Doctored Vows - Chapter 11

Zoya’s lips twitch, but not a peep escapes them. She’s confused. I understand why. I just dumped all my bewilderment onto her, and I don’t feel the slightest bit relieved.

“Nope. You need to go over it again,” she requests a short time later. “He called you a liar before shoving your hand down his pants to intermingle your scents.” She points to me as she says “your” and hooks her thumb at the matching penthouse next to us when she reaches “his.”

“That’s not what he did.” When she glares at me while folding her arms over her chest, I backtrack on my fabricated statement. “Yes. Then he left.”

“Because he…” Her words are delivered slowly as she struggles to sort through my brief yet confusing exchanges with Maksim. After a beat, the confusion clouding her eyes clears before they open wide. “He doesn’t think you’re married, does he?”

“No. But even if he did, would that stop him?”

Zoya shrugs. “Maybe he’s married to some bigshot lady boss, and she’d force him to kill anyone he cheats with. He could be protecting you.” When I glare at her, she snorts in my face. “What? His suits scream mafia, and it is something I’d do if I were the Godmother of the Bratva.”

I wish she were lying. Zoya has a mile-long jealousy streak and enough boxing hours under her belt to make any cheating spouse regret their stupidity.

“You’d be a terrible mafia boss. You would recruit anyone in a suit.” She laughs but doesn’t deny my claim. “Even Mr. Alcadoz.”

That switches the laugh lines on her face to sprouts of annoyance. “My theories about his extracurricular activities haven’t been discredited.”

“He works in the morgue at our university.”

Zoya gives me a look as if to say, Exactly! “Where do you think he gets all the cadavers from?”

I try to hold back my laughter. I bite on the inside of my cheek and pinch my thigh, but the instant she stares at me like she is expecting me to take her theory seriously, my resolve breaks.

I laugh like a hyena, and Zoya joins me.

“Oh my god,” she breathes out several long minutes later. “I haven’t laughed like that in forever.”

“Same,” I admit, pouting. “My life sucks.”

If she glares any harder, she will pop a vein in her neck.

“I’m not looking for sympathy, Z. I just⁠—”

“Seem to have forgotten you’ve got a hot hunk of a man losing his ever-loving mind over you.” She stands like she can’t continue without giving her lungs room to expand. “You’re a doctor… a fucking good one, and you look like that.”

She thrusts her hand at me. “So don’t give me the my life sucks line. Your life is awesome. You’re fucking awesome. We just need to find a way for Mr. Grumpy Pants to pull his finger out of his ass before one of the many other men who’d donate their left nut to have you in their life snatches you up.”

“I don’t want to force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

Zoya’s glare is hot enough to melt ice. “You like him.”

“Yeah. And?”

“And?” She wiggles her ear like something is affecting her hearing before repeating, “And?”

When I nod, she pffts me before telling me to get up.

“Where are we going?”

She ignores me, still focusing on the “and?” part of my reply.

“And?” She shifts her eyes to her baby sister. “Can you believe this girl? And?”

Aleena giggles like she’s more clued in to Zoya’s quirks than I am before joining us in the main room of the suite.

Over an hour later, while wobbling in sky-high stilettos, I drift my eyes to Zoya. “This is ridiculous. Who goes swimming in heels?”

Zoya finishes applying a gloss to her fire-engine-red lips before twisting her torso to face me. “Don’t act like you were going to swim even if we were going to the pool.”

Her reply stumps me.

If we’re not going to the pool, why am I wearing a super skimpy bikini I plan to hide with an oversized T-shirt?

When I ask Zoya that, my answer comes from her baby sister, who is entering our room wearing a gorgeous crisscross one-piece swimsuit that is far more risqué than it sounds. Inches upon inches of Aleena’s skin is on display, and she looks amazing.

“Because that’s what people wear at a bikini competition.”

My eyes bulge as my throat becomes scratchy. “This is your grand plan? A bikini competition?” When Zoya nods, I shake my head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. I’m out.”

Stuff a tee that could become see-through with the slightest splash. I need a coverup my grandmother would approve of. “I’m a doctor. I don’t participate in bikini competitions.”

My hand freezes halfway into my carry-on when Aleena says, “The prize money is twenty big ones.”

“Twenty thousand US dollars?” I clarify, caught off guard by a Galdean before.

Zoya is very much one of those people who thinks “twenty bucks is twenty bucks.” I guess that’s why I shouldn’t have been shocked when she admitted she works at Le Rogue.

When Zoya and Aleena nod in sync, my throat works through a stern swallow.

“Who the hell puts up a twenty-thousand-dollar pot for a bikini competition?”

My pulse doesn’t know which area in my body to thud first when Zoya tosses a pamphlet for today’s activities onto my rumpled luggage.

“A real estate mogul who wants his guests to use the outdoor facilities of his fancy-schmancy new hotel even while it’s cold enough for them to freeze their tits off.” She shrugs like the rest of her reply isn’t as important as the former.

“And it’s for charity. Even Gigi would get her nips out for charity.”

I can’t deny her accusation this time around, so I focus on the brochure she gave me. Although it is more about the charity swimsuit competition occurring today, the hotelier’s business name under the sponsorship section can’t be denied—Ivanov Industries—much less the name of one of the judges.

“Maksim is judging this event?” My eyes pop when my sluggish head finally absorbs all the facts. “His family owns this hotel?”

Zoya looks at me like I didn’t ace my college admission test. “Did that not click when he got us into a closed restaurant in under three seconds?”

“No.” I hate admitting I’m an idiot, so finalizing my reply takes me a minute. “I thought the hostess wanted to sleep with him.”

“She did.” Zoya laughs like anything she says is funny. “But I doubt all the servers did. Well, not all the male ones, anyway.”

I stop hitting her with the stink eye to rival all stink eyes when Aleena says, “You know Maksim Ivanov?”

My reply stings my ego more than I care to admit. “Not exactly.”

“She’s being modest,” Zoya interrupts, hating my inability to gloat even more than my inability not to apologize. “She saved his mother’s life.”

Aleena steps closer, and for once, is more interested in me than her sister. “You saved Irina’s life?”

When Zoya nods, I mimic her movement—just more hesitantly.

I don’t get the “wow” I’m anticipating.

Confusion is the gasoline of Aleena’s interrogation. “When?”

“Two weeks ago.” When I glare at Zoya, silently pleading for her to shut her gigantic trap, she deflects Aleena’s interest in a patient of mine by asking if she has any last-minute bachelorette party wishes. “I’m hoping to finalize all the plans today, so speak now or forever hold your peace.”

When Aleena’s focus immediately shifts, I mouth my thanks to Zoya. Although I would love to ease Aleena’s confusion, I can’t. My patients’ medical records aren’t for public consumption. Accidentally telling Zoya Mrs. Ivanov was a patient of mine during my purge is bad enough. I don’t want more wood tossed onto the dumpster fire I could face if anyone finds out I broke practician/patient confidentiality.

My hunt for a frumpy T-shirt is interrupted when Aleena’s head bridesmaid’s perfume tickles my nose. She’s a little excessive with how much spray she uses, and it has me wondering if that’s why she suffers so many sinus issues. “Weird question, but do you know if the elevators are monitored?”

“The elevators in the hotel?” Footage of Maksim shoving my hand down the front of his pants rolls through my head like a movie when Shevi nods. “Um. I’m not sure.” When her nose screws up like a rabbit, I say, “We could check?”

Ignorant to the fact I could require her support more than she needs mine if the elevators are monitored, Shevi says, “That would be great. Thank you so much.”

When she gets straight down to business, I rummage through my carry-on like it is double its size. I could have sworn I packed three baggy tees, but can’t find one. There’s nothing in my bag but a skimpy pair of panties and a clubbing outfit not respectable for daytime activities. Everything else has vanished.

“Are you coming?” Shevi asks, shouting to project her voice through the massive living room separating us.

“Yes. I just…” I swallow the rest of my reply before marching to the foyer. I’ll have more pressing matters to handle than looking like I’m going for a swim if cameras are in the elevator. I could face charges for being a public nuisance. Or worse, committing a lewd act in public. A criminal record will have me stripped of my medical license before it is officially mine.

When Shevi races into the hallway, I follow her, clueless that I’m stepping into a trap until my foot is almost snared by the rapid close of the suite’s door, and I bump into a snickering, heavy-breasted lady.

“Oh no,” Zoya says, her pout as fake as the sincerity in her tone. “You left our room in only a bikini, and our keycard is still inside. Whatever will we do?”

When Shevi backs away with her hands in the air, mumbling that Aleena and Zoya forced her to join their ruse, I shift my focus to my soon-to-be ex-best friend. “This isn’t funny. We’re not freshmen anymore.” I step closer before seething through clenched teeth, “Let me back into our room.”

Zoya tries to pull off the picture of innocence. “I would if I could, but I can’t.”

It isn’t a ruse she can pull off.

She looks like a cat who caught a mouse.

“Zoya…” The shortness of my reply can’t hide the scratchiness of my throat. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. I wear scrubs twenty-four-seven for a reason. They hide a lot of skin.

Zoya laughs when I pat her down like she’s smuggling narcotics. “I honestly don’t have it.”

I wish she were lying, but her bikini is as skimpy as mine. There’s nowhere to hide a grain of rice, much less a keycard.

That leaves me only one lifeline.

Aleena mimics Shevi’s defense by portraying a woman on the verge of arrest before saying, “Don’t look at me. I only asked if we could host part of the bachelorette party here. I didn’t demand unlimited access.”

“Oh poo.” Zoya doesn’t even attempt to act upset this time. “I guess that means we’ll have to go down to the foyer and ask for another key.”

Her smile grows when I mutter, “The foyer wouldn’t happen to be next to the bikini competition area, would it?”

“No.” I stare at her in shock. I should save my expressions. She doesn’t deserve them. “But the registration desk for the bikini competition is right next door.”

When she jabs the call button on the elevator, I fold my arms over my barely covered chest and firm my stance. “I’ll wait for you here.”

She enters the elevator behind Aleena and Shevi before spinning to face me. “Okay. But if my hand ends up down a billionaire’s pants, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.”

Aleena’s voice is so loud that I hear it twice when it echoes. “You put your hand down Maksim Ivanov’s pants?”

“No,” I deny, the solo word whipped from my mouth. “He put my hand down there.”

Aleena’s eyes pop before she turns into a mini version of her sister. “Get in. Now!”

She yanks me into the elevator by the strap of my micro bikini bottoms, cracking the elastic against my skin as ruefully as my heart strums my ribs.