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

as she moves closer, a coat thrown over her arm, a wine glass in hand. I take in the curves of her hips, sheathed in a sexy pencil skirt that ends just below her knees. She’s rocking a silk blouse that clings to her curves. Nude heels click against the beat-up wooden floor as she draws nearer. Black hair, black eyes, and a luscious mouth I’ve thought more than once about tasting, Rielle Carter is a bombshell.

But right now, she looks miserable and my worry for her overshadows my wayward thoughts.

“Hey Big Daddy,” she greets me, dropping the lame nickname started by Claire. Of course, it stuck and now the whole team uses it.

“What’re you drinking, Ri?” I ask, pulling the barstool next to mine closer.

She shrugs, placing down her wine glass. She hangs her coat on the back of the barstool and slips onto the seat. “Just a merlot.”

“What’s wrong?” I gentle my tone.

She stares at me. Her eyes are empty, her expression aloof. Pete delivers more shots and Rielle snorts. She picks one up, running the pad of her index finger around the rim. She shrugs, offering me a lopsided grin. “What’s right?”

I frown at her answer and watch as she throws back the shot and picks up another one. She downs it quickly, not bothering with the salt or the lime. Then she turns on her barstool, her knee brushing against my leg.

“Congrats on the playoffs.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you by yourself tonight?” she asks, looking around for my teammates. We frequent Taps a lot and since I hate being alone, I usually recruit some of the guys to come with me.

I nod.

“Me too.”

I lean back in my seat and study her. Her eyes swim with emotion. She looks lost and lonely. Pained. My mind travels back to six weeks ago. Rielle was tipsy as hell. And adorable. She was happy, her big eyes shining, as she danced in the middle of a crowded dance floor, unconcerned by all the men circling her, desperate for a morsel of her attention. She closed her eyes, waved her arms overhead, and rotated her hips until I couldn’t tear my gaze away. I remember how she dissolved into laughter when she caught my eye. She danced her way over to me, beckoning for me to join her. And at the envious glares of the other nearby men, I did so gladly. Her laughter from that night still interrupts my dreams, causing a strange sense of longing when I wake in the morning.

But when I escorted her home, I witnessed a version of her I never considered. The larger-than-life, dazzling woman is living paycheck to paycheck. Just scraping by. Her small apartment in Southie tells a completely different story than the woman who always shows up with her head held high, rocking designer threads and an untouchable veneer.

Tonight, I’m catching a glimpse of that woman. The woman who is struggling and doing her best to keep it all together. I know this because for too damn long, I was her. The hockey player with the trust fund who “has it all,” but doesn’t have a damn thing that matters. No family, no relationship, no one to kiss hello when I walk in the door from a grueling practice or a brutal away game. Although the circumstances are different, I know what it feels like to be invisible in a crowd. Right now, Rielle is wearing that look. Dejection and hurt, sorrow and loneliness.

She shifts to reach for her wine glass and I narrow my eyes. Are those bruises on her arm? My heightening concern is swept away by a rush of anger. Who the fuck dared to put his hands on her?

“Who the fuck marked your arm?” I growl.

She gasps, tugging on the sleeve of her shirt. Her eyes widen and her mouth opens and closes. Her body stiffens and she eyes the door over my shoulder, looking like she wants to bolt.

Shit. I can’t let her rush out of here, not when she’s hurting. I swear and grip the armrest of her barstool. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she whispers.

“Don’t leave. Not on your own, not like this. Hang with me for a bit? Take another shot.”

She narrows her gaze and considers me. I stare straight back, trying to tell her with my eyes all the things I’m sure as fuck not going to say. I’m worried about you. I want to beat the shit out of the dick who put his hands on you. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you go home alone right now.

Finally, she nods and settles back in her seat. I place another shot glass in front of her and line two up in front of me.

She snorts and picks up her shot glass. She raises it in my direction, the black in her eyes swallowing the flecks of golden brown. “To Daddy issues.”

As much as I want her to confide in me about whatever the hell went down tonight, I dislike the blasé snark she’s protecting herself in. I narrow my eyes at her and consider handing out a truth for a truth. “I can drink to that, Ri.” I tap my glass against hers and toss it back.

Her eyes widen in surprise but she quickly hides it by taking the shot.

“Rielle, what happened tonight?”

She glances at the ceiling, as if holding back tears. “I lost my job.”

I search my mind for everything I know about Rielle and the thing that I hold on to, the thing that Claire and her cousin Indy have said countless times is that she’s a workaholic. Why the hell would she lose her job? “Why? What happened?”

She shakes her head and her eyes well with fresh tears. Pure horror washes over her features.

“Ri.” I reach out and cup her cheek. “It’s okay to be upset. You know that right?”

She nods and clears her throat, blinking furiously. “Logically, yes. I know that. But I don’t, I’m not sure how…”

I swipe my