Happily Ever After: A Contemporary Romance Boxed Set

by Piper Rayne

  The relationship between Stasya and Dima is laughable. They’re like strangers in the same house who may have sex sometimes. I don’t know. It’s not something I want to think about.

  “So, I’m supposed to keep your secret for the rest of my life? And watch my sister wilt?”

  “I could have you killed.” He shrugs. “Or do it myself.”

  “You have a sick sense of humor.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Vanya.” He leans back in his chair and places his left ankle on his right knee, seemingly calm, but I know he’s agitated. “Stasya is better off without me,” he says firmly.

  I push back my chair and stand up before leaning toward him. “You can say it out loud as many times as you want, but you and I both know you’ll never believe that.”

  I knock twice on the desk then walk out.

  Sometimes, holding onto Kirya’s secret makes me feel like I’m living a double life. I’m down here talking to him, signing paperwork, and then going upstairs to surprise my sister at lunch.

  I once joked that Stasya should buy the place, but she already owns it—in a way. She just doesn’t know. Everything Kirya owns is split in two names—his and my sister’s. If things keep going according to his plan, she won’t know until he really is dead.

  And I don’t say anything because as much as I know Kirya thinks of me as family, I also know what he does to people who cross him.

  Stasya’s removing her sketchbook from an oversized bag when she looks up and sees me, her eyes are wide in surprise before a smile spreads across her face.

  Normally, the only time we get to see each other are during the summer when I spend time in New York. Every time I see her, the guilt of leaving her behind floods my memories.

  Over the years, we’ve discussed everything that happened at length. She understands I did what I did to protect her. I knew she was in good hands with Kirya, but I also know the pain of betrayal is still there. Since hashing it out, our relationship is almost back to normal. I don’t know if she’ll ever fully trust me again, but I know she loves me, and she’d never let the grudge stand in the way of our relationship.

  I stride toward her, sitting at a tiny two-top at the back of the restaurant. She stands up to greet him. “What are you doing here?”

  Instead of answering right away, I pull her toward me and kiss her cheeks. “I am an All-Star, Stasya,” I say with exaggeration. “You knew I was coming into town for this weekend.”

  “Ah, yes.” She touches her forehead as if remembering. “Don’t you have press conferences and a skills competition to be at?”

  “I do. But all of that is later,” I say, removing my gray pea coat and throwing it over the chair across from her.

  “You act like you own the place,” she mumbles, plucking her tea off the table quickly, as if saving it from being spilled.

  I laugh. “I do,” I tell her. Then, I scan the restaurant, confused as to why she’s at this tiny table when she has her pick of the place. “What are we doing at this table? We should be at one of those banquets.” I nod to the bright red booth behind her.

  “Wait? You what?”

  “Let’s move,” I say, picking up her bag and grabbing both of our coats.

  “Well, I didn’t expect you—” she stammers as I move everything to one of the huge red booths. She carries her tea to the table and slides in after me.

  I lean into the soft cushioning and close my eyes briefly. “Much better.”

  “Thank you,” Stasya says as Sergei, our waiter, sets a steaming bowl of borscht in front of her. It smells amazing and reminds me of how hungry I am.

  She places her napkin across her lap and picks up her spoon before lifting her eyes to me. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “You are looking at the Russian Dining Room’s newest owner. I just signed the papers.”

  “You bought this place?” she asks.

  “I bought into it.” I raise my hand to grab Sergei’s attention before he walks away. “This is my retirement, Stasya.”

  The waiter is back at our table in two point five seconds. “Mr. Kravtsov, welcome. What can I get you?”

  “A bottle of Stolichnaya. We’re celebrating.”

  Sergei nods. “Very good, Sir.”

  “Work is not a wolf, Vanya. It doesn’t run to the woods.”

  Hearing my sister use a Russian saying brings warmth to my heart. It’s a familiarity that I rarely feel here in America. They have their own proverbs and idioms that I don’t always quite understand. It’s a reminder that home isn’t necessarily a place, it’s who you’re with. I think about Katya and how being with her feels like home.

  “Not today, Stasya. You will take this day off and celebrate with your brother.”

  It’s just after noon on a cold Friday in January. I know she has workers who can take care of her store when she’s not there.

  “You really think you should be drinking when you have the skills event tonight?”

  “That’s nothing. It’s all fun.” He assures me. “Do you think I forget how to skate and shoot after a few drinks?”

  “I don’t think you’ll forget; I worry your aim will be off. Someone might lose an eye.”

  “Would you like me to aim for Dima’s head?” I ask. “Or lower?”

  Dima and I have been friends for years. In some ways, we’re more like brothers are than just former teammates.

  “Don’t give him any reason to be even more temperamental. He has enough mood swings during the season.”

  “Dima has always been intense.”

  Sergei returns to the table with the Stoli and two glasses. I wait as the waiter pours the vodka for us before setting the bottle down.

  “He will be in a good mood tomorrow. I promise you this. I’ve invited everyone back here after the game to celebrate before we all go on our way again.”

  “Everyone?” she asks, lifting her eyes from her spoonful of soup.

  “Not everyone,” I clarify, picking up both glasses and holding one out to her. “Just the Russians.”

  “Where do the Americans and Canadiens go?”

  “Fuck if I know,” I say, slamming my drink. My stomach is already warm from the shots I had while signing the contract earlier. I push the glass toward my sister. “Come on, Stasya.”

  She shakes my head. “I told you I have too much work to do today.”

  “You’re so serious all the time. One of these days, you will let loose and enjoy yourself again.”

  When I see tears in her eyes, I realize my comment may have been a little insensitive. Despite her brave, stoic demeanor, she’s still wrecked over Kirya. It takes everything I have not to tell her what I know, but I can’t. It was in the contract.

  “Let me know when that day will be, Vanya. I’ll look forward to it.” A tear slides down, but she wipes it away quickly.

  I inch closer, slide my arm across her shoulders and pull her into my side. When she drops her cheek onto my shoulder, I kiss the top of her head. “You will get through this, Stasya. You are strong and resilient.”

  She lets me hold her for a beat, before inhaling deeply and saying, “Pass me that drink.”

  16

  Katya

  I arrive in New York just in time for the Saturday night All-Star weekend celebration. After the game that afternoon, the Russian players who came into town descend on the Russian Dining Room, hungry for a delicious dinner. Though many of them played against each other, there’s nothing but happiness and comradery among them.

  Vanya and my ex-boyfriend, Zhenya, both played for the winning team, the Western Conference. I thought hanging around my ex when Vanya and I are obviously together would be awkward, but it isn’t. With all the career pressure and media covering my every move, drama with a former flame is the last thing I need.

  Exhaustion hits me like a brick, but I’m always ready for a party. And this is one of the best ones I’ve been to in years. All Russians, an amazing meal of familiar favo
rites, and being with the man I love.

  After the cab drops me off, I dash through the doors of the iconic Russian restaurant, bubbling with excitement. Everyone else has been there for at least an hour. The noise level gets louder and louder as the waiter leads me to a separate room called the Bear Salon. It’s a good thing they put our group away from the main dining room because the more this crowd drinks, the louder it will get.

  When I enter, I spot Vanya standing at the bar with his sister, Stasya, and her boyfriend, Dima. He’s smiling brightly with his arms extended as if telling some story. I run to him and rush into those open arms.

  “There you are,” he says, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tightly. “I’ve missed you, Sunshine.”

  “I’ve missed you more!” I rise onto my toes and offer my lips.

  Vanya doesn’t disappoint, kissing me like we’re the only two people in the room right there in front of his sister. He slides his hands over my back and down to my leather-clad butt. I loved the pants from the video shoot so much, I bought them. Not only did I love them, but I knew Vanya would love me in them. I’ve paired it with a sheer black tank top with spaghetti straps. He hasn’t seen that yet because I still have a sexy motorcycle jacket on.

  “Don’t eat her face off,” Dima quips.

  We pull back and gaze into each other’s eyes for a moment before coming back to reality.

  “Your ass feels amazing,” Vanya whispers to me, squeezing my cheeks. I step back, put my hands on my hips, and twirl as if I’m in a commercial modeling the pants. Then I pop my hip so he has a perfect view.

  “Do you like them?” I ask.

  “It’s good to see you again, Katya,” Stasya interrupts.

  I turn around quickly and give her a hug, kissing her cheeks three times. “Stasya! Please excuse my manners. I haven’t seen your brother in over a month. I missed him terribly.”

  “I understand.” She touches my arm and leans closer. “Your ass looks amazing. I wish I had those pants at Prekrasny. Maybe I need to make a pair.”

  “If you make them, I’d buy them.”

  Vanya puts his hand on my back. “Come on, ladies. Let’s sit and catch up. I’m dying to hear about the music video.”

  I bite my lip, but follow Stasya to the table. I didn’t do anything wrong, yet the sweat beading on my forehead makes me feel like I’m guilty of something. My heart races as I take off my jacket and hang it on the back of a chair before sliding into a huge red booth.

  I scoot closer to Vanya, so close he has to put his arm around me to sit comfortably. But that’s exactly what I want. I’ve missed him so much over the last month. All I can think of is molding myself into his body and having him inside me.

  “How was it? Tell me everything,” he says.

  After two hours, we’ve talked and laughed and gone through I-don’t-know-how-many bottles of vodka. Every time we set our glasses down, someone is making another toast, as is Russian custom.

  This time, it’s Zhenya standing up, raising his glass, and addressing the entire table. “To Pavel Viktorovich Myshkin! For without him, none of us would be here!”

  His toast is met with a mixed reaction: a chorus of groans with a few laughs peppered in. Myshkin was the revered head coach of the CSA when most of these guys left. From what Vanya told me, many players respected him as their coach but disliked him as a person. Instead of earning his position, he was appointed to it, and many didn’t think he deserved it. He had a strict coaching style and demanded full control over his player’s lives. It was so bad, a few guys, like Vanya, chose defection over playing for him anymore. Myshkin feared his best men would defect so much that he cut the ones—like Dima Morozov—who had been drafted by the NHL from the team.

  Still, Zhenya is right. Without him as their coach, some of these guys might have stayed with the system rather than make the leap to a better life in North America.

  After the toast, Vanya wiggles out from my grasp and stands up.

  His sister, Stasya, props her elbows on the table and drops her head into her hands. “I can’t take another drink,” she pleads with him.

  “You can sit this one out, Stasya.” Vanya winks at her. Then, he raises his glass and continues, “Times like this remind me that home isn’t necessarily a place, it’s who you’re with. To friendship!”

  “To friendship!” The chorus repeats and we all drink.

  When Vanya sits, I place my hand on his thigh and lean into kiss him. My head is fuzzy, my stomach is full, I’ve never been so content.

  Dima returns to the table with a silly grin on his lips. Stasya scoots out of the booth to let him in, wavering a bit as she does. He grabs her waist, pulls her into his arms, and plants his lips on her. She falls into him, clutching his shoulders as they kiss.

  It’s quite passionate and romantic. I bump Vanya’s shoulder with mine and nod in the direction of his sister and her boyfriend.

  Stasya’s mouth forms the word, “Wow.”

  They’ve pulled apart, but stay clutched in an embrace, speaking quietly to each other. I look away, thinking it’s not right to watch such an intimate moment.

  Suddenly, Dima sweeps a glass of champagne from the table and drops to one knee. I slap Vanya’s thigh three times quickly, to get his attention.

  “What is it, love?” he asks.

  “He’s doing it,” I whisper with excitement. We both know what’s coming. Dima talked to Vanya about it a few weeks ago.

  Stasya bends over, looking concerned like he may be hurt. “Dima! Are you—”

  He lifts his head, looking into her eyes as he raises the flute.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t drink any more tonight,” she says.

  He whispers something to her but I can’t tell what he says despite complete silence at the table. Everyone is rapt with their attention on Dima and Stasya.

  She appears confused as she peers into the glass. She seems to notice something because her eyes are wide as she brings her hands up to cover her mouth with her hands. There’s a bit of chatter as people realize what’s happening, but the volume in the room is considerably lower.

  Stasya glances over her shoulder at Vanya. With one raised eyebrow and a smirk, his face holds no trace of surprise.

  “Anastasiya,” Dima begins, using her full name.

  When her gaze shifts back to Dima, Stasya’s face is pink, and her chest rises and falls quickly. She looks frightened rather than excited.

  “Will you marry me?” he asks with shaking hand.

  Though I’m not the one being proposed to, my stomach swirls, and my heart races, excited to be here for such a beautiful moment. Under the table, Vanya squeezes my hand.

  Instead of answering, Stasya stands frozen, looking at Dima with an expression of mixed emotions.

  We’re all waiting with bated breath on her answer. The silence starts to get uncomfortable.

  I lean close to Vanya’s ear and whisper, “What’s going on?”

  He shrugs and shakes his head, but doesn’t take his gaze off his sister.

  Suddenly, Dmitri’s smile falters, and he squeaks out, “Stasya?”

  “Um, sure,” she says, nodding, as if remembering she’s supposed to say something.

  Though the table erupts into cheers as Dmitri slams the champagne and fishes a ring from the bottom of the flute. He grabs Stasya’s hand and slides it onto her finger. Then he stands up and pulls her into his arms.

  “To Dima and Stasya!”

  “To a beautiful life together!”

  “Let the tables break from abundance, and the beds break from love!”

  Despite the excitement from everyone else, I can’t help but feel like Stasya isn’t happy about the proposal. I’m not sure if it’s because she felt awkward being put on the spot or because Dima did something so personal in front of all these people, but her smile seems forced and it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze darts around the room as if she needs to get away.

  It’s no surprise when she
excuses herself to use the restroom.

  “Is Stasya okay?” I ask Vanya, watching with worry as she hurries toward the front of the restaurant. “Should I go with her?”

  He shakes his head. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy for her. Give her a minute.”

  “What do you mean? I thought she and Dima were quite happy together.”

  His brows furrow as he watches his sister rush to the front of the restaurant. “Stasya has been through a lot. I think her feelings are complicated.”

  “Do you want to go with her?” I ask, understanding if he wants to check on her.

  He shakes his head. “I’ll give her a minute to process.”

  17

  Vanya

  After practice, Mike Collins, Ricky Campbell, Petr Novotný, and I head to Hoover’s, a small restaurant not far from the Chargers arena. The bartender nods hello and tells us he’ll be over with menus in a minute.

  “We’re heading to the VIP section,” Campbell calls. He nods to the table in the back of the restaurant that we sit at every time we’re here.

  “Nothing but the best for my boys,” Flo, the only waitress who’s ever working in this place, says as she sets a menu in front of each of us.

  Novotný picks his up. “Do we even need these?”

  “Cheeseburgers and fries all around.” She jots the order on her notepad.

  “And—” Campbell starts.

  “I know! I know!” She waves at him with her pen. “No lettuce for that one and give your pickle to the Russian.” She looks at us over her thick black glasses. “I’ll be back with a bucket of beers.”

  “You’re the perfect woman, Flo. You always know exactly what men want.”

  “Save it for the puck bunnies, Romeo.”

  “You just got shot down by a seventy-year-old woman,” Collins teases.

  Hoovers isn’t crowded at all, which is normal for the dinner hour. Things kick up after nine. And when I say that, I mean ten to fifteen people tops.