The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey) by Gina Azzi (ink ebook reader .TXT) 📗

him wrong. That’s it. I’ve officially lost my mind. My wild and reckless has given way to unhinged.

Because there is no way in hell that Torsten Hansen, Norwegian sex god, just proposed to me at a corner diner in South Boston.

I blink slowly, trying to regulate my breathing. But when I meet Torsten’s eyes again, he’s still staring at me. His hand is still covering mine. His intensity is still dragging me under like quicksand.

He glances over his shoulder as the bells over the diner doors chime. Regulars begin to enter and Beth comes back from her break.

“Hear me out?” he murmurs, his voice low.

I nod, too confused to voice an objection.

“Sorry, Beth. Something came up. Any chance we can take these to go? I’ll take the check.”

“You got it.” Beth sidles up next to our booth a few moments later with white Styrofoam containers and a bill. She gives me a long look that toes the line between uncertain and dislike.

Torsten pays while I fill the takeout containers with our pancakes.

“Let’s go back to your place. We’ll grab our cars later.”

“Okay.” I slip out of the booth, don my coat, and grab my purse. Torsten’s fingers find the small of my back and guide me forward. I feel unsteady on my feet, in shock.

When he clears the door and we’re back on the street, Torsten stops suddenly. “Rielle, wait.”

I turn toward him, craning my neck so I can meet his eyes. “This is crazy,” he blurts out, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I—”

“I want to hear you out,” I cut him off, surprising the hell out of both of us. I have no idea what Torsten’s motivation is for proposing marriage but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued. Or a tiny bit hopeful. When I look at him, I see a soft place to land, a shoulder to lean on, a person who understands me on a deeper level. No matter how crazy his idea is, the fact that he wants to help me find a solution, is enough for me to want to listen.

He searches my eyes for a long moment before shaking his head. “Okay. Okay, we’ll talk.”

“We’ll talk,” I agree, falling in step beside him.

4

Torsten

I walk beside her, wondering if I’ve lost my damn mind.

What the hell was I thinking? Did I seriously just propose marriage to a woman I’ve spent a total of fifteen hours with, in group settings, over blueberry pancakes?

Yes, yes I did.

We’re quiet as we walk, both of us lost in our thoughts. Except mine swing from angry to needy to frustrated. I hate that Rielle questioned our friendship, as if I don’t give a shit about her. I know we aren’t close and don’t really know each other but does she seriously think I treat her the same way I treat puck bunnies? Her accusation stung and it shouldn’t have because it’s the perception I’ve spent years cultivating.

I just don’t like that it worked on her.

Then, there’s the fact that she’s obviously in some kind of trouble. Four hundred and seventy thousand dollars? Really? That’s not normal credit card or student loan debt. That’s serious, life-altering, damaging debt. Is someone trying to shake her down? Is that why she has bruises on her arm?

Jesus. I scrape a hand over my face, glancing at Rielle from the corner of my eye. She keeps her head straight ahead, her footsteps even, her shoulders pulled back. I couldn’t get a read on her if I was a fucking mind reader.

But marriage? No, I didn’t propose marriage. I proposed something different. A transaction. And she knows it.

The thought makes me feel cheap and dirty. I already feel like I fucked up by suggesting such an insane idea. But is it really that insane if it helps us both out? This way, I can get my papers to stay in the States and visit Farmor. And Rielle can get out of debt and search for a job she wants because of the role, not just the salary. It’s like a different kind of friends-with-benefits agreement, right?

Way to rationalize that one, Hansen.

I take a fortifying breath and follow Rielle as she walks down a side street toward her apartment. I’ve escorted her home three times now and know this area pretty well. It’s not the best part of town but seeing it with clearer eyes, in the morning light, with Rielle at my side, makes me wince. We pass a couple of drunk guys, sitting on a curb and passing a bottle back and forth. A woman digs through trash, her cheeks sunken and her expression gaunt.

Fuck. My chest aches that this is where Rielle lives. While I dine at The Ivy and order bespoke suits, this proud woman walking beside me has to step over broken glass and watch her back from men with roaming eyes and vulgar threats. The realization cuts me deep and I don’t miss the way Rielle’s shoulders round toward each other, as if she’s protecting herself from the environment she currently lives in.

Who does she owe so much money to? Who laid hands on her?

We draw closer to her apartment building. Two men hanging in the parking lot stop and stare.

“You good, Rielle?” one of them calls out. He has a thick Southie accent.

Rielle lifts a hand and waves. “All good. Thanks, Merck.”

He narrows his eyes, giving me a once-over. “You sure, girl? Because you don’t have to—”

“I swear I’m fine!” Rielle hollers out, her cheeks blazing red.

I shoot the guy a look and trail after Rielle who seems to be speed walking toward the door.

“Who’s that guy?” I ask her, dropping a hand to her shoulder.

She glances up at me, her eyes filled with shame. “That’s Merck. The property manager.”

“What did he mean—”

“He thinks I’m taking you back to my place to sleep with you. For…for money,” she whispers.

“What the fuck?” I respond automatically, angrily. Dropping her