“May I ask what this is all about?” It was a whole job to keep the strain out of my voice.
“Oh, sorry. Your father, Paul, and I went out for drinks last night, and I assumed he’d told you—he’s running for governor in the next election.”
He waswhat??? Suddenly, I knew exactly why Dad had guilt-tripped me into coming to this party. Not because the family wanted me here. But because I was needed for the photo op.
Brick drew himself up to his full 5’6”. “His team has brought me on to consult since I was the last person from our party to hold the seat.”
“That’s…” Struggling to process the bomb he had just dropped, all I could come up with was, “…news.”
“Absolutely wonderful news, yes!” Brick’s enthusiasm was so over-the-top that it made me wonder how much he was getting paid to consult on Dad’s campaign. “That’s why we couldn’t be more excited about your boyfriend making it all the way to the Big Ten. If the Yolks win, we’re definitely going to feel that halo effect when your dad formally announces.”
I blinked. First, my dad was running for governor, and now he wanted to latch onto Yom’s success?
Those two realizations alone made it feel imperative for me to inform Brick, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“But you’re living with him, right?” Brick’s face scrunched up with a skeptical look. “In Minnesota. And the front page of today’s sports section featured him kissing you after the team clinched the season.”
“Yes, um…” My face heated as I remembered how Yom had grabbed me around the waist and kissed me—a lot. A whole, whole lot. Or, as Trish put it when she drove me to the airport afterward, “for filth.”
Still, I told Brick what I’d been telling myself for the past twenty-four hours.
“He was just excited.”
“Excited,” Brick repeated, giving me the same look Val got when she suspected that one of the dogs had dropped an unseen deuce somewhere in the communal pen.
“Yes, excited,” I insisted. “I mean, it was a historic win. But he and I... We’re not anything serious. It was just… a moment.”
“A moment.” Brick narrowed his eyes. Clearly unconvinced by my explanation.
“Yes, just a moment. In fact, I haven’t even heard from him since that…”—soul-rocking kiss I can’t stop thinking about—”…moment,” I finished aloud.
“Is that because he’s here?” Brick asked.
Okay, total high-society training fail. I huffed because this former head of our state was just refusing to get the picture. “No, of course, it’s not because he’s?—”
“Lydia, hello.”
That was all the warning I got before the hockey player who hadn’t sent me a single voice text since last night appeared at my side in a double-breasted, non-slim-fit tuxedo.
He slipped an arm around my waist. Just like a very real, very right here in this ballroom over 600 miles from Gemidgee with me boyfriend would.
Then he smirked down at me and said, “Sorry I’m late.”
Lydia
Yom.
Yom Rustanov was here, standing right beside me with a possessive arm around my waist. I could barely breathe, only goggle up at his sharply handsome and extraordinarily well-structured face. Apparently, he’d not only managed a tuxedo but had found time to shave again since I saw him last.
“Artyom Rustanov.” Yom extended a hand toward Brick Swain. Like someone who had been invited. Someone who was actually supposed to be here. And not back in Minnesota where I’d left him.
Why is he here?
My heart thundered, and my mind swam as Brick heartily shook Yom’s extended hand with both of his.
“Oh, no need to introduce yourself! That was one hell of a season you just played. Broke eggs all over the Big Ten Conference.”
Yom gave Brick an answer that might as well have been in Portuguese—I understood not a word of it.
