Page 45 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

“I think it’s super great.” Luke continues. “I know homosexuality is forbidden in Russia. I’m really proud of you, Dmitri.”

Dmitri swallows hard, managing a strained nod. “Thank you. That’s, um...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t. He’s too shocked.

After Luke leaves, I meet Dmitri’s stunned gaze.

“I don’t think Luke was acting,” he says.

“Luke is a terrible actor,” I say, and we both laugh.

“Worst reality TV show ever,” he says, and we both plop onto Dmitri’s slick leather couch and giggle.

The tension that has whirled around us dissipates, leaving me gasping for breath.

Luke had been infamously terrible on “Seeking Mr. Right” after Troy and Noah signed him up. The whole country watched him fumble through conversations with bemused, stunning women, only to end up with Sebastian, the host, much to the producers’ fury.

“Well, we fooled one person,” Dmitri says.

“We need to fool the world,” I remind him.

“We’ve got this.” He shifts closer. “There’s no one I’d rather fool the world with.”

I stiffen, then scramble for the remote control. Anything to distract me from the fact that I have two hundred pounds of ridiculously handsome Russian man beside me. I wait for my heart to slow to a more manageable level as I put on a sitcom that everyone has watched a million times.

Finally, Dmitri yawns. “Bedtime?”

“Okay.” My voice squeaks, and he shoots me a sidelong glance. Thankfully he doesn’t say anything.

“So, um, should I go back to my apartment now?”

He stares at me. “You’ve moved into this apartment.”

“Yes, but...”

“You’re sleeping here,” Dmitri says.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dmitri

Oskar is acting strangely, and I want to end this day as fast as I can. Maybe when we wake up there won’t be this strangeness between us. Maybe then he’ll just be my best friend, just like normal. It’s normal that things would feel strange after we move in together as husband and husband. That’s all.

I take off my shirt, and Oskar’s eyes grow round as pucks, and he shuffles backward.

My chest tightens. “Is there problem, Oskar?”

“Problem?” His voice cracks. “No problem.”

“You are backing away.”

“Well, you’re half-naked.”

I glance down at my chest, where a few dark hairs curl against my skin. “But you are guy too. Nothing scary about me.”

As I slide down my pants, he turns away and bolts from the room, the door frame of the bathroom rattling in his wake.

When he returns, his cheeks flushed pink, I ask, “Is a Swedish thing?”