Can’t say I mind the view. His rippling abs almost make up for the healthy diet he insists we both stick to, except on one designated cheat day every week.
“She is also asking if we can do TikTok of Toosie Slide.”
I crook my head, not just because I don’t even have a TikTok account, but also because “You talked to your PR team about me?”
“Yes, of course. You will become my wife.”
“That’s not a sealed deal yet,” I remind him with a grimace. But then I have to ask. “What did they say?”
“They are happy you are former Princess South Carolina. They want us to do many things to rise our stars.”
“But I don’t want or need to have my star risen.”
He considers my argument, then counters with, “You say you have pitching problem for your future business. TikToks and marriage to hockey superstar will help you with that.”
I cut my eyes to the side. He has a point there. Visibility is everything in the world of sports, and there’s no better way to get visible than dating a famous athlete.
“But if we start making TikToks, and our relationship doesn’t work out?” I have to ask him.
“In my family, relationships usually work out,” he says, with a smug sneer.
I’m almost used to how often he sneers now, even when he’s being optimistic.
“My family’s just the opposite,” I answer him truthfully. “My whole life and personality are built around the assumption that it’s not a matter of if things fall apart, but when.”
He regards me for a few somber beats, then he says, “I am sorry, krasotka. I am sorry, so many things fell apart for you before.”
Like I told him, I’m strong. I don’t need anyone else. But something about his empathy and understanding…I feel my chest crack a little, and suddenly I’m fighting back tears, even as I mumble, “It’s okay. I’m good.”
“Yes, you are. You are very good woman, and I hope by time month is done, I can give you reason to believe in this. Believe in us.”
Now I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say, even if I could.
“How about compromise?” he asks. “I record the next Just Dance workout. But I keep on my phone until you say, ‘Yes, Chess, it is alright to send.’”
“Okay,” I agree, still fretting my lip.
“Okay?” he asks like he’s won the lottery.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, fine. I’ll Just Dance with you—”
My phone rings, interrupting the moment.
It’s Cynda.
“Hey, Cynda, how are you?” I say, tilting the phone to keep Cheslav out of the background. “Is everything okay?”
“Are you okay?” Cynda scrunches up her nose at me. Despite her expression, she’s outrageously beautiful, even more so after cutting all her hair off last weekend. Now her exquisitely sculpted cheekbones, long nose, and sharp eyes are on full display. “You called me.”
I silently curse. How had I forgotten that I called her this morning and left a message? That Cheslav is one hell of a distraction.
“Also, why’s it so noisy?” she demands.
“Oh, sorry, it’s the ocean. Here, let me step inside.”
I turn the phone downwards so that Cynda won’t be able to see anything but the floor as I tell Cheslav, “I have to go inside to take this. It’s my friend, and she can’t hear me.”
Both of Cheslav’s eyebrows come up. “Your friend? Same friend who got you in trouble? Perhaps it is time for introduction.”
“Okaygoinginsidenowbye.” I open the balcony door and leap through it before Cheslav says anything else Cynda will definitely ask me to explain.
I lock myself up in the ensuite bathroom in my bedroom and sit down on the toilet before flipping the phone back around.
“Hey, what’s up?” Cynda immediately demands. “Who was that? And why are you at the ocean?”
“Long story,” I answer. “And that’s not why I called. Tommy came by my condo a few days ago. He was demanding to know where Gina was. Like I was hiding her from him or something. The conversation got weird and threatening.”
“What?” Cynda’s expression immediately goes from suspicious to worried. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I assure her. “Don’t worry.”
“Is that why you’re staying near the ocean now?” she asks, her tone a little less interrogating now.
“Yeah, sort of. Like I said, it’s a long story. But I’m safe. I’m just worried about Gina.”
Cynda, who was never Tommy’s biggest fan in the first place, narrows her eyes. “You didn’t tell him about the email, did you?”
“No, of course, I didn’t tell him she went to Canada. Even with the border closed, he might go looking for her there. But Cynda…” I fret my lip. “Do you think that’s where she really is?”
Cynda looks down, like she’s feeling sick to her stomach, just like me.
“I don’t know,” she answers quietly. “I mean she hasn’t gotten in contact like she said she would. Also, I didn’t know she had an aunt in Canada. Did you?”
I shake my head, feeling even sicker with worry. “I think we need to try to find her. Make sure she’s safe.”
“Me too. But how? Like, hire a detective?” Her eyes suddenly widen. “Wait, could you ask your mysterious Russian with the beach house right on the ocean to help us?”
Now I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “How did you know he’s Russian? And has a beach house on the ocean?”
“Girl, I am from small town Missouri,” she answers, sucking her teeth. “We don’t even have to sip the tea. We get all of it with just a whiff. Now, are you going to tell me this long story or what?”
I grimace and look away. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You are so obviously lying!” Cynda shouts, pointing an accusatory finger into the phone.
“Okay, I’m getting off the phone now,” I answer with a laugh.
“But wait, I want to hear more about the sexy Russian? Is he mafia or a hockey player? I mean why else would a Russian be in South Caroli—”
I hang up before she can finish that problematic assumption. It’s not the nicest thing to do, I know. But Cynda can be like a pit bull with a bone, and Cheslav isn’t a conversation I’m ready to have yet.
Which makes it all that more ironic when I find the secret hockey player elephant in the room standing right outside the door when I emerge from the bathroom.
“Why do you not tell me real reason this cop comes to your home?” he demands.
Several emotions hit me at once, and I decide to go with outrage first. “Why were you listening in on my phone call?”
Cheslav sneers in that particularly Russian way of his. “Know that I am one bored hockey player. If you hide in bathroom to gossip with friend, of course, I will listen. And now you will answer my question about not coming to me with this problem.”
I shake my head. “I mean, it’s not your problem.”
“Your problems are my problems,” he informs me, pulling out his phone. “You will tell me this Gina’s full name. And I will have Vlad look into it. Also, her boyfriend’s name. I do not like that he would show up at your home. He will not do this ever again now that you are under my protection.”