Page 6 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

“Scared?” Merry threw me a concerned look as we got out of the car.

“Not a bit,” I assured her with a confident smile. “I’ve got Merry Winters by my side, and we can do anything.”

Merry and I walked into the realtor’s office together with hearts full of hope…

…that got completely crushed by the realtor a few minutes later.

“What do you mean you can’t help us?” I asked, shivering in the pretty skater sundress I’d worn into what turned out to be a brutally over-air-conditioned office.

“I mean, I don’t have any properties that match your criteria for this…” The realtor, somehow wearing a short-sleeved shirt despite his arctic meat-locker office, checked his notes. “Paws & Claws Adoption-Shelter-Rehab business you’re trying to start.”

“Nonprofit,” I corrected.

“And we’re not rehabbing animals,” Merry added proudly. “We’re training them to become therapy dogs.”

I chimed in, “And hopefully guide dogs in a few years, after I get my certification in Minneapolis. I’m already looking into programs?—”

The realtor held up his hand with a weary look to cut me off.

“Yes, well, right now, there aren’t any farms with visibility from Highway East up for sale or auction.

But I do have a few high-visibility commercial properties closer to Gemidgee proper.

They just don’t have the acreage you’re looking for. ”

“No, we need somewhere for the dogs to be able to run and stretch their legs,” I insisted.

“Also, we can’t host goat yoga classes if we don’t have space to keep them,” Merry pointed out. “It has to be a farm.”

“I’m sorry, girls, but there are no farms up for sale or auction right now.”

“That’s impossible.” I narrowed my eyes. “Minnesota’s abandonment laws kick in after sixty days. And I know for a fact Hanson Farm at 7840 Highway East hasn’t been occupied since February.”

This was the farm I’d envisioned when I pitched Merry on my idea to found a nonprofit with my graduation gift.

I hadn’t meant to fixate on that particular property, but the idea of cleansing the place with good after finding out Tommy Hanson and his father had run a dogfighting ring there appealed to me.

It shone in my mind like a cartoon bubble vision of what could be and made me insist, “Is there any way for you to check whatever listing resource you have to see if it’s coming on the market soon—maybe for bank auction? ”

I knew from the semester I’d interned with Headwaters County’s Health and Human Services Department that near-predatory bank foreclosures from Lake Country Credit Union—the institution that held most mortgages and lines of credit in the area—was the number-one reason families literally lost the farm.

But after several moments of clacking, the realtor shook his head. “No, sorry, that place is off the market.”

I shook my head, confused. “So you’re saying not only do the Hansons own their barn outright, but they also paid their property taxes back in May?”

More weary tapping. It couldn’t have been clearer that the realtor was barely putting up with the two recent grads who’d walked into his office on a slow August day.

“Yep, the taxes are all paid up—but wait.” He frowned. Tip-tapped some more on his keyboard. “They were in arrears. By several years. Looks like the three-year grace period was almost up in May when someone swooped in, paid all the back taxes, and transferred the deed.”

I knew just enough RealEstate-ese to understand. “Wait, so the farm’s been bought already?”

Merry and I exchanged another distressed look before I demanded, “By who?”

The realtor glanced back at the screen and frowned.

Six years later

SKYE

“Anything. I will give you anything you want if you agree to stay married to me for ninety more days,” Yom vowed to me in that luxurious bedroom at the Benton Villa, whispering directly into my ear. “All you have to do is ask.”

All I had to do was ask….

It didn’t take me a second of consideration. “No.”

“No?” He jerked his head back from my ear, squinting. “Are you truly telling me you will not accept my request with terms this generous?”

He looked so painfully confused. I got the feeling Yom had only grown less used to hearing that particular two-letter word in the six years since he leveled up from a college hockey god to an international one.

And I didn’t care.

I reached for the ring he’d shoved onto my finger—without permission. And thank goodness the two bottles of water I’d downed during the speech had finally gotten my body back on the same page. This time, the unwanted symbol of my past stupidity slid off with one bitter tug.

“The only thing I want from you is an annulment.”

I held the ring out to him. When he didn’t take it, I let the quarter-million-dollar custom masterpiece clatter to the balcony’s concrete floor.

“Bye, Artyom,” I told him. “For good this time. I'll send you to papers to sign at the Raptors' front office.”

With that, I pushed past him to the balcony doors and rushed out of the event, where the partygoers were still gathered around the huge screen.

Yes, I’d have a hell of a mess to clean up when I got home, but at least I could walk away from the hockey god no one ever told no with my head held high.

Not today, Hockey Satan. This time I really was gone-gone-gone-gone-GONE!

The triumphant sasha x kasha needle drop blasted in my head as I strode triumphantly toward the elevator bank.