Page 70 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

I mean, obviously he’s not supposed to be there.

I’m straight.

But I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect person to marry.

Even if I have to return to Russia, I got to spend my remaining time in the US with him. I twirl him around because dancing is something I enjoy doing, and I watch as his long lashes flutter up and his pink lips part in something like wonder.

Finn and Noah are in a corner, their bodies plastered together. They’re making out. No one in this room cares. This isn’t Russia.

I want to kiss Oskar again. I want to feel his lips against mine, feel his tongue. And maybe, if I’m honest, it would be cool if we did more.

It would be nice if when we undress tonight, we do all the things that people generally do when they sleep in a bed. I could pull him against me and inhale his citrusy scent and no one would think anything of it.

My heart beats, and I eye his lips. They’re round and succulent, and all those memories of our kisses before the cameras come crashing into me.

I think, I want him.

I shouldn’t.

I know that.

I’m straight.

But if I weren’t straight, I would definitely want to be with him.

Once we’ve stayed at the party long enough, we decide to head out. I say my goodbyes and thank yous to Finn and Noah and Troy, tugging Oskar beside me.

“That was a party for us,” Oskar says as we walk into the crisp Boston air. Snow is still falling, and I tighten my grip on Oskar’s hand. I’m not going to let him fall into the snow and ice. Oskar’s eyes seem shinier than before.

“Did you have a good time?”

He swings around, his movements bolder. “The best.”

I take in the sparkle of his eyes and the swoop of his Scandinavian nose, and for some reason, warmth fills me.

His eyes dart to me. “What is it?”

My heartbeat quickens, and I feel on edge. “Um, nothing.”

But I know I’m lying, and my gaze turns to him again.

We return to our apartment.

Oskar fumbles with his coat buttons, and I help him.

“I can do it myself,” he protests, but he’s smiling, and not really upset.

“I know.”

“I’ve been unbuttoning coats for years.”

“I’m in the presence of an expert.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods and moves his fingers to his coat buttons. They brush against mine, and his breath catches. I pretend not to notice, just like I pretend not to notice the way my own heart races.

“Did you like the party?” I take his coat.

“I loved it.” He hesitates, and his long lashes flicker up. “I liked the dancing.”