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

“How’d it go?” I whisper as he sits on the bench.

“She wants to see you,” he whispers back nervously.

“Me?” I press my hand to my chest.

Torsten nods. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But will you…” He trails off, an apology on the tip of his tongue.

Before he can finish his question, I nod. “Of course.”

He clears his throat. “I’m going to, um, I’ll just grab a coffee with my brother. I’ll be back in ten minutes tops. I…I’m sorry I brought you here, Rielle,” he whispers, brushing a chaste kiss to the crown of my head.

His words scrape across my soul, cutting deeper than I ever imagined. I shouldn’t have come. Months ago, Torsten admitted he didn’t want me to meet his family, that he’d only bring me to Oslo to fulfill his farmor’s request. But haven’t things changed? Haven’t we grown since then?

The realization that he still feels the same way slams into me. Have I read more into our relationship than he has?

Just hours ago, we had sex and I fell asleep in his arms. I felt cherished and desired. Wanted and safe. Now, I just feel naïve. The depths of my feelings for him rock through me because suddenly, I’m battling tears.

I watch Torsten’s back recede down the hallway. His shoulders are stiff as he nods at whatever his brother says to him. He never turns around but at the last minute, Magnus does, and the little boy frowns at whatever he reads in my expression.

Once they’re gone, I rub my hands under my eyes, pinch my cheeks for some color, and try to muss up the roots of my hair for a little volume. I can’t even imagine how horrid I must look after a fifteen-hour journey, running on minimal sleep, too much caffeine, and a dash of heartache. I blow out a deep breath and stand from the bench. I hate that I’m going to cross the threshold to Farmor’s—when did I start calling her that?—hospital room and pretend that her grandson and I married for love. Especially now, when my feelings for him seem unreciprocated.

18

Rielle

I step into the dimly lit room and the memories of years ago, when my brother and I stood at our mother’s bedside and whispered our goodbyes, rocks through me. The memories flip through my mind quickly and scatter, violently, like shrapnel.

“Rielle?” a voice calls from the bed. Her voice is thin, reedy, floating on top of the air like an ocean breeze. It’s fleeting, here now, gone in how many hours? Her accent is thick, wrapping around my name like a hug I wish I could fall into.

I step closer to her bedside and tuck my hair behind my ears. “Hi, Farmor,” I whisper, using Torsten’s name for her.

She manages a tiny smile of acknowledgement. “I hoped you would come.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say.

“I wish we had more time. I’d like to know you.”

“Me too.”

“Do you love him?” she asks, her eyes suddenly sharp, searching mine with a ferocity to uncover any deceit.

My heart swells into my throat as tears fill my eyes. The relief that I won’t have to lie to her face on her deathbed fills me with as much relief as the truth does when it bursts from my lips on a sob. “Yes.”

The corners of her mouth lift and she covers my hand, the one clutching the railing of her bedside like a lifeline, with hers. “Then why do you cry?”

“Because,” I stammer, my head whirling as the truth, the past, the now all collide in a burst of light that nearly blinds me. “Because I want him to love me back.”

“Oh, my dear,” she breathes out. A flare of amusement sparks in her eyes, so much like Torsten’s, and for a moment, I see her the way he must have. Full of life and light and energy. Giving of love and understanding and empathy.

A tear spills over onto my cheek and slides down around my chin. I brush it away with the back of my hand, embarrassed that in this woman’s final days, I’m the one seeking comfort. The ache that’s wrapped around my heart since my mother passed squeezes, piercing me with an agonizing pain. Every day since she passed, I’ve missed her fiercely. As I’ve grown older, I’ve wished for a mother figure to reach out to, to look to for advice. Claire’s mom, Mary, has been the closest female role model I’ve had since Mom but this brief exchange with Farmor leads me to believe she would have gladly stepped into the role.

“I know you and my grandson didn’t marry for love.”

Shock zaps through my body and my mouth drops open.

She laughs lightly at the horror that washes over my face. I’m too slow to conceal it and honestly, right now, I don’t want to. I want this kind woman with compassionate eyes to tell me what to do. To help me make sense of this complicated mess I’ve made with Torsten. Have I fallen so completely in love with my husband that I can’t even hide it from his nearly ninety-year-old grandma? Am I that transparent? Does Torsten know? Doesn’t he see it?

She pats my hand again and offers a knowing look. “My grandson has been gone a long time but I still know him. And it brings me great joy to know the truth.”

My brows lift so high, I imagine them in my hairline. “Farmor, I…we—”

She squeezes my hand. “I know, Rielle.” She lifts her hand slowly and points to a box on her bedside table. “Hand me that box.”

I pick it up and place it in her hand.

“Help me open it,” she says, her hand shaking as her strength wanes.

I pull open the top of the jewelry box and gasp at the ring inside. It’s a stunning, deep blue sapphire in a marquise setting in a band of small blue