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

“I’ll wait out here,” I cut him off.

His gaze searches mine for one more beat before he nods curtly, takes the backpack we used as a carry-on from my hands, and steps into the hospital room.

I plop down on a bench in the hallway, letting the random chatter from the nearby nurse’s station roll over me, even though I don’t understand any of it. I’m staring into space, trying to compartmentalize the unexpected zing of emotions, of memories and moments I thought I’d moved on from, when a shadow falls over me.

I look up into the pale, icy blue gaze of a man who looks too similar to Torsten to not be a relation.

“Hi,” I manage, scooting down on the bench in case the newcomer wants to sit.

After a moment, he does. His expression is curious, his eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look friendly or menacing but he gives off a vibe that has my nerves snapping to attention.

“You are American.”

“Yes.”

“You came with Torsten.” He inquires with statements, as if everything he says is a fact. It’s unnerving but since it’s also true, I nod.

“And you are?” I lift an eyebrow.

“Your brother-in-law.” His face remains impassive, his façade even thicker than the one Torsten wrapped himself in when we landed.

I don’t know how much Torsten’s family knows of our marriage so I keep my face blank as I hold out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Rielle.”

“I know.” He shakes my hand, his touch impersonal, like he shakes hands for a living.

“I’m sorry about your farmor.” I tip my head to the hospital room that Torsten entered.

He swallows and averts his gaze, mumbling a word in Norwegian that I think means “thank you.”

“Far! Far!” A little boy turns the corner of the hallway and barrels toward us. His blue eyes are sparkling and his blond hair is almost white. He slides to a stop in front of the man beside me and I realize this little boy, with the bright smile and glittering eyes, is Torsten’s nephew.

Why didn’t he tell me he has a brother? A nephew?

Like you told him about your niece?

Torsten and I have steered clear of talking about our families. Is it because we both know how painful it is? Or is it deeper than that?

I flick the thought out of my head and turn my attention to the enthusiastic, little boy.

His father speaks to him in Norwegian and his shoulders dip, his expression growing serious. A moment later, an out-of-breath woman appears at the end of the hallway, a shock of fear blooming in her expression when she sees the little boy and his father. What are their names?

Torsten’s brother stands and strides toward the woman. His voice is quiet but his words are clipped as he gestures to the boy.

The boy glances up at me shyly.

I smile at him and stick out my hand. Not wanting to create any additional family drama, I say, “Hey there. My name is Rielle.”

He places his small hand in mine and shakes with a lot more warmth than his dad. “I’m Magnus,” he responds in perfect English.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too. Do you like dinosaurs?” he asks innocently, pulling two small dinosaur figures from his pocket.

I study the bright orange and green toys. “Is that a T-Rex and a brachiosaurus you’ve got there?”

His eyes light up, the deepest blue of all the men I’ve met in his family, and he nods eagerly.

I place a hand to my chest and gasp in mock surprise. “How’d you sneak them into the hospital?”

He giggles, delighted that I’m playing along. “I had to hide them in my pocket.”

“You’re lucky they haven’t grown to full size yet or they might not fit in the hallway.”

He laughs again.

“How old are you?” I ask.

He holds up four fingers. “How old are you?”

“I don’t have enough fingers to show you. I’m twenty-four.”

His eyes widen as if I told him I’m four hundred. I laugh.

“You smell pretty,” he says simply, blinking long lashes at me.

“Thank you, Magnus. I just got off a very long airplane ride, with a stopover in London. So I’m glad to hear I don’t stink like rotten eggs.”

He tips his head back, exposing his neck, as he giggles again. I grin, loving how affectionate and sweet he is. “Where did you come from?” he asks when his laughter subsides.

“America.”

His eyes widen. “I have an uncle who—”

The door to Farmor’s hospital room opens as said uncle steps into the hallway. Magnus stops talking as his mouth hangs open in surprise, his eyes wide as he takes in the hulking stature of his uncle.

Torsten’s brother’s eyes snap to us, then to Torsten, and his back straightens. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at his brother. The older woman, who I surmise is Magnus’s nanny, wrings her hands nervously and brushes hair out of her eyes.

Magnus breaks the tension by exclaiming, “It’s really you!”

Torsten’s head whips to the little boy who’s nearly bouncing on his toes in excitement.

“You’re really a hockey player!” Magnus rushes him and throws his arms around Torsten’s legs.

Torsten’s brother frowns and steps forward, reaching out to grab his son’s arm. Before he can, Torsten wraps an arm around the boy’s shoulders protectively. “What’s your name, little man?”

“Magnus.” Magnus beams up at Torsten as Torsten bends down to his eye level. “I’m your biggest fan and you’re my uncle.”

Torsten’s face twists as he glares at his brother over Magnus’s head. His brother has the good sense to look ashamed and drops his gaze to the ground. He says something in Norwegian and Torsten nods.

Torsten pulls his nephew close again and Magus practically vibrates with excitement. He grins at me and I wink back. Torsten catches the exchange and his expression softens. He whispers something to Magnus who goes to stand by his father as Torsten takes two strides toward me. I notice he’s hiding his