The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey), Gina Azzi [pocket ebook reader .TXT] 📗

I mutter, standing from the barstool. Before I can turn toward the coffee pot, Rielle steps into the kitchen.

Dressed in sleep shorts that barely cover her ass and a baggy T-shirt, with her hair tangled and trailing down her back, she looks exquisite. I drink her in greedily, wishing I could escort her to my bed to finish everything we started the other night. Soon enough.

Instead, I grin. “Coffee?”

She nods, her eyes still heavy with sleep. She steps toward the kitchen island, her bare legs calling to me like a siren I can’t tear my eyes away from. Eventually, after an awkward amount of time passes, I succeed and pour two cups of coffee.

Rielle leans over the kitchen island and blows on her coffee.

“What’re you thinking, Ri?” I stand on the opposite side of the island and watch her. Does she regret the other night? Signing all the papers yesterday? Coming to my game and sitting with the WAGs last night? Does she not want to marry me today? If she does, would she want to go to Norway?

She looks up and a grin lifts one side of her mouth. “It’s our wedding day.” Her voice is calm and strong. Not filled with nerves or second thoughts.

It settles me some and I smile back. “You’re going to make a beautiful bride.”

She wrinkles her nose and laughs. “Does it all feel a little too…real?”

I nod, reaching across the island to wrap the ends of her hair around my fingers. It’s hard to be near Rielle and not touch her. Is this normal? “I like it though.”

“Me too. Who were you on the phone with?”

I glance at my phone on the island. “My grandmother. Farmor.”

“Oh.” Surprise colors her tone as she lifts her mug and takes a sip of coffee. Her eyes flutter closed. “Caffeine is my drug of choice.”

I snort.

“How’s your grandma?” She opens her eyes.

“I know this is a lot considering we’re getting married in a few hours—”

“Is she coming?” Horror washes over Rielle’s face.

“No, not at all. She’s in Norway,” I reassure her, wondering why it would be so terrible if Farmor crashed our wedding.

“Thank God,” Rielle murmurs. “I know this”—she gestures between us—“is a massive lie. And I’m okay with it. But to have to lie to a sweet, little old lady just feels…wrong.”

My stomach sinks at the conviction in her voice. There’s no way she’s going to want to go to Norway. But how the hell would I explain her absence to Farmor? She’d see through any bullshit reason I gave.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Rielle asks.

I lean back, startled. Did she read me that easily? “Nothing.”

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “You smushed your lips together.”

I snort. “I did not.”

“You did.” She nods vigorously. “It’s your tell.”

I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t have a tell.”

“You do. Now, tell me what’s wrong. We’re getting married at noon and hair and makeup and Claire are going to be here any minute. If there’s something you need to say, then—”

“Do you have a passport?”

“What? Yes.”

“Have you ever been to Norway?”

Her eyes widen, recognition flaring in their black depths. “Why?” she asks slowly.

“I’m going to assume that we’re going to the Finals, that we’re going to win the Cup.”

She grins but her eyebrows dip in confusion.

“Afterwards, this summer, do you want to meet a not-so-sweet, little old lady?” I grin.

Rielle swears just as a knock sounds on the door. She moves to answer it, bringing her coffee with her.

The second she pulls open the door, mayhem ensues. Claire leads a freaking calvary into the space. There’re two women with massive trunks, a man wheeling in a dress rack filled with wedding gowns, and someone carrying a director’s chair and a light.

“What’s happening?” I ask, striding into the room, my coffee forgotten.

Claire gasps and clutches at her neck. “What are you doing here? You can’t see her!” She jabs a finger in Rielle’s direction. “It’s bad luck.”

I frown, ready to inform Claire that she’s taking this whole thing too far but then Rielle giggles. She giggles and I see the excitement in her expression. Her eyes soften, her mouth curls into a smile, and she even bounces on her toes.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “What do you need me to do?”

Claire grins. “Good answer, Big Daddy. Your husband game is strong.”

Rielle snorts. Indy comes barreling through the door, loaded with a massive brown paper bag. “I got bagels and all the spreads!”

“Champagne?” Claire asks over her shoulder.

“Duh,” Indy responds. “Everyone knows mimosas are a staple for the bride on the morning of her wedding.” She plops the bag down on my dining table and looks up. Then, she gasps and glares at me. “You need to leave.”

“He knows,” Claire reassures her.

Rielle glances at me, laughter and amusement in her eyes.

“I’m going, I’m going.” I move toward my bedroom.

“Pack up whatever you need,” Indy instructs me as she taps on her phone screen.

I enter my bedroom and hear her call after me. “Noah will be here in ten minutes to collect you.”

“To collect me?” I pop my head out of my bedroom.

The three girls and even the makeup artists and hair stylist glare at me.

“Chop chop.” Claire claps her hands.

“Don’t forget the rings,” Indy reminds me.

I laugh and move around my room, collecting everything I need. Less than ten minutes later, Claire is hustling me out the door. At the last moment, I turn to find Rielle. When our eyes collide, I smile. “See you at City Hall?”

She nods, tenderness sweeping her expression. “I’ll be the one in white.”

I chuckle, she smiles, and I have to fight the urge to stride across the room and kiss her in front of the entire circus unfolding in my living room.

Instead, Claire pushes me through the door and I reluctantly meet Noah.

I imagine that Bloody Marys, pancakes and eggs, and Xbox with the guys is less exciting than whatever Rielle’s getting into with her girlfriends.

“Dude, that’s the fifth time you