Page 68 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
They start jumping up and down while Coach’s face gets redder and redder. Olivia and Linnea should totally open a law practice once they’re old enough.
“Is for pictures of my first family dinner here,” I say.
The girls frown at me.
“Smile,” Coach says, pointing his phone at us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Oskar
Once dessert is over, I stand. Dmitri has been subjected to my family for long enough.
“Thank you for the delicious food,” Dmitri says.
“It was nothing,” my mother says, because she cooks amazing food every night.
Pappa has always focused on his career, while she dedicated her time to raising me, and now, Linnea and Olivia. We say more goodbyes, and then Dmitri bundles me in my coat and drags me out of there.
“Do you think the pictures turned out good?” I ask as Dmitri opens the car door for me.
Dmitri snorts. “Your father’s technique didn’t seem good.”
“Yeah, I should have given him tips.”
“Your photographs are beautiful,” Dmitri says, closing the door before heading to his side. “We’re going to a party now.”
“We are?”
“At Finn’s and Noah’s.”
“Oh.” I smile.
Most parties are at Finn’s and Noah’s.
“Will be nice,” Dmitri promises.
Dmitri is driving, but he reaches over and takes my hand. I glance at him, but his gaze is focused on the drive. Snowflakes fall, a not infrequent occurrence in Boston this time of year, and I watch the flakes flutter downward and melt onto the windshield.
Dmitri turns the windshield wipers on, and the car fills with their swish-swish.
Finally, Dmitri parks his car in his apartment building, and we walk together to Finn’s and Noah’s apartment.
Dmitri takes my hand again.
“Smart thinking, someone might see,” I say.
Dmitri’s eyebrows fly up, then he winces, but that doesn’t seem right. Maybe it’s too dark to read his expressions properly or something.
He doesn’t let go of me when we enter Finn’s and Noah’s fancy apartment complex, he doesn’t let go of my hand when he nods to the security guard, and he doesn’t let go of my hand when we take the elevator to the penthouse floor.
He knocks, and the door swings open. A rosy-cheeked Noah beams at us. “Welcome!”
Noah ushers us inside. “The star couple is here!”
I step into the apartment, and hockey players cheer. A banner drops that says “Congratulations on Your Wedding,” and romantic music starts to play.
“Who wants champagne!” Troy exclaims, and soon he’s thrusting flutes of bubbly liquid into our hands.
