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

I swallow thickly, watching the islands and fjords below grow closer. The snow top mountains are beginning to melt in the warmer May weather. As we descend over the city, my breath catches in my throat and I drink in the beautiful views of my birthplace greedily. After this visit who knows when I’ll come back?

Next to me, Rielle squeezes my hand and leans over me, closer to the window. A soft smile touches her lips. “I haven’t been here in ages.”

Surprise rolls through me. “You’ve been to Oslo before?”

Wistfulness crosses her expression and she nods. “I’ve been all over the world. It’s all in a past life now.”

“With your family?” I dig a little deeper, knowing we’re about to land and don’t have the necessary amount of time to delve into all of things I want to know about Rielle. But she’s not very forthcoming with information about her family and I don’t want to let this moment to slip away.

She nods. “Before my mom died.”

“Your mom…” I trail off, frowning at her. How did I not know her mother passed? How is she going to handle stepping into a hospital, meeting my farmor on her deathbed? “Rielle,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

She kisses my shoulder, her eyes sad when they meet mine. “It was a long time ago and still, it feels like yesterday. I’m glad we came, Torst. You need to say goodbye in person.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulders, hugging her to my chest. “I don’t deserve you, Ri.”

“You deserve everything, Torsten.”

I kiss the top of her head, holding her, as we touch down in Oslo.

She pulls away and offers a small smile.

“Thank you for coming with me. Velkommen til Norge, Rielle.” Welcome to Norway.

17

Rielle

“I’m just going to exchange dollars for kroners,” I tell Torsten as we stand at baggage claim.

I take a step toward the currency exchange but Torsten grabs my wrist and shakes his head.

“You don’t need to. I have everything we’ll need.”

I open my mouth to protest but the look he gives me has me snapping it closed again.

“Don’t argue with me about this, Rielle. Please.” His voice is sterner than usual too. It’s not laced with his usual protective concern but with a hardness that doesn’t suit him. I realize that he’s shielding himself in impenetrable armor for whatever comes next.

Knowing that he’s battling a lot of feelings at the moment, I nod and roll my lips together. Torsten reaches for our suitcase when it circles toward us on the belt. He heaves it off and I can tell that with his sore shoulder and banged-up knee, even lifting the light suitcase cost him. He frowns, grabs the handle, and limps as smoothly as he can toward the exit.

I trail him, noting the small nuances that have shifted in the past twelve hours. He’s as gorgeous as ever but his eyes are dimmer, his jawline tighter, his entire persona wrapped in a protective veneer. Is this how I would react to seeing my family again? Is he worried that I’m going to judge him? Or them? Is seeing his grandmother something he needs to do on his own?

“Rielle?” he barks over his shoulder and I scurry to his side, frowning.

Tension rolls off his shoulders and he mutters a swear word as we pass from the terminal into the arrivals hall.

A man approaches Torsten, speaking rapidly in Norwegian. He takes the suitcase from Torsten’s hand and gestures toward the parking lot.

I frown up at Torsten, not understanding anything in their exchange.

“That’s Lars. He’s worked for my family for many years.”

“As a…”

“Personal valet.”

“To your father?” I guess.

“To me,” he murmurs, almost too low for me to hear. “He’s been employed in other parts of the household since I moved to America. But when I was a boy…” He lets the sentence drop and I fill in the blanks.

Torsten’s family isn’t just wealthy. It’s more than the Carter kind of wealth I grew up around. His family has a history, deep roots that stretch back to a time period when children had personal valets. The realization hits me hard as a thousand little things snap into place. The ease with which Torsten paid off my Jerry Jensen loan. The way he laughed at me wanting to pitch in for rent even though the idea was asinine. The fact that he gave me full use of his SUV and shrugged that he can always buy another. I knew he had money but this is more than money. This is the level above money.

I’m escorted to a white BMW and Lars holds the door open for me without making eye contact. I slide into the back seat, surprised when Torsten maneuvers in beside me instead of riding up front where he would be more comfortable.

“Torsten,” I whisper as Lars closes the trunk. “What exactly does your family do?”

“We socialize. We marry well. We keep up appearances. And we have a family business, oil, that could grow for at least two more generations with little involvement, but we all fight over it like vultures who may not live to see another day.”

My head spins as I process his words, as I note the angry glint in his eyes.

“So your family is…aristocracy?” I ask hesitantly.

“My family are a bunch of assholes,” he clarifies.

In the driver’s seat, Lars’s shoulders stiffen. But he pulls out of the parking lot without a word.

The hospital hallway smells like antiseptic and hard soap. It brings back a slew of memories I’ve done my best to forget.

Mom’s final days. Images of her bald head, her drawn face, cheeks hollow and sunken, flicker through my mind. The feel of her hand, her bones frail, her skin nearly translucent, tugs on my memories.

I bite the corner of my mouth until the prick of pain eases the throb in my chest.

Torsten gives me an empathetic look. “You holding up