prologue

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Lauren

The room was spinning.

A crusty film had glued my eyes shut. I tried—God, I tried—but no joy. Or maybe I knew that whatever might greet me when I opened them would be worse. The furry taste in my mouth had to be related. Better to just die here alone.

Except I wasn’t alone. I was warm, but in a way that wasn’t fueled by my own body heat. This was someone else’s, and I instinctively knew its source was male because it was so foreign to me.

I was in a bit of a rut.

But perhaps no more? I moved my tongue around my mouth, didn’t enjoy that much, so I stopped. A tuft of something hairy tickled my nostrils. I blew it away. It returned, determined to be added to my list of grievances.

By the time I managed to crack open an eyelid, a question had formed: was I wearing a hat? Not only was my body being spooned by a hot, hard brand of masculinity, but my head was covered by … I reached up and tentatively pulled.

A wig.

More specifically, a black licorice, polyester concoction.

The strains of “Suspicious Minds” wormed in my ear. Elvis? Yes! We had come across one of those crazy flash mob things, and there was me thinking flash mobs were a thing of the past, but this was a full-blown Vegas e-vent.

Also, we.

Tiny construction workers were jackhammering inside my skull. I tried lifting it. Didn’t make much progress. But I had to push through because I was in a hotel room, completely hungover, with a man—and now I realized which man—and an Elvis pompadour balanced precariously on my head. 

I elbowed behind me. “Wake up.” It came out way-yup. 

My bedmate grunted into my neck and tightened his grip, a large hand clamped possessively over my breasts. It felt so natural there, so right, which meant my instincts were way off. An awkward turn in his arms forced him to release his hold and presented me with a blonde Lhasa Apso-styled mop. No face, just hair. Either we had mixed up our wigs in the dark or … it came back to me in fits and spurts and not a few giggles. 

Elvis. Marilyn. I was the King and he was the bombshell. We had thought it so funny. So subversive. Everyone looking so fine, all hugging and laughing and shouting “I do.”

I do what? I. Do. What?

I poked at him again, and despite the fact I couldn’t see his face and felt like shit, I might have let my accusing finger join a couple of non-accusing digits and flatten against his abs. The heat of him through his shirt, the sheer unyielding steel, was a pleasure I couldn’t deny myself.

About the only pleasure I would get out of this because nothing interesting had happened last night. I was ninety-nine percent sure of that, though not for lack of trying on my part. Something about him being a gentleman … The details were just out of reach, a dust speck dancing in a sunbeam. 

What I did know was that after fourteen years of not speaking to each other, I was back in Alexei Nazarov’s arms. 

“Nazarov.” Another poke. Annoyed at his non-reaction, I pulled the wig off his face and found those cool Arctic blues staring back at me. “You’re awake.”

And you were feeling him up.

“Of course I am, Silver Eyes. Your elbow is sharp.” That clipped, Russian-accented diction was the perfect companion to the sexy graveled tone. And “Silver Eyes”? I’d forgotten how that made me feel, and hearing it again turned my insides gooey. 

I had no doubt I looked like a mess, but trying to look my best for Alexei Nazarov was a rather pointless exercise. The man was a Russian hockey god, eleventy billion on the ten-point perfection scale, capable of slaying any woman with that come-hither eyebrow and the snap of his million-dollar fingers. I had known him since my last year at college when he blasted in and turned my world upside down. We had fallen out, but last night had fallen back in. To nostalgia. To friendship. To something a little dangerous.

I was in Las Vegas to meet with Devon Trent, one of my football boys, and put him at ease about my big move: striking out on my own with my sports talent agency. A couple of my clients were squirrely about it. They needed a dab of soft soap and the assurance that I was still the tigress in their corner, that my connections and tenacity made the difference, not the backing of a bigger outfit.

With worries assuaged to the best of my ability and a martini in hand in the Paris hotel lounge, I ran into Nazarov, right winger with Seattle. He was in Vegas for a teammate’s bachelor party, and seeing him in a bar halfway across the country was strange, to say the least.

Not as strange as what came next.

We drank. We talked. We laughed and drank some more. I even unblocked his number. And with each passing moment, some of the tightness about why we had gone non-contact uncoiled. The walls shimmied down, lubricated by vodka, hockey, and that indescribable hum of energy that had always existed between us.

I didn’t remember much after that.

“What happened?”

“When?” He drew back.

“Sorry, my breath probably stinks.”

“No. I wanted to get a better look at you. Your hair is …” He murmured something in Russian and pushed a strand behind my ear. (My hair, not Elvis’s, which had slipped off, like it had a life of its own.)

“What does that mean?”

“A bird’s nest.”

The. Nerve. I thumped him, but his chest was so hard that my hand bounced off it.

“Seriously, though. I remember Elvis and Marilyn and not much else.” More flickers, more bursts of neon. I now pronounce you …

I shot upright. “Did we get married? Oh my fucking hell, tell me that didn’t happen!” I looked down. No ring, thankfully. I was still in my coral Carissa blazer and pants from Theory. Just one shoe, though, the left Birdie loafer—had I lost the right one? There was a metaphor in there somewhere. The other shoe dropped? Cinderella’s glass slipper? I couldn’t think straight.

In my sitting position, I was blessed with a better view of the man in my bed. Classic Oxford in a cool lilac, not a button askew; dark rinse jeans in the perfect, thigh-snugging fit; Chelsea boots, both present and accounted for; that appealing jaw scruff I wanted to rub with my cheek like a horny kitten; the sunlight-streaked hair. All natural, of course. Alexei Nazarov wasn’t vain enough to buy that color from a salon. 

Adding insult to head-pounding injury, he had the unmitigated gall to look not a smidge bloodshot or hungover. The only discrepancy was the Marilyn wig sitting on the pillow between us, looking like it might spring to life at any moment and offer a breathy coo.

“Nazarov, tell me we didn’t do anything stupid.”

His eyes turned frosty—or frostier—for the briefest moment before his expression relaxed. 

“Nothing happened. It was just a joke gathering of people who like Elvis and Marilyn.”

“But people got married, didn’t they?” The memory was fuzzy, but that part existed in a spotlight of focus. Several people had shouted, “I do,” and there was that one couple close to us who burst into tears and proceeded to maul each other while Nazarov and I laughed our heads off.

“Other people,” he confirmed. “We were merely spectators.”

The absurdity of it … Alexei Nazarov and Lauren Yates, the woman he had once told “nyet” in the clearest of terms.

Thank God.

I relaxed, the tension leaking out of me like a pricked balloon. He watched, his eyes sweeping my face with an intensity that shivered through me.

“I know I’m not at my best in the morning.”

“You look beautiful, Lauren.”

I turned away, my cheeks simmering. Compliments from Nazarov were weird. Of course there was a time when we had nothing but praise for each other. That feels so good. Amazing. Perfect, that’s perfect. And we weren’t talking about our hockey skills.

I was a kid then, foolishly crushing on the Russian hotshot who had every girl drooling. He had broken something inside me—young Lauren would say my heart or my innocence, but I recognized now that it was something even more precious: my trust. No way would I allow him inside the moat again.

But we had always enjoyed each other’s company, so it was nice to be on speaking terms once more. Maybe at the grand old age of thirty-five, I was finally becoming an adult.

“I need to shower.” What I really needed was space to corral my thoughts and figure out next steps.

He pushed my hair back again, a curiously intimate gesture. “Maybe we could get breakfast?”

That flutter in my chest was just the vodka making a lazy circuit through my bloodstream.

“Sounds good,” I said casually. 

“I will go back to my room to shower and change.” He smiled, and there it was, even more beautiful for its rare appearance. “Order something for me?”

“Still a fan of waffles?”

“Who would not be? It is the perfect breakfast food. Works on the plate or in the hand.”

“A boring waffle it is, then.”

He picked up his jacket from a nearby chair, more pep in his step than the situation warranted. I should have been tired looking at him, but I was cautiously excited about this next phase of our once-doomed friendship.

“See you soon, Lauren.”

“Sure, Nazarov.”

Friends, that’s all. Don’t get your hopes up.

I put the order in for room service—French toast for me and boring Belgian waffle for him, ooh la la—and headed into the bathroom to wash off the mistakes of the night before. Elvis and Marilyn. What were we thinking? But I was smiling as I dried off, little curls of joy unfurling in my blood. I had missed Alexei, and last night, I realized how much. While I was determined this wouldn’t amount to anything romantic, I bubbled with the potential of it all. 

Robed up and back in the bedroom, I heard a knock on the door. Not Alexei, but room service. The server rolled the cart into the room, and I signed and added a healthy tip.

My phone buzzed, and it took me a minute to find it, half-hidden under the bed. A message from the man himself.

Sorry, I must leave. It was good to see you.

It was good to see you?

I swallowed the rock of disappointment in my throat and answered quickly, so he wouldn’t assume I was overthinking it. 

So he wouldn’t assume it mattered at all.

You too. Everything okay?

Alexei: Yes. I will talk to you soon.

Not if I could help it. Another Nazarov brush-off. This time I refused to give him the benefit of the doubt.

It had already cost me too much.

Tropes

💞 Second chances 💍 Accidentally married ... but she already has a boyfriend! 🏒 Sports agent/former player 🇷🇺 Russian hockey god 👊 Best friend's sister energy 💔 Right person, wrong time 🤐 A touch of blackmail ♾️ It's always been her 🌶️ Spicy