets us with a practiced smile.
“We need table with view,” Dmitri declares to the pretty hostess. “Is wedding dinner.”
“Ah. Yes.” Her smile falters as she glances between us. “Is, um, the entire party here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just wanted to check...”
“The whole party is here,” I say hastily, because I don’t want her to ask Dmitri if I’m truly his husband, or if I’m just a brother or best man or well-tolerated colleague, and if at any moment a gorgeous woman will burst up from the elevator. The hostess’s eyes track him with the intensity of a scout watching a top prospect, barely registering my existence.
Dmitri must realize all the same. He takes my hand in his, and I don’t miss the frown on his face or his tone. “Is my new husband.”
“Right.” The hostess nods multiple times, flushing. “Wonderful. Just wanted to...confirm.”
Maybe I should have been taller, looked more like Dmitri. His face is plastered on magazines and most eligible sports stars lists. I am...me. My features are dainty and delicate.
Heads don’t turn when I enter a room. People don’t act like elevators in my presence, swooping their gazes down me, until they finally slide their mouth open unconsciously.
No, that’s what happens to him.
