Page 153 of Gloves Off

God, I love it when he’s bossy like this. “Hi, can you not make the bed while I’m still in it?” I’m laughing. “Also, what are you talking about?”

“I booked it for you at the place Jordan said you liked. You’ve got a whole morning of things to go to.” He squints, thinking. “Japanese head something?”

I gasp, sitting up higher. “A Japanese head spa?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Oh my god.” I’ve totally wanted to try that. Apparently it makes your hair all soft and glossy. “Wait. I can’t leave. I was going to help.”

“I told you I’d take care of everything.” He glares at the necklineof my camisole—one of the items he bought. “You’re too distracting, Georgia. Especially wearing that thing.”

“Lick the rock,” we all chant that evening while Alexei glowers, hands on his hips in defiance.

Everyone’s here—Rory, Hazel, Darcy, Hayden, Jamie, Pippa, Luca, a few of the other players. Even Jordan, an introvert who prefers spending her nights off alone, showed up.

“I’m not licking the fucking?—”

“Lick the rock,”we keep chanting. “Lick the rock.”

Our eyes meet and I give him a look like,well?and he rolls his eyes with exasperation, but he looks like he wants to smile.

“We’ve all licked it,” I tell him while our friends grin. “It’s your turn. It’s bad luck. A witch will put a curse on you if you don’t.”

“Fine,” he snaps before bending down and touching his tongue to the tip of the crystal.

Everyone hollers, clapping and laughing, filling the home with joyful noise. Luca snaps a picture.

“Happy?” Alexei demands, coming over to me and pulling me against him as we head to the dining room to eat.

I bury my face into his neck, smiling. “Extremely.”

“The food’s incredible, Volkov.” Hayden lifts his beer to my husband as we all sit in the dining room.

It’s the first time I’ve seen it used since I moved in. Around the table, our guests chorus praise for the Italian dinner Alexei made us—caprese salad, steamed clams and mussels in tomato sauce,some kind of kale caesar salad that tastes like heaven, and a seafood pasta with squid ink.

My husband clears his throat, nods once. “It’s good to finally have everyone over.”

He reaches for one of the bottles of wine he brought out from the cellar and refills my glass. I don’t know whether my face is warm because I can’t remember how many times he’s refilled the glass, or because it’s actually nice, having our friends over and?—

Our friends? This is suspiciously couple-y.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask quietly, because as his wife, I should probably already know this. “And don’t say you helped out at home. Teenagers don’t cook like this.”

His mouth tilts. “Italy.”

I stare at him.

“I have a place there,” he explains.

I continue to stare at him. “But what about hockey?”

There’s that mouth tilt again. “We have something called an offseason, Hellfire, and it has a gym. The caretaker used to own a restaurant in town. She likes to teach me recipes.”

I’m struck with an intense need to know more. To see this for myself. “It’s kind of annoying, how good you are at everything you put your mind to.”

“I could say the same about you.” His eyes meet mine. “I like having people over to our home.”

Ourhome?

---