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

diamonds. My mother used to wear a blue diamond pendant necklace that was given to her by her father on her wedding day. It was her something blue and I used to look at it longingly as a little girl. I always imagined I’d wear it on my own wedding day, until the night I left and tried my best to erase my entire life up until that point from my thoughts. It makes me smile to realize that my something blue was hydrangeas in my hair. And yet, I know for a fact that my fake wedding day to Torsten was just as happy an occasion as my mother’s real wedding day to my father. I take comfort in knowing that Mom would adore Torsten.

“It’s yours,” Farmor whispers, her voice bringing me back to the present.

“What?” I frown, wondering if she’s slipped into another memory like I just did.

But her eyes are clear when they meet mine. “I gave this to Torsten a long time ago. For him to give to his future bride. He brought it back to me tonight to ask my permission for you to have it. Oh, I can’t believe he hasn’t already put it on your finger, my dear. But I want you to have the ring. To wear it. For you are a Hansen, even if it took you longer to realize it.” She plucks the ring from the box and drops it in my palm, closing my fingers around the stone and holding my hand in hers.

“Promise me something?” She rests back against her pillows.

“Anything,” I say, still trying to process the part where she placed an incredibly rare, expensive ring in my hand like I somehow deserve it. This is the small box Torsten stashed in the carry-on. Does Torsten truly want me to wear it? Did he really bring it here for his farmor’s blessing? Or does he want her to believe he’s happy and secure so she can pass without worrying about him?

My conflicting thoughts are too painful to consider at the moment. Instead, I swallow thickly and give my attention to Farmor’s request.

“Make sure he makes things right with his father. He needs the closure to move on and choose happiness. It will take some time. He will resist it. He may even shut you out. But don’t give up on him. Torsten is a stubborn man, a lot more like my son than he thinks he is. The men in this family take too long to see what is right in front of their faces but in the end, they always wake up.”

I nod at her words, not understanding the full meaning behind them, but grasping that it’s important to her that Torsten and his father make amends. “I will,” I promise, intending to keep it.

“Don’t give up on him,” she mutters again as her eyelids grow heavy. “Will you sit with me? I’m so tired.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, wrapping my fingers with hers so the stone rests between our palms. “I’m here. I’ll stay. You rest.”

Her eyes flutter closed and for a blink, I’m ten years old, watching my mother slip away in front of my eyes.

I don’t know how long I sit at Farmor’s bedside.

At some point, the door swings open and Torsten and his brother shadow the entrance. Their hulking frames seem to invade the space, the angry slashes of their mouths, the sharp angles of their cheekbones, the concern blazing in their matching eyes sucks the oxygen from the room.

They take me in, sitting at Farmor’s bedside and holding her hand as if she was mine instead of theirs. Torsten’s brother’s expression softens and he looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

But anguish streaks across Torsten’s face. His mouth twists, his eyes burn, and he turns away as if I’ve hurt him. As if my presence fills him with shame.

We’re quiet when we leave the hospital. The tension between us is thicker than I’ve ever felt it. What shifted? What happened with his brother? Why is he upset that I visited with Farmor after he asked me to?

Anguish and despair roll off of Torsten in surges that threaten to drown me. I feel his disappointment in my throat. I carry his hurt in my stomach. I can barely look at him for how much it seems to destroy him when his eyes meet mine.

Lars drives us through the city streets and I pretend to gaze out the window with interest, as if I’m taking in all the sights of Oslo. In reality, I don’t see anything but a blur. I assume we’re going to a hotel, but we stop in front of a mansion on the outskirts of the city that has anxiety crawling through my veins like fire ants.

Lars opens the door for me and I stumble out, catching myself at the last moment by grasping the door. Lars glares down his nose at me. In perfect English, he says, “Welcome to Hansen Manor.”

“Thank you,” I sputter, clearing my throat. I follow Lars up the steps to a huge wooden door that swings open before we reach it.

Staff members bustle about inside as Lars leads me into a foyer that rivals the one in my childhood home, with a sweeping staircase and blinding crystal chandelier.

The back of my neck tingles and I know Torsten has entered the home and is standing behind me. More than anything, I want to turn, wrap my arms around his hips, and bury my face in his chest. I want to feel his fingers in my hair, let his warmth seep into my chilled skin, let the sound of his heartbeat slow the racing of mine. I want to know that we’re okay.

Instead, I shuffle back a step. Torsten wraps his arm around my shoulders, guiding me forward. His touch is hesitant, as if he doesn’t know how to act around me now that we’re in his childhood home. The