"I think…" I swallow hard. "I think my brother's lost his mind."
Two hours later, we're standing in a bridal boutique in SoHo.
Irina's flipping through racks of dresses, muttering under her breath about "unhinged hockey players" and "terrible life choices," while I stand frozen in the middle of the store, feeling like I've stepped into someone else's life.
I’ve dreamed of the day I’d get to go wedding dress shopping, but stupidly, I thought I'd get to marry someone I love… I thought my grandmother would be here to help me pick out the dress. She might be the family matriarch, allowing my father to do this, but I know I’m still her favorite of my cousins. Even between Luka and me.
"I can’t believe I’m buying a wedding dress,” I whisper.
"You've said that at least twenty times in the last hour," Irina replies, holding up a lace gown. "What about this one? We don’t have all day. We need to get you back to pack, and I have a show tonight.”
"I don't even know who I'm supposedly marrying."
"Good point." She pulls out her phone. "What's your brother's team called? The Seattle… Hawks?"
"Hawkeyes."
"Right." She's already typing, her eyes scanning the screen. "Scottie Easton was the name he texted you, right?"
"Yes."
She starts scrolling and then pauses. "Oh damn…”
"What?" I say, flipping past dress after dress, completely numb, not even looking at them.
"Well, he's gorgeous." She turns the phone toward me, and I glance at the screen.
It's a photo from some charity event—a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit, grinning at the camera like he doesn't have a care in the world. Sandy brown hair, warm hazel eyes, the kind of smile that probably gets him out of trouble on a regular basis.
He looks… easy. Uncomplicated. Like the kind of person who's never had to worry about anything more serious than what to eat for breakfast.
"Big muscles, tiny brain," I mutter, stuffing any level of sexual interest down deep in the pits of my soul. "Typical hockey player."
Irina snorts. "You haven't even met him."
"I don't need to. I've met plenty of athletes. They're all the same."
"Your brother's an athlete,” she offers.
"Luka's different."
"Uh-huh." She's scrolling again, pulling up more photos—shirtless gym selfies, candid shots from games, pictures of himlaughing with his teammates. Damn, she’s right… he is gorgeous in that hockey player kind of way—like he’s broken his nose so many times it’s permanently crooked, probably only half of his front teeth are real, and could lift a car off a trapped child if someone yelled loud enough, kind of way.
"Okay, but seriously. If this is the guy, you could do worse."
I don't respond.
Looks aren’t the only thing that matters.
Sure… if we were talking about a date to scare off my father, then yes, Scottie is nice to look at, but we’re not. We’re talking about marrying him. Signing legal documents. Possibly getting into trouble with immigration if I can’t get a company in Seattle to sponsor my visa—which could turn into deportation and jail time and my father saying I told you so for the rest of my natural life.
We’re talking about changing my entire life.
Changing my last name… Oh God.
Do I have to change my last name?
Will he expect a physical marriage too? Like sex?
