Page 81 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
Toothpaste foam drips down his chin. Even with his hair a wild mess and an orange toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, he’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. How did I not realize this before?
“What?” He eyes me suspiciously around his toothbrush.
“I’m glad you’re my husband.”
“Oh.” His shoulders sink, then he ducks down, shields his mouth from view with his hand, and spits. He hastily cleans the sink with water.
“You can spit in front of me.”
He draws himself up like an offended aristocrat. “It’s inelegant.”
“We live together, Oskar,” I remind him, continuing to brush my teeth.
“Yes, but.”
“But?”
“You’re amazing.”
I poke the back of my throat with my toothbrush, and my eyes water. I start to cough, fling myself over the sink and spit, as Oskar descends into peals of giggles.
“Wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t followed me into the bathroom,” he says. “Just saying.”
I dab my mouth furiously and place my toothbrush back in the holder. “Well, if I hadn’t followed you inside, I couldn’t do this.”
“What?”
I stalk toward him, grinning as he backs up until he hits the towel rack. In one smooth motion, I lift him onto the counter and capture his lips with mine.
“Oooh,” he breathes against my mouth.
“Uh-huh. Dmitri knows best,” I say in my sternest voice.
He giggles, but then we’re kissing again, his arms wrapping around my neck as his legs circle my waist, pulling me closer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Oskar
I pull myself away from Dmitri reluctantly. “We’re going to be late.”
“We’re married couple. They’ll understand, baby.” His warm hands linger at my waist.
“I don’t think we can use that excuse.”
“We’re supposed to be on our honeymoon. In the Caribbean. Or Mediterranean. They’re lucky we’re here at all.”
“We don’t have that kind of marriage.”
Dmitri stills against me, his body suddenly tense.
Shit.
I’ve said the wrong thing. When I dart my gaze up to him, his normally playful expression has gone stiff. I’m not sure how this gorgeous, ridiculous man could possibly be insulted at being reminded he doesn’t have to spend his life with me.
“Let’s shower,” I say quickly.
I slip down from the bathroom counter and take his hand. The mood has changed between us, and I hate it. I keep hold of him as I adjust the shower temperature. Once the water’s perfect, I tug him under the spray with me.
