Gloves Off: a marriage of convenience hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 4)

A few evenings later, I’m sitting in the front room of Volkov’s house, waiting for my rideshare to soccer, when Darcy texts me.

Have you seen this? It’s a link.

The social media profile has no picture, no photos, and no bio, but a lot of followers. A new account, it seems.

@alexeivolkov.

I make a face—why’d he make an account? He doesn’t care about this stuff. When I click to see who the two accounts he’s following are, though, my heart stops.

One is mine. With my new hockey wife status, I get more new followers now than I can keep up with. I didn’t notice him adding me.

The other account is @doc.georgia.greene.queen, a fashion account dedicated to my outfits. A funny feeling loops through me.

Interesting. He must have clued in that social media is a way for us to fake it without having to interact. I find the picture I took with Volkov at my parents’ Halloween party and post it. My phone starts buzzing immediately with comments and likes.

Volkov can park his Batmobile in my cave anytime, someone comments, and I laugh, studying the image.

God, he looked hot in that costume.

I can’t stop thinking about what we did in the library. He didn’t let me come—asshole!—and I should hate that. He showed his true colors. Controlling, dominant asshole.

I shouldn’t be thinking about it so much. The day after the Halloween party, a bouquet of flowers arrived at my hospital office.noveldrama

Candytuft—indifference.

The message is crystal clear. I can’t be thinking about him, and I definitely can’t be thinking about how hot he is.

He clears his throat and I drop my phone. I didn’t even hear him get home.

“Staring at a picture of me?” he asks, mouth crooking.

“I was staring at myself,” I volley back, face going hot. “Because I’m so self-absorbed.”

His eyes trail over my outfit—leggings, raincoat, and sneakers. He’s wearing a casual navy blue jacket, the same luxurious navy as the tux he wore to the benefit last week.

He folds his arms over his chest, gaze flicking over me. “I guess asking where you’re going will get me nothing but a middle finger.”

“I’m going to soccer.” I don’t know why I told him that.

“Why aren’t you taking your car?”

“Something’s wrong with it,” I say absently, glancing up and down the street.

“I thought my dad fixed your spark plugs.”

“He did. I think it’s something else.”

A tense pause. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I give him an alarmed look. “Why would I?”

His throat works before he pulls out his phone. A moment later, he’s speaking Russian. The conversation ends in a few sentences and he slips the phone back in his pocket.

“Let’s go.” He gestures to the hall leading to the garage. “I’m driving you.”

“I’ve already called a ride.”

“Cancel it.”

My shoulders hitch at being told what to do, and again, for the tenth time this hour, I think about us in the library. A shiver runs across my skin, and I take a deep, sobering breath.

I really need to stop thinking about what we did. I open my mouth to protest but he gives me a hard look.

“I’m not letting my wife take a Lyft late at night.”

A light laugh slips out of me. “It’s six pm.”

“It’s dark out.”

We narrow our eyes at each other and my pulse does another one of those excited jumps.

“Georgia.” He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose like I’m the most exasperating woman on the planet. “Get in the fucking car before I make you.”

A thrill runs up my spine. In my hand, my phone buzzes with a message. My car is delayed.

He takes a step toward me, glowering. “If I need to⁠—”

“Okay, fine.” I stand. “Wow. Bossy.” I cancel the ride on my app and head to the garage as my husband’s heavy footsteps sound behind me. “You don’t need to follow me like a bodyguard, Volkov. I’m not going to make a run for it.”

He gives me a dark look, and when I return it with a pretty, patient smile, his jaw flexes.

“Where am I going?” he asks when we climb in the car.

“Fir and Twelfth.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes before he flicks an irritated glance at me. “You’re buying a new car.”

“Volkov, I didn’t ask you to drive me. Besides, I don’t need a new car. Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Your car is a piece of shit. It isn’t safe.”

We’re approaching the school where we practice. “Here’s fine.”

“This intersection? Tell me where you’re going and I’ll drive you there.”

Why won’t he drop this? “Volkov, stop being so stubborn.”

Outrage flashes in his expression. “You’re the stubborn one. I’m not letting you traipse around dark alleys in the middle of the night.”

“Again, it’s six thirty. If you let me out here, it’s easier for you.”

“Since when have you cared about making things easier for me?”

He doesn’t say it unkindly, and there’s a tiny, minuscule spark in his eyes when he glances at me sidelong that almost looks like he’s laughing.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were making a joke.”

He stares at me and makes a low, growly noise in his throat that I find annoyingly hot. “I want to make sure you’re safe,” he says quietly, still wearing that serious, hard expression, and for some reason, I actually believe him.

This is weird. We don’t act like this with each other. Volkov’s an asshole—he doesn’t get protective and caring.

The light turns green. “Up another half block and then turn right onto Helmcken.”

A minute later, he parks in front of the school. I can already see the girls gathering at the field. I open the door and slide out.

“Thanks for the ride.” I close the door behind me, but his door opens, and he gets out of the car. “No. No, no.” I’m shaking my head. “What are you doing?”

He gives me a look I can’t decipher. “You’re just going to end up calling me for a ride home, anyways.”

As if. I’d never ask for his help. And now he’s going to spend the night watching me coach, judging me and telling me how bad I am at it?

“Fine.” I shrug like I’m unaffected. “Make yourself useful.”