“You have practice,” I whisper as we walk back to the bedroom.
He shrugs. “First, this. Then practice. Coach will understand.”
I squint. “You sure about that? It’s the playoffs.”
“Yes, but you are my wife. What kind of husband am I if I do not defend you?”
I study him for a few seconds, trying to understand who he is beneath the handsome exterior and the professional façade. Definitely more than the focused, stoic persona most people see.
“Go,” he says when I don’t respond. “Get dressed. I will call Coach.” He picks up his phone and walks into the other room, leaving me to find my clothes.
It’s early May so mornings are still cool, and I pull on jeans and a top. My father hates when I wear jeans, but that’s too bad. Maybe next time he’ll give me a chance to prepare instead of trying to ambush me early in the morning.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, and run a brush through my hair.
Fuck it.
This is as good as it’s going to get.
I don’t bother with makeup or anything and grab my purse and phone as I pad out to the living room. Viktor is dressed too, in sweats and a Thunder T-shirt that pulls tight across his chest. Standing in my living room, feet bare, hair a little tousled, he cuts a striking figure.
He’s about six two, with dark hair that’s usually slicked back, and green eyes. His features are chiseled, shoulders broad, hips lean. And when he took his shirt off last night to show me his tattoos, the deep V of his oblique muscles nearly made my girlie parts explode with arousal.
This glorious man is my husband.
It might be in name only but that doesn’t mean I can’t look.
“Ready?” He meets my gaze steadily.
“I have no idea what he’s going to do,” I whisper worriedly, all thoughts of his beautiful body immediately replaced with the issue at hand.
“I am not afraid.” He puts one hand on the side of my face. “Remember—we are married. In love. We are one. We must be strong together.”
“I’ll remember.”
I lock the door behind me and he takes my hand as we walk to the waiting car. Lawrence immediately goes around to open the door for me and I slide in beside my father, with Viktor behind me.
My father eyes Viktor imperiously, like he’s so far beneath him he doesn’t even want to share the same air. But that’s too bad. Apparently, we’re a package deal.
“Dad, this is Viktor Maslak. Victor, my father—Georgia State Senator Franklin Grant.”
Viktor reaches over me to extend his hand and my father takes it reluctantly.
They eye each other, and I nearly smile because Dad looks away first.
“I need to understand what happened here,” Dad says immediately. “This is unacceptable behavior, Holly. Tell me the truth—are you pregnant?”
I laugh because the truth is, we’ve never had sex, and I haven’t had sex in more than three months.
“No, Dad. I’m not.”
“Two months from now you’re not going to start showing off some baby bump, pretending you got pregnant on the wedding night.”
“No.”
He stares at me for long seconds, as if trying to decide whether or not I’m telling the truth. “Then why? Why would you elope with someone like this? A foreigner, no less! My constituents are going to have a field day with this!”
Oh, yes. His fucking constituents. That’s all he cares about.
