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

There will be a grocery delivery tomorrow morning, Alexei texts while I sit in my car after soccer, waiting for the tow truck and watching highlights from his game on my phone. Svetta will take care of it.

I respond with a thumbs-up.

He had been engaged. Was he heartbroken? Does he still think about her?

I left the window open in my gym. Can you close it? A moment later, Please.

I’ll check when I get home.

Home? You’re still at soccer practice?

Outside, sitting in my car.

The typing dots appear, disappear, and reappear. And why are you sitting in your car, Doctor?

I can hear the disapproval in his voice across the continent. I shouldn’t say anything, it’s just going to rile him up.

I kind of like riling him up, though.

Doctor.

I press my lips together. I can hear the tone, imagine the deep, exasperated breath he’s taking and the way he’s rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Do not tell me that fucking car broke down again.

Okay. I won’t.

Lock your doors, and share your location with me. Right now.

Controlling, I text back.

I swear to fucking god, Georgia, if you don’t share your location, I’ll call my parents and they’ll be over in a heartbeat.

Ugh. He’s no fun. My good humor pops like a balloon. They would show up, too, because they’re kind like that. Don’t do that. Of course my doors are locked.

Share. Your. Location.

I roll my eyes, but I do as he says.

Good. Thank you.

I hate being told what to do, but a tiny part of me arches at him saying thank you. I bet he had to force it out.

How long until your ride gets there? Alexei texts.

Not sure. They said the tow truck could be a couple hours.

In my hand, my phone starts buzzing.

“It’s fine—” I start.

“A couple hours? I’m calling you a ride.”

“It’s fine. I can’t leave my car here overnight, anyways. There’ll be nothing to come back to.”

“We can only hope,” he mutters, and I snort. “There’s a car on the way for you.”

“Alexei.” My tone is sharp. I hate when people make decisions over my head like this, without involving me.

“The car will be there in ten minutes. I’m arranging for a tow truck. A faster one.”

“You’re so controlling,” I tell him, but my words have no heat.

“Georgia, I’m not letting my wife sit alone in the dark in her car.”

The words my wife arc through me like electricity. I have the urge to keep playing with him like this, but then I think about his wedding invitation and the fun gets sucked out of the whole thing.

“What does the car look like?”

He rattles off a make and model.

“Okay. Thank you. I’ll look for it. Bye.”

“Hold on. Stay on the phone until he gets there.”

“You can see his location and my location, can’t you?”

“Just . . .” He lets out a heavy exhale. “Stay on the phone with me, and don’t argue.”

There’s something in his voice, a tiny shard of softness, that makes me pause.

“Okay.”

Another pause. “Thank you.”

“Wow.” My mouth curves again. “Two thank yous in one night. You hit your head or something, Volkov?”

I say it without thinking. In my mind, I see the hard hit he took tonight during his game, and a ball of worry knots in my stomach.

He makes a low, amused noise. “I can say thank you.”

There’s a beat of silence that almost feels comfortable.

“Good game tonight,” I say, for some reason.

“You saw it?”

“I checked the score.” And watched a few highlights, even though I normally avoid them.

“The rookie did well.”

“So did you.” He got an assist.

“An actual compliment? Maybe you hit your head, too.”

I laugh before I catch myself. This conversation has veered into something new for us.

I don’t want to stop, though.

“You’re okay this week?” he asks. “Alone in the house?”

“Of course.”

“I can ask my parents to come stay.”

“Don’t do that. You’ll be home tomorrow. And even if you weren’t, I would be fine.”

“For next time, I mean.”

“I don’t want to put them out.”

“You wouldn’t. They like you.”

My heart glows. What happened to not getting attached? I guess there’s no point, when our parents already know one another.

“I like them, too.” I smile, thinking about the way Maria teases Nikita. “They’re funny, and kind. Somehow that skipped right past you.”

He does a low laugh. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Anyways, where would they sleep?”

“You’d have to sleep in my room, I guess.”

Arousal fires through me at the thought of sleeping in his bed, inhaling his scent.

“Have you been sleepwalking?”

Blood rushes to my face as I remember waking up in the middle of the night in his bed, and then his smug, condescending expression at the airport after we shared a hotel room for three days in a row. “No. Of course not.” I swallow. “Alexei?”

“Mmm?”

“When we shared a hotel room on the road.”

He waits. My heart thumps erratically.

“What did I do?”

Another beat. “You cuddled me.”

Horror floods my nervous system, followed by humiliation.

“What are you stressed about?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“I read that people sleepwalk when they’re stressed.”

“You did reading?”

He hesitates. “We agreed not to mess around anymore. I don’t want you sneaking into my bed in the middle of the night.”

The humiliation in my chest burns hotter. “I wasn’t sneaking into your bed—” I shake my head. “You know what? Lock your door. That’ll solve everything.”

A car matching his description earlier pulls up beside mine.

“My ride’s here.”

“Stay on the phone with me.”

My instinct is to say no the way it always is when he or any other man demands something, but I suspect he’ll call back—or worse, call the driver.

And very, very deep down, in a place I’d never admit out loud, I want to keep talking with him. I get out of my car, lock it, and open the passenger door of the other car.

“For Alexei?” the driver confirms.

“It’s under my account,” he says in my ear.

“Yes, for Alexei,” I tell the driver. I close the door and he drives away, leaving my car alone in the dark parking lot.

A memory from this afternoon hits me. “I forgot to say thank you for the flowers.”

They were delivered to my office, a bright pink bouquet in a vase, sitting on my desk for everyone to see. Gladiolas, my book said when I hurried home between work and soccer. Readily armed. I keep smiling when I think about them.

“It’ll make this look more real, me sending you flowers.”

“Right. Yes.” That’s why I thought he sent them. For show. Nothing’s changed between us. “Good idea.”

We sit in silence, and I think about his engagement again, but there’s no subtle way to bring it up. Finally, the driver pulls up to the house.

“I’m home now.”

“Inside?”

“Mhm.”

“Door locked?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Silence stretches between us. “Goodnight.” I clear my throat. “And thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

We hang up, and I play with the bunnies before getting ready for bed, thinking about that hit he took tonight on the ice.

This is why I don’t watch replays—I can’t stand watching people get hurt.

Not people, my brain whispers as I lie there in the dark. Just him.

The next morning, before my eyes are even open, I inhale a clean, masculine scent. Cool, soft sheets brush my bare legs. Complete silence—no squeaks or rustling of the bunnies around the room. Eyes still closed, I skim my hand over the bed. Sometimes they jump and cuddle against me during the night.

My palm slides over the duvet—but it isn’t my duvet.

My eyes snap open. I’m not in my room. I’m in Alexei’s room.noveldrama

I don’t want you sneaking into my bed in the middle of the night. Oh god. My pulse picks up. Again?

What are you stressed about? he asked, and I think about the replays of him getting hurt. I think about all the times I’ve seen him get injured, like the big one two years ago, and nausea rolls through me. During the away-game road trip, I watched the games. I saw him get hurt, and in the evenings apparently I clung to him like a magnet.

A sinking feeling gathers inside me.

I know why I’m sleepwalking.