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

you have interest in and see what you enjoy most. Part of this”—I gesture between us—“is you not having to stay in some unfulfilling job because you need the paycheck. Even though you’re being crazy stubborn about the paycheck part.”

She snickers and meets my eyes with a sheepish expression on her face. “A girl Claire and I went to school with is a cocktail waitress at Jolene’s. She’s having surgery and needs to take two weeks off and since they’re short-staffed, her boss agreed to let me pick up her shifts since she knows me too. So…” She grins.

I laugh. “You have a short-term cocktail waitressing gig?”

She nods.

“And you feel better, knowing you’re earning some money?” I surmise.

She nods again, twirling a strand of her hair around her fingers.

“Okay,” I say, not admitting I’d rather she just use the freaking credit card in her wallet. But I get that she wants to pay her own way, hell, I even admire it. I take another bite of my sandwich, turning thoughts over in my mind. “But Ri—don’t think, just answer—what’s your dream job?”

Her eyes flash, diamonds and coal. “Photography.”

I straighten, startled by her response. Not because I don’t see her behind a camera lens, but part of me didn’t expect her to respond so candidly. To be so forthcoming.

She chuckles at my expression. “I took a bunch of courses in college. All electives but I loved them. I loved the assignments and learning different techniques, especially with regards to lighting. My senior year, my class got to set up photoshoots for different ‘clients.’ It was an opportunity to blend everything I learned through marketing with photography. How to create a set or find a location that would give the desirous effect. We got to weigh in on wardrobe.” Her expression takes on a dreamy look, as if she’s recalling the assignment. “It was a lot of fun,” she says wistfully.

“Who were your clients?”

She laughs, swiping up her coffee cup. It dangles from her fingers like a prop as she moves her hands, becoming more animated. “A newly engaged couple, a little girl’s birthday photos, and a family of five wanted just normal, lifestyle photos. Everyone in the class submitted a proposal with their ideas for the shoots and the clients each chose two to three sessions to attend. It was a lot of fun.”

“Who did you shoot?” I cross my elbows on the island and lean closer, drawn to this version of Rielle. The uninhibited, honest, excited woman who often hides behind a sly grin and quick eyes.

“The family of five.” She grins. “The kids were adorable. We totally had a massive tantrum from the toddler, a little girl named Grace.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Anyway, they were so happy with how the photos turned out. Two months later, the woman, Chantelle, called me. Her sister was getting married that weekend in a small ceremony and the photographer had come down with mono.” She wrinkles her nose.

My mouth pops open, seeing where this is going. “They asked you to photograph the wedding?”

She nods and then laughter drops from her mouth. A delighted, playful laugh. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and right now, with no makeup on and in a threadbare T-shirt, she looks more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. “God, Torst, it was the best. I mean, the bride and groom were so gracious of my inexperience, but I had the best day. It’s really something, you know, seeing people be so honest with their emotions. So naked and vulnerable.” She bites the corner of her mouth, her expression almost melancholy before she blinks and it clears. “Anyway, their pictures turned out better than I expected and I think we were all a little relieved.”

“You never considered exploring it further? Photography as a career? Having your own business?” I press, polishing off my sandwich.

Rielle shrugs. “The second I was offered the job at Hendrix, any thoughts about anything flew out the window. I just wanted to pay back Jerry Jensen. To not be drowning in debt.”

“And now, you’re not,” I remind her.

She laughs. “We’ll see. I checked out some courses this week—”

“You did?” A buzz zips through my chest. I love seeing Rielle excited about something, interested and eager. It’s a good look on anyone but on her, it’s mesmerizing.

“Yeah.” She shakes her head, trying to play it casual. But I see the spark in her eyes. “They’re expensive. Not to mention the cost of a camera.” She shrugs. “We’ll see how well the tips are at Jolene’s over the next two weeks.”

I snicker, knowing she meant it as a joke. But already, I’m turning over ideas of how to get a camera in her hands without her feeling weird about it. Knowing this conversation is coming to an end and I can’t press her anymore this morning, I change the topic.

“Hey, will you come to my game tomorrow?” I ask. “To advance to the next round, it’s best of seven. We’re up three to two.”

“I know.” She snorts, shooting me a strange look. “You’re my husband, Torsten. I’ve been following the playoffs.”

I dip my head, feeling lighter than I have since our wedding night. I wasn’t sure how Rielle and I would manage the intertwining of our lives but right now, it seems natural. “Will you come?”

“I gotta show you something.” She scoots from the barstool and leaves the kitchen without answering.

I lean back in my seat and wait for her to return.

When she does, my breath catches and my throat dries. Rielle is rocking my jersey. She does a little twirl and seeing her in my number, with my name stamped across her shoulder blades, affects me on a level I wasn’t prepared for. I like seeing her rock my number, wearing my name. I grin. “You look good in my number, sweetheart.”

She does a little shimmy that causes us both to laugh.

“Of course I’m coming to your game,” she says.

We finish