Page 6 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

I down the rest of my drink. The bourbon burns me in its customary manner. Normally, I drink vodka, but this is a night for American alcohol.

Madison slides her feet into my lap, her red-manicured toenails wriggling. My eyes widen, but she’s chattering about her heels and something about needing a foot rub, the kind only I can give, and I realize she’s been talking about this the whole time.

My gaze drifts to Oskar again. He’s still talking to that guy. And that guy is now handing him a tumbler of some sort of amber liquid.

This time I glare.

I slide Madison’s feet off my legs. “Sorry.”

Her cheeks redden, and since she probably hasn’t applied blush in the last two seconds, I guess I’ve embarrassed her. I have more important things to do now than to assure her that I absolutely enjoy having her put her feet on my lap.

This is no time for complimenting women, even a gorgeous one.

“I need to go,” I say then march toward Oskar.

I’m vaguely aware of startled gazes swinging my way, and maybe you’re not supposed to walk in between people having conversations, but I only stop when I’m in front of Oskar.

“Hi Oskar.” My smile is tight.

“Dmitri. How are you?” His eyes are round and worried, and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about my visa.

He doesn’t need to think about me. He should be thinking about how he’s not supposed to accept drinks from strange men.

“I don’t know you,” I tell the strange man.

“Um, Dmitri, this is Blaine.”

“I’m a friend of Sebastian’s,” Blaine says, thrusting out his hand.

I glare at it.

Blaine’s face pales, and his gaze darts to Oskar.

Are they already doing silent communication, couple style? I glower. This guy is so not inserting himself into Oskar’s life. I haven’t left the country yet.

Oskar gives a weak laugh. “Dmitri had a bad day.”

“Ah.” Blaine barely pretends to care.

“Well, you’re about to have a bad night.”

Blaine’s eyebrows swerve upward. “Sorry?”

“You sound Canadian.”

He brightens. “That’s right. I’m from London. Not London, UK, of course. London, Ontario. It’s near Toronto...”

“Boring.” I take Oskar’s drink and pour it onto a burrito-smudged plate.

“Hey!” Oskar says. “Why did you do that?”

“It might be dangerous if I tossed it into a plant. And the kitchen is too far away.”

He blinks. “I was drinking that.”

I grin. “Not anymore.”

“But—” Oskar’s eyelashes flicker upward, and his eyes are wide and concerned. Pink spreads over his cheeks, the color they get when he’s embarrassed or angry or has any emotion except complete calm.