Page 9 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

The doorbell’s harsh buzz jerks me awake. My hand reaches beside me, but of course Dmitri isn’t here, and I stifle my urge to sigh. There’s no reason for him to have stayed overnight.

No light streams through the windows yet, and I shiver. I clutch the blanket—Dmitri must have draped it over me before he left. Maybe I imagined the doorbell.

“Oskar! Oskar!” Banging sounds on the door.

I rush forward at the sound of Dmitri’s voice, my bare feet cold against the hardwood, and swing the door open.

He looms in my doorway, all six-foot-four of scowling Russian hockey player. “You need double locks on door. I told you before. Is easy to break in.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t announce that in my hallway.”

“Why not? Next time you will have proper lock. Double lock. With chain. I install for you.”

I roll my eyes. “Just come in.”

Dmitri saunters in, then sets a bag down. I tilt my head back to look up at him. At five foot six, I’m never considered tall—but especially not next to an NHL player. It might be early, but he’s still put on cologne, and the spicy scent follows him, making my apartment feel smaller.

I remind myself not to stare at him in wonder or something similarly embarrassing.

“I make you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to make me breakfast, Dmitri.”

“Need protein. Not mushy vegetables.”

“Those are called smoothies, Dmitri. I can make one for you if you’d like to try...”

His aristocratic nose wrinkles. “No. Never offer guests mushy vegetables. What would you do without me?”

“Maybe I would be waking up beside a handsome blond Canadian man.”

His dark eyes flash. “Is not funny, Oskar.”

“I wouldn’t actually do that,” I say softly.

“I know.”

I tense, uncertain how much he knows. At twenty-three, I should be somewhat experienced. Boston is hardly rural Sweden. But there’s something I haven’t done, something that makes me flush every time the guys talk about hookups.

My eyes flick up to Dmitri as he moves around my kitchen, every move elegant and certain. Does he know? Is that why he is so protective of me? My stomach clenches. I don’t want that to be the reason.

I wish I’d lost my virginity my first week at Harvard. That I’d accepted those drinks thrust into my hands, followed those invitations upstairs. That I hadn’t announced I wanted my first time to be special, then waited for someone who never appeared.

Dmitri’s dark eyes study me. “Sit down. Low blood sugar makes you faint.”

“That was one time,” I protest. “And I didn’t actually faint.”

“No, you complained you were dizzy. Dizziness is first step of fainting.”

“I’m fine—”

Before I can finish, his strong arms wrap around my waist and lift me off my feet. His cologne surrounds me, cedar and pine mingling with something distinctly Dmitri. He grips my waist and glares down at me like he’s a professional mover and I’m an especially troublesome piece of furniture, then deposits me into an armchair.

“Stay. Today will be a big day.”

That’s not right. “I’m not doing anything today. Except, I guess laundry.”

Dmitri lowers his gaze, and if I didn’t know any better, I would call him nervous. But that can’t be right. There are many things Dmitri is, but he’s never nervous.