Page 16 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

“We get platinum rings. Platinum will look good with your hair.” Dmitri runs his fingers through my locks, smiling.

“O-okay.” My cheeks heat.

His dark brows draw together, and he drops his hand. “Remind me to talk to Finn when we get back.”

“What about?”

“Nothing for you to worry about now.”

“That sounds ominous,” I say.

The airport appears ahead, large glass and steel buildings and signs warning about turnoffs.

Our driver pulls to the side of the road, then flashes us a beam that says she overheard the entire conversation

“You guys are so adorable!” she squeals.

“You are fan?” Dmitri asks.

“Of cute guys eloping? Obviously.”

“I mean—” Dmitri’s face reddens, and I press my lips together, stifling any errant laughs from escaping.

The airport bustles around us as Dmitri leads us to the gate, people parting instinctively before his hockey player build.

A few fans stop him for autographs, but finally we are on the plane.

Yesterday we were in a conference room with Vince, discussing his visa problems. Today we’re flying to our wedding.

Dmitri spends the flight scrolling through wedding websites, leaning close to ask questions that make this feel surreal: “Red velvet or buttercream? Pink roses or red? What do you think about doves, Oskar?”

Finally, the plane lands in Vegas. It’s the day, and the strip is not lit up. The buildings jut out inelegantly: the Eiffel Tower, the Pyramids, the Sphinx.

Dmitri leads me from the plane. Slot machines chime and flash even here in the airport terminal. I try to pretend this is all totally normal.

This isn’t my first time in Vegas.

And this isn’t my first time alone with Dmitri.

But though we’ve done touristy things from time to time when we’ve had free time in cities, we’ve never gone away together someplace

People eye him curiously when we walk through the airport. His dark hair and dark eyes and pale, chiseled features are striking. Even those who don’t follow hockey can’t help but stare.

God, I’m so ridiculous. The whole world has a crush on Dmitri Volkov. I shouldn’t be thinking about his height or his shoulders or any of the things that he cannot change about himself. He needs me to be here for him, not acting like someone who’s never seen a movie with a Hollywood A-list star in it.

This is a favor for a friend. A friend who needs me. And if it involves marriage, well, I’m glad I can help him. I wanted him to stay and now there’s a way.

This is no big deal.

A marriage of convenience.

It’s like any other favor. Borrowing sugar. Watering plants. Just involves more paperwork.

We exit the airport, and I pull out my phone. “I’ll order us a ride.”

“No.” Dmitri scans the airport exterior, then juts out his chin.

I follow his gaze, but I only see a limo gliding toward us.