Page 70 of From Ice to Grace
“Avah,” I say, her name suddenly feeling strange coming from my mouth. “Avah Johansson.”
Aunt Kat nods, her gaze sweeping over me once more. “When are you getting married?”
I look at her, wondering how much I should say. I don’t want her to be more worried about me than she already is.
“Tomorrow.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “Tomorrow?”
“It’s small,” I add quickly. “Just at the courthouse. I don’t want any more drama in my life. I just want to get settled and focus on my hockey career.”
The excuse spills from me and when it’s out, it feels more true than I thought it would be. Sure this is another temporary agreement, but two years is better than a few months. And this would be with someone I know…someone who wants just as little out of this as I do. Nothing but a transactional two years—it’s perfect.
She takes a slow sip of her tea. “That’s good news, Sweetheart.”
“Yeah?” I ask, realizing I want her to approve of this decision I’m making, even if she doesn’t know the whole truth behind my reasoning.
“Absolutely. Settling down is always good. Especially with a good woman, who knows you and who’ll stand by you through everything. And since she’s marrying you even with everything going on,” she says, tilting her head and studying me a beat too long. “I’d say she’s got her head on straight.”
Something about her tone pulls up a quick image of Avah—the stubborn lift of her chin when she doesn’t back down, the way her eyes flash when she’s irritated with me. It’s gone as fast as it comes, but Aunt Kat catches it.
“You’re smiling,” she says, quietly.
“I’m not.” I frown for good measure.
She laughs softly, the sound warm enough to cut through the cold knot in my chest.
“Just remember…” Her voice softens as she reaches across the table, her fingers closing gently over mine. “You also need to get settled in your soul.”
I nod, though the words land heavier than I let on.
“But,” She gives my hand a squeeze before letting go. “I have a feeling God is already at work in your life.”
“This place is next level,” I say, pulling out Avah’s chair as we arrive at our table at Cinzano’s.
“It’s the best in town,” Avah says, smoothing the skirt of her black dress as she sits. It flares at her knees, the movement catching my eye. I hang my jacket over the back of my chair and roll up my sleeves, needing the extra air.
She arches a brow as she follows the movement carefully. “Are you preparing to butcher your own entrée?”
“Not everyone loves being in a suit,” I say, stretching my arms. “I need space to breathe.”
Especially with her sitting across from me, looking like trouble I’d willingly run toward.
Since I picked her up, I’ve struggled to keep my eyes off her. She looks like she stepped off a Nordic runway, all calm poise and icy perfection, and we’re here tonight to lay the groundwork for our agreement. All while looking like we’re convincingly in love. Which would’ve been easier if she didn’t write a contract and underlined the words no intimacy almost fifty thousand times.
“How did you manage to get a table?” I ask, letting my gaze roam over the low-hanging warm lights, the polished wood finishes and dark feel, with waiters who look like they’ve stepped straight out of Casablanca.
“It was a pity present from my boss when she reminded me that I’m about to be deported,” Avah says, shifting in her seat before taking a sip of the water in front of her. “She must really be sorry to lose me, because today I was told to take my last week as a farewell present and ‘really soak in the city’.”
I don’t miss the bite in her words.
“You actually like your job,” I state, mentally making a note that she’s possibly doing this for career reasons. It’s refreshing. I’ve never dated a woman who held her career in high regard. “What is it exactly you do?”
“I’m a junior editor and I loved my job,” she says with a sigh. “And now I won’t be able to get another one until all of the paperwork is figured out.”
The waiter comes and hands us our menus before relaying the chef’s specials—which sounds more like something out of Shakespeare than food.
“Bring us a bottle of champagne,” I tell the waiter when he asks what we’d like to drink. If the press takes photos, it’ll look like we’re a couple celebrating, and that’s exactly what Brady wants.
