Page 28 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
“Oh.”
Dmitri opens the door to the room, and he ushers me into the room. Maybe we’re both men, and of course we’re just friends, friends who have kissed each other, but Dmitri opens every door for me.
I remind my mind not to be confused. We are friends. That’s all. Dmitri is straight. So straight the thought of anything else doesn’t occur to him.
I step into the room. Something feels different, and when Dmitri flicks on the light, I see that the bed is covered with red flower petals.
I stare.
Beside the bed is a bottle of champagne and some chocolate-covered strawberries.
“Surprise!” Dmitri exclaims happily, then bounds for the champagne bottle. “Happy wedding night!”
“Nice,” I say, happy when my voice doesn’t squeak or something, even though my heart is lurching.
Dmitri pops open the champagne, and the cork lands somewhere on the velvet tufted couch. “Oops.”
I rescue the cork from the couch and join Dmitri.
Dmitri pours me a new flute of champagne, and even though we had wine at dinner followed by cocktails at the bar, I grab it eagerly.
I want to feel woozy right now. I want this day to pass by quickly because my heart is getting confused. My dream man shouldn’t be handing me champagne in front of a rose-petal covered bed, and he shouldn’t—
Dmitri’s eyes gleam, and in the next moment he pops a chocolate-covered strawberry into my mouth. My eyes flutter down naturally as my taste buds celebrate the marvelous taste. “This is good.”
“Of course it is.”
I snort.
Then Dmitri laughs. “Who would have thought we would get married?”
“Not me!”
We break into giggles, and when we collapse on the bed, Dmitri throws rose petals at me.
“You didn’t need to order champagne and rose petals,” I tell him.
“I wasn’t going to not order it for you.”
“But rose petals? Seriously?”
He scoops up some petals and flings them at my face. I sputter as one lands on my nose.
“Is in your hair too,” Dmitri says, and I try to brush it away. His eyes soften. “You’re making it worse. Hold still.” He lifts a hand and—God, his fingers are in my hair now.
His eyes catch mine, dark and intent as they get before a crucial play, and my heart hammers against my ribs with the rhythm of skates on ice, too fast, too loud, too much.
But this is all pretend. I shouldn’t be contemplating the shades of umber in his eyes, or the manner in which caramel shards mingle with the darker brown, and I bite my lip to keep from remarking on it. That’s something a significant other might remark upon, and though Dmitri and I might be married, I will never be his significant other. We will never be in a romantic relationship. The ache in my chest when I see him and remember he’ll never, ever be mine will ease with time and maybe distance. But it will never be eased by entering an actual romantic relationship with me.
Dmitri will never love me. Not really. Not the way I one day would like to be loved.
“Your eyes are very blue,” Dmitri says, and I blink.
Maybe it’s fine to stare into his eyes a bit.
I smile. “It’s a Swedish thing. Pretty normal.”
Dmitri frowns, and his jaw juts out as if he’s a general posing for a sculpture. “Nothing about you is normal, Oskar.”
