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

it down next to the ring. “You’ve done enough for me and I clearly haven’t held up my end of the agreement since you don’t have a green card. I’m going to assume you’re letting that slide since you’re dissolving our contract.”

His eyes spark and I know he’s angry by the tick in his jaw that pulses. Good. I want him to be angry. I want him to feel a fucking shred of the anguish that’s twisting my intestines and scraping against my heart.

“Thank you for paying off my loan.” I clear my throat. “I guess we’re done here.” I offer him a sad smile, taking one last, long look at his devastatingly handsome face.

My chest heaves with a sob of all the things we’re going to miss out on.

Then, I turn on my heel and leave the bedroom. I leave Torsten Hansen behind.

21

Rielle

My flight to New York is long and tearful. My emotions swing wildly from heartbroken and hurting to angry and defensive.

Why didn’t he fight for me?

Did I really read all the signs wrong? Did I fall for an act instead of the man?

No, my heart screams. Obviously, my head scoffs back.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” the sweet flight attendant who has already brought me tissues and chocolate chip cookies from First Class asks when we’re somewhere over France.

I give in and nod. I definitely need something to take the edge off. Besides, all my crying and trying not to cry has given me a wicked tension headache that can’t be much worse than a hangover.

She squeezes my shoulder empathetically and I hate myself a little for losing it in front of a stranger. On the other hand, it’s also a relief because I would abhor being this vulnerable, this pathetic, in front of anyone I care about.

Once I have a wine glass in hand, I take a deep gulp and let my mind wander over the last few days. It’s as if I’m searching for clues to understand what the hell went wrong. When did Torsten decide he knew what was best for me, for us? Why didn’t he speak to me about it? How did I read the situation wrong? I thought we were growing together, building the foundation of something special. And he thought, what? That we were becoming great friends who sometimes have amazing sex but will ultimately end up divorced?

I tip my wine glass all the way back, grateful that my row is empty.

As the hours tick by and my erratic emotions calm, new thoughts replace the frantic ones. Like how it was a privilege to meet Farmor. And Magnus sure is one adorable kid. My niece is only a year younger and similarly, I’ve never met her. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could patch things up with Jesse the way Torsten did with Anders?

Wouldn’t it be something if I could mend my relationship with Dad?

Is it even worth it to try at this point? After all these years and so much hurt? Will reaching out help me find closure, help to heal the wounds that still fester? Or will it cut me deeper, make me bleed when I’m starting to scab over?

The flight attendant returns with another glass of wine and I accept it greedily. At 35,000 feet in the air, the wine hits me harder than usual. I’m grateful when my eyelids grow heavy and sleep beckons. Because sleeping means not thinking. Not thinking means not agonizing over Torsten.

Right now, I need to reimagine what my immediate future looks like. I need to think about the life that I want, the career I want to commit myself to, the place I want to live. Making those kind of life-changing decisions requires sleep. Energy. A clear head.

I pass out somewhere over the Atlantic and don’t wake up until we’re touching down at JFK. While I glance at the New York City skyline as we land, a ripple passes through my chest. It’s definitely not excitement but it’s not devastation either.

Feeling bold and a little bit reckless after having spiraled so spectacularly, I pull my suitcase off the baggage claim belt and line up for a taxi. When it’s my turn, I slip into the back seat of a cab and rattle off my brother’s address, a penthouse on Fifth Avenue my dad gifted to him as a wedding present. I haven’t been in years but I remember it well.

I remember him and Mira well. Jesse always tried to please Dad. He did everything right, followed the rules, and never rocked the boat. If I’m oil, he’s water. But one of my greatest takeaways from Norway is that there’s always a road home, even if it’s all scorched Earth and an arduous trek. Maybe I need to start remembering instead of trying to forget. Maybe it’s time for me to make amends too.

When we pull up to the building, I pay the taxi fare and collect my suitcase. I stand in front of the building, craning my neck all the way back to see the penthouse. The warm spring breeze whips my hair over my shoulders. People rush around me, maybe not even seeing me. I close my eyes and breathe in the city. The sunshine. The anonymity and the freedom and the moment.

I forgot how much I love Manhattan. I forgot how much I adore traveling and experiencing and being. After a year of just trying to survive, I forgot that at one point, I didn’t have to try at all.

I smile at the doorman and pull my suitcase behind me.

“Can I help you with something, Ms.?” he asks politely.

I study him for a long moment. “Dale?”

He frowns. “Yes.”

I grin. “It’s me, Rielle. Jesse’s sister.”

His eyes widen but he smiles back. “Rielle Carter. Wow. Your brother is going to be delighted to see you.”

I laugh in response because that’s a stretch but sweet of Dale to say. It’s the extra reassurance I need that I’m doing the