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

Indy nods enthusiastically. Her brown hair is swept to the side in a complicated braid that hangs over her left shoulder. She’s got stars in her eyes, a common occurrence since she fell in love with Noah Scotch. Claire regards me a little more realistically but after a moment, she smiles. “I hope so, Ri. You ready to go?”

I nod, turning to cast one last look at myself in the mirror. I’m ready.

Our City Hall service takes a grand total of seven minutes. Claire was right, we garnered a lot of attention.

With the three of us girls done up like we’re headed to the Emmys and the guys all hulking and dangerously handsome in their suits and sports coats, even the judge raises her eyebrows when Torsten and I are called up. The process is easy and efficient. Given the magnitude of the decision, the legal implications, the significance of it all, I thought it would take longer.

Instead, we recite a few words, sign our names, and smile for the flash of a camera. Then, Torsten kisses me deeply in front of the entire room. I giggle, he grins, and then sweeps the group, all nine of us, to The Ivy for a celebratory lunch.

“Damn, he’s pulling out the big guns,” Claire murmurs to me as we enter The Ivy. It’s a swanky, downtown restaurant renowned for its creative menu and world-class mixologists. I used to think getting a reservation was nearly impossible, but since learning the ease with which Noah Scotch manages to obtain them, I’m beginning to rethink that assumption.

Today, we’re led to a private room in the back. When I step inside, my breath catches in my throat.

“Wow,” Claire breathes out.

“Stunning,” Indy agrees, stopping beside me.

The three of us look up, to where hundreds of flower petals hang on nearly invisible threads from the ceiling, down the entire length of the table. It gives the illusion that petals are being sprinkled from the heavens, floating gently to Earth at different speeds. Three big centerpieces with white roses, blue hydrangeas, and baby’s breath, dot the table, surrounded by tiny flickering tea lights.

The table is set for nine, with printed menus and name tags resting on each plate. Champagne flutes are already poured, waiting for a toast.

“Do you like it?” Torsten asks. His hand skates down my back, his fingertips brushing against my spine.

I shiver from his touch, my body going both hot and cold at his proximity. Just two nights ago, those fingers, that mouth, made me come undone. And now, Torsten is my husband, giving me a fairy tale wedding day that people dream about.

None of this is real, I remind myself. I need to remind myself.

Because when I turn around and fall into the shimmering, bottomless, blue pools of Torsten’s eyes, it sure as hell doesn’t seem fake. Not the worry in the tightness of his lips, not the hint of hope in the rings around his irises, and definitely not in his possessive touch as his arm wraps around my waist.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him the truth. He smiles and it’s mesmerizing, hitting me straight in the chest.

How the hell did this beautiful man go this long without a serious female attachment in his life? Why did he choose me? Any woman would have leapt at the chance, with zero conditions, to be standing where I am right now, in his arms, under a freaking blanket of petals. Why would he ask me and voluntarily go half a million dollars into debt?

“You’re beautiful, Ri,” he murmurs, surprising the hell out of me when he leans forward and brushes a kiss over my lips. “Happy wedding day, sweetheart.”

My lips tingle and a jolt of desire shoots through me. I practically melt into Torsten, wanting more, wanting him. My head feels fuzzy, the room suddenly hazy. He grins, tips my chin up, and kisses me again. This time it’s long and deep, soulful and sensual. I grip his shoulders and press my breasts into his chest. It feels like I’m drowning and gulping oxygen at the same time.

The cheers and whistles of our friends ring out around us and I have the sudden urge to smile.

The flash of a camera way too close to my face pops and I pull back, dazed. Torsten swipes the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip, as if to wipe away my lipstick, before turning to have a few words with the photographer.

I feel lightheaded and unsteady on my feet. That kiss was all-consuming. It was intense and passionate and all. for. show. Of course Torsten hired a photographer; I saw him and his camera at City Hall. It’s all part of the act, all part of making this look real.

By the happy smiles of our friends, even the ones who don’t know the full story, Torsten and I are pulling it off. I should feel relieved. Not hollow. Or hurt.

Claire sets a glass of champagne in my hand and gives me a worried glance.

I take a sip, savor the taste. It tastes expensive, one of the finer things in life I haven’t had in a long time.

“You okay?” Claire whispers.

I nod, taking another sip. My gaze flits to our friend group, laughing and talking. Everyone has a drink in hand. The atmosphere is jovial; it feels like a true celebration.

“That looked intense,” she adds.

“Felt intense,” I admit.

Claire’s hand wraps around my wrist and I look at my best friend.

“You sure you know what you’re doing, Ri?”

I shake my head, keeping a small smile on my face in case anyone, such as the photographer, looks over. “Not a goddamn clue.”

Claire squeezes my hand and I smile for the camera.

Flash.

It’s not late when we get home, barely 7 p.m. But it feels as if I’ve lived a hundred days today and the fatigue of it all—the marriage, the celebration, the champagne—hits me hard. My eyelids are half closed by the