Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            “The Vipers will face the New York Rangers in game one of the Stanley Cup at seven o’clock Saturday night in New York. It’s a bittersweet victory for the Vipers and their fans without their top defenseman, Vlad Konnikov.”

            Elena looked over at Vlad. He sat eerily still but for the up-and-down bobble of his Adam’s apple beneath the scruff of whiskers darkening his neck.

            “Team sources tell us he is now recovering at home from surgery to repair his broken tibia—”

            The chime of the doorbell sent Elena nearly out of her seat. Soup sloshed onto her hand. With a quiet curse, she set the bowl on the table next to her side of the couch and stood. “I’ll get it.”

            She braced herself in case it was the Loners again, but when she glanced out the windows on either side of the front door, just one person stood on the other side.

            A very beautiful woman.

            Elena opened the door slowly, and the woman smiled brightly. Elena forgot for a moment that she was expected to smile back. She was Russian. Smiling at strangers was an American trait that still did not come naturally to her. “Can I help you?” she asked belatedly.

            The woman’s smile faltered. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you Elena?”

            “Yes.”

            “It’s so great to meet you finally,” the woman said. “I’m Michelle. I’m a neighbor of Vlad’s. The Loners told me you were back.”

            Oh, God. This sophisticated woman was the mysterious Michelle? She wore a stylish outfit of white jeans and a sleeveless black blouse, and her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail—the kind Elena could never pull off with her naturally wavy hair.

            “Yes. I am back,” Elena finally said. Then, when she realized the woman was waiting expectantly to be invited in, Elena moved away from the door. “Do you want to come in?”

            “I don’t want to disturb you. I just wanted to drop this pie off for Vlad. I meant to come by earlier, but I thought I should wait until he got settled.”

            Elena accepted the pie from Michelle’s outstretched hands. “Is it gluten-free?” she blurted.

            Michelle blinked. “Y-yes. I know he can’t eat gluten.”

            “He’s in the living room eating lunch,” Elena said, trying to edge out the flatness of her voice with her long-forgotten smile.

            Michelle nodded politely and gestured with her hand. “I’ll follow you.”

            The woman’s fancy sandals clicked on the floor, and Elena suddenly felt as frumpy as she knew she looked in her shorts, oversize Medill sweatshirt, and house slippers. Elena was tempted to tell Michelle to take her shoes off, but apparently Vlad was not as strict about maintaining that particular Russian tradition at home as she was. None of the Loners or his friends had removed their shoes either.

            Elena walked into the living room first. Vlad looked over his shoulder. “Who was it?” Before she could answer, Michelle strode in behind her. Vlad did a double take.

            “Michelle,” Vlad said, clearing his throat. “Hi.”

            Unease pooled in Elena’s stomach. Why did Michelle make him nervous? “She brought you a pie.”

            Vlad glanced at it and then back at Michelle, who was rounding the couch to stand in front of him. “Thank you,” Vlad said. “That was very nice of you.”

            Michelle clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m so sorry about your injury. The girls and I were watching the game when it happened. They’re so worried about you.”

            “The girls?” Elena asked.

            Michelle smiled at her. Did this woman ever not smile? “My kids,” Michelle explained. “They love watching Vlad play hockey. He got us tickets earlier this year for one of their home games, and the girls still talk about it.”

            Vlad cleared his throat again. “It was good of you to come.” He seemed to remember the bowl in his hand. “Would you like to eat? Elena made one of my favorite soups.”

            Not for her. The thought arose with surprising ferocity along with an urge to storm into the kitchen and deposit Michelle’s pie in the trash.