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Except for this weight on her chest that wasn’t going to lift any time soon. This two-hundred-plus-pound Russian weight she knew she’d be carrying around for a while.
She needed to be like Phoebe—dating Sasha Rykov but keeping her head screwed on about it.
Who got serious about a twenty-four-year-old who had a slew of young women in Canada fixated on his every move right now? Sure, it was fun, Phoebe had said over the phone, but it wasn’t going anywhere. It was neat to be the object of envy, and Sasha was very sweet. The sex was enthusiastic, and he seemed to think it was going to last for ever—but she knew it had a use-by date. Long before his contract with the NHL expired.
Rose tried to apply that wonky logic to Plato. He was a playboy billionaire. He flew in women the same way she ordered pizza. It was just one of those things. She’d had her fling. He’d been very clear. He wasn’t going to move heaven and earth to be with her. He wasn’t even going to pick up a phone and call her, ask her how she was…
She had visited her mom’s grave on the way out of town. She’d laid wild violets against the headstone and told her about Plato and the awful truth that she had run out of ideas when it came to him.
‘It seems I can fix everything else in this world, Mama, but I can’t fix this man to love me. He’s got other things he wants to do—namely blonde models.’ She’d rolled her eyes as she said it, tried to make a joke of it, but it had fallen flat and she’d sighed. ‘Plus I’ve got a business to run. I’m thinking I might take it nationally. I don’t see why not. I don’t see why I shouldn’t aim as high as I can.’
Why shouldn’t she aim high? She had nothing to lose. The laptop screen sizzled to life and she called up the Date with Destiny site. Time to get her head back into work space. It was the best cure-all. She could yell and stomp around and cry her heart out to her girlfriends—not in the middle of an economy flight en route from Dallas to Toronto, with a fat businessman to one side of her and a computer-game-playing teenager to the other.
She frowned as a photograph of the entire Wolves ice hockey team came up on their main page.
What the…? She scrolled down and combed through the text. Her pulse sped up, her face grew hot, and her foot began to tap against the chair in front.
She shoved aside her tender hurts, the painfully present knowledge that she would probably be a little in love with Plato Kuragin for the rest of her life…
Who the hell did he think he was, making a fool of her…?
* * *
‘Here she is. Act naturally,’ Rose heard Phoebe say in one of those exaggerated whispers.
She stepped over the ladder lying sidewards in the entrance and waved her hand around to dissipate all the dust. For a moment her anger was forgotten as she looked around at the disarray.
‘How do you girls get any work done amidst all of this?’
Caroline, sitting at a makeshift desk behind a computer half-covered by plastic tarpaulin, said cheerfully, ‘It’s not so bad. Except when—’
A power drill started up and Rose cast a baleful glance at the handyman making holes in the wall. She flung her handbag over her shoulder and made a thumbing gesture outside. Neither of the girls was in all that much of a hurry to follow her, which pretty much let the cat out of the bag.
‘What do you think of the office space. Pretty neat, huh?’ said Caroline hopefully, gesturing at the building in general.
Rose gazed up at the pretty brick three-storey and had to admit it was lovely.
Then she levelled a mean look at her girlfriends and demanded, ‘How much is he paying you, and how could you do this to me?’
‘You’ve seen the website,’ said Caroline with a sigh.
‘Of course she’s seen the website.’ Phoebe put her hands on her hips. ‘Cut the whining, Harkness. This is publicity gold for us. Twenty Wolves players, twenty dates, and a raffle. The money goes to the shelter and we go nationwide. If Plato Kuragin is feeling guilty about something, let him. Don’t fight it.’
‘I’m not taking anything from that man!’ Rose declared, hating Phoebe because she was absolutely right.
‘Too bad. Because we are.’
‘Oh, Rose, whatever happened in Moscow, you need to move on,’ said Caroline.
I haven’t even dealt with it yet, thought Rose, a little disconcerted. This was the advice she gave on her website. Keep moving. Don’t look back. Suddenly it seemed like the worst advice in the world. She’d expected sympathy from her girlfriends, not this practical ‘we’ve got a business to run’ from Phoebe, or ‘get over it’ from Caroline, of all people!
She stamped one foot. ‘Why is he doing this?’
Phoebe put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re the only one who knows that, Rose. Look at it this way. You went to the Dorrington last week to get us some publicity and you got it for us—in spades. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’
‘I swear,’ said Rose, ‘if he wasn’t swanning around London right now I’d find him and plant a punch right in the middle of his perfect nose.’
Caroline was madly shaking her head and Phoebe grinned.
