And I’m struggling because the fake marriage is starting to feel very real. Our parents are going to have to meet before his go back to Russia. Our friends are intertwined, even if some of them don’t know the truth. I’m about to start decorating a house for us—and he’s giving me carte blanche with just a few things he wants, like a California King bed.
The lines between real and fake are starting to blur, and my heart is caught right smack in the middle.
I bring up dinner to Viktor that night as we’re getting ready for bed. They lost, so we have another game the day after tomorrow, but I explain my mother’s timetable.
He nods. “Yes, of course. We must do this.”
“You know you’re going to be grilled like it’s a murder investigation.”
He grins. “I am ready.”
“I’ve been getting interrogated my whole life and I don’t think I’m ready.”
“I will be okay, and you will be okay because I will be there.”
Why does he make it sound so simple?
“My father is hard. You already saw a little of that. Your mother is difficult but she loves you. She’s manipulative but it’s because she truly wants what she thinks is best for you, even if she’s wrong. My father wants what’s best for him—that’s the difference.”
“I do not understand this,” he murmurs, coming over to stand close to me. “How can your father not love you?”
“Oh, I think he does in a limited capacity. All he truly loves is power. When I was a kid, I would do anything and everything to make him notice me, be proud of me, and that rarely happened. Now that I’m an adult I see it for what it is and I’ve stopped trying.”
“My mother is good with some things. This is one of them. She will manage your father.”
“No one manages my father.”
He smiles. “You will see. I will explain to my mother. Even if she does not prefer you to be my wife, you are my wife. She will not allow disrespect because that means they also do not respect me. And she will not tolerate this.”
I frown. “I don’t want there to be animosity or to make things worse.”
“Never. You see how she is—very strong. Very opinionated. She will be prepared.”
“I hate that we’ve reached this point. That we have to manage our families. I know that’s part of why we did what we did. I just thought…”
“What did you think?”
“I guess I thought it would be easier. One year where we would be friends, focusing on our careers and goals, and then, when it ends, telling everyone that we grew apart or we rushed into marriage or whatever. Everyone would feel bad, but say it makes sense, we got married too soon. All of that. I didn’t think we’d have to work so hard. Like this was a real marriage. Does that make sense?”
He’s quiet a long time. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on behind his mysterious green eyes. Conflict. Worry. Confusion. But also intensity. Determination.
But determination to do what?
Not knowing is killing me but I feel like I’ve already said too much, opened up more than I planned to.
“Makes sense,” he says quietly. “But you must listen—this will not be hard. I will take care of you. Of us. Whatever has to be done that is difficult, that will be my responsibility.”
I’ve never heard him speak English so clearly. Or seen him look at me the way he is right now. He trails his fingers along my cheek, staring intently into my eyes. There’s still conflict reflected in his, but now I think it’s because he doesn’t know whether to kiss me any more than I know if I want him to.
We’re standing so close I can feel the warmth emanating from his bare torso and the pull to touch him—to run my fingers over his tattoos and then lick them—is almost more than I can bear.
“Soon,” he whispers as we continue to stand there.
“Soon?” I ask in confusion.
“Yes.” That’s all he says because then he steps away and pads into the bathroom without looking back.
Leaving me more confused and conflicted than ever.
