The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey) by Gina Azzi (little red riding hood read aloud .TXT) 📕

in in a really long time, Torst. Trust and full transparency are new for me. Needing someone, relying on another person, it’s really hard for me to give up any control over my life. I don’t want to need your money. I don’t want your credit card. The fact that I’m living in your place, in a freaking penthouse, when last week, I was going to be homeless, it’s messing with my head. And then, when we…sleep together, it makes me feel…cheap. Like I’m completely selling myself short, taking the easy way out, and using my body to exist.”

He’s quiet for a long moment and I worry I’ve somehow offended him. But when he speaks, his voice is raw, as if he’s hurting for me more than himself. “Fuck, Ri. I never want to make you, make any woman, feel that way. I—shit, babe, you know it’s not like that, right? I’d do anything I can to make your life easier, better, regardless if you never even hug me again.”

I snort, my emotions clogging my throat at the sincerity in his tone.

“I know. It’s just that I don’t know how to trust it yet. Does that make sense? It’s not you, Torst, it’s—”

“It’s not you either, sweetheart. It’s the situations you’ve been in.”

“Maybe,” I say, even though it is me. I’m defective when it comes to relationships and love. If I wasn’t, wouldn’t Dad or my brother, Jesse, have reached out by now? Wouldn’t any of my childhood playmates, Jerry Jensen’s son Dennis, have contacted me?

“So, you sold your car?” he prods.

“I did. I settled up my rent.”

He swears. “You’re not going to use the card, are you?”

“No.”

He snorts. “Do me a favor? Put it in your wallet anyway.”

“I—”

“I don’t care if you use it or not. Just keep it with you in case you ever need it, okay? Give me some peace of mind here, Ri. My God, you are stubborn.”

I chuckle, relieved he’s not fighting me on this. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t really care. But deep down, I think it’s because he knows he won’t win.

“You okay at the apartment by yourself?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m good. When do you come home?”

“Why?” he asks slyly. “You planning on being gone or you missing me that much?”

I grin at his teasing tone but if I listen carefully, I detect the uncertainty buried underneath his words. Knowing he’s holding back a lot of his thoughts to make me feel more comfortable, more in control of this situation, I tell him the truth. “I’m looking forward to spending time together.”

He laughs again, louder this time. “Me too, sweetheart. I’m back in two days. Let me take you for brunch? Or dinner? Whatever you want. Just let me take you someplace nice.”

“Show me off?” I guess, knowing we need to make some appearances together.

“Be with you,” he amends and I grin in spite of myself. “I want to talk to you about this summer. About Oslo.”

“You really want me to meet your family?” I ask hesitantly, the knots in my stomach tugging tightly. Pulling off our sham of a marriage for practical purposes is one thing, lying to his family’s faces is another.

“No,” he says and it pierces my chest. “I just want to fulfill my grandmother’s wishes. She wants you to come.”

“Oh, okay.” I stammer, “Well, um, can I think about it?”

“Of course. Listen, Ri, I’ve gotta meet the guys for a celebratory drink.”

“Right. I’ll talk you later.”

“I’m glad you messaged.”

“Yeah. Thanks for calling.” I disconnect the call, feeling more out of sorts than before Torsten and I spoke.

I can’t figure anything out with Torsten. I have no idea where I stand with him. I told him that sleeping together is too confusing and he readily agreed. He wants to bring me to Oslo but doesn’t really want me to meet his family. I thought that speaking with him would clear up some of the uncertainty I feel about how to proceed with our marriage.

Instead, I’m left with more conflicting feelings. More questions I don’t have the answers to.

Did he want to have sex with me because we agreed not to have sex with other people? Or did he really desire me? Is he fine having a chill, friendship type of marriage? But then, why bring me across the Atlantic Ocean and prop me up to his frail grandmother as so much more than that?

I sigh and stand from the couch. I walk the perimeter of the penthouse, glancing down at Boston. The old and the new, the historical and the modern. It’s a beautiful city and I’m happy that out of all the places in the world I could have landed, I made it here.

It’s still early so I brew a cup of tea and open my laptop. Feeling a little nostalgic, I open the files I’ve kept of my college work, my eye catching on the folder titled “photography.” When I open it, a myriad of images loads on my screen and I lean closer, studying the photos I shot for various assignments.

I enjoyed it more than I ever admitted. I liked being on the other side of the lens, the person capturing the emotions instead of having them ripple across my face, for all to see. There was a secrecy to it, a safety I reveled in. I took photography courses all through university and as I scroll through the folder, I note where my skill level improved, where I began experimenting more, where my passion just started to peak through.

But then I graduated, landed a role at Hendrix, and lost myself for nearly a year.

I click on a search engine and check out some photography studios in Boston, my eyes nearly falling out of my head at the price of courses, not to mention the cost of a camera. A quick flash of Torsten’s credit card whips through my mind but I shut that idea down.

Marrying Torsten is a fresh start. It’s a chance to get back