Chapter 25
Nikolai
I mani was on my phone bitchin’ as I walked toward her room.
"—don't need you here, Nikolai. I'm fine. The doctor said I can leave tomorrow?—"
"The doctor said you can leave if someone's there to monitor you for signs of concussion. Which means you need someone."
"I have someone. I have three someones. My friends are perfectly capable of doing it."
"Your friends just went through the same trauma you did. They're exhausted, scared, and dealing with their own shit."
I pushed open the door to Imani's hospital room without knocking and disconnected the call.
She was sitting up in bed, arms crossed, glaring at the nurse who was trying to check her vitals.
She had a bandage on her forehead, bruises blooming across her left cheekbone and jaw, and her right arm was in a sling from where she'd hit the pavement trying to shield herself.
She looked furious, beautiful, and absolutely infuriating.
"Nikolai," she said, her voice going cold. "I thought I told you to leave."
"You did. I ignored you." I nodded at the nurse. "How is she?"
"Vital signs are good. No concussion, bruised ribs, sprained wrist. She's lucky because it could have been much worse." The nurse finished with the blood pressure cuff. "But she needs rest and someone to keep an eye on her for the next forty-eight hours."
"I'll do it."
"You will not," Imani snapped. "I don't need a babysitter!"
"Too bad. You're getting one." I settled into the chair beside her bed like I was planning to stay forever. "And before you argue, Dez already cleared it with the hospital. I'm on your approved visitor list. I can stay as long as I want."
Her eyes flashed. "Of course he did. Because heaven forbid I have any say in my own medical care."
"Imani." I waited until she looked at me. "You were shot at. Your best friend was kidnapped. You have injuries. Can you please, for once, let someone take care of you?"
"I don't need anybody to take care of me. I can do it on my own!" She stopped, pressing her fingers to her temples. The fight went out of her suddenly, replaced by exhaustion. "I don't need you to take care of me."
But her voice was quieter now. Uncertain. The nurse left, closing the door behind her with a knowing look.
"What is this?" I asked once we were alone. "What are we doing here?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "At the wedding, you let me take you back to your hotel. We talked for hours. We kissed."
"Nikolai, don’t."
"We kissed," I continued, "and it was fucking amazing.
You felt it too, don't lie. And then we texted every day.
You told me about your consulting business, I told you about my life.
We talked about everything. Philosophy, business, your divorce, my complete inability to maintain a relationship.
You laughed at my jokes. You let me in."
I stood and moved closer to the bed.
"And then I offered to come to see you. To take you to dinner like we planned. And you've been—" I gestured at her, frustrated, "—like this. Hot one minute, cold the next. Pushing me away then pulling me back. What the hell changed?"
She was quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands.
"I don't do this," she said finally.
"Do what?"
"Lose control. Fall for someone I barely know. Let someone see me when I'm..." She gestured at herself—the hospital gown, the bruises, the vulnerability. "When I'm weak."
"You're not weak. You're injured. There's a difference."
"Not to me." She looked up at me, and I saw fear beneath the anger.
"I spent ten years in a marriage where I had to be perfect.
Strong. In control. My ex-husband couldn't handle it when I showed emotion or needed support.
He needed me to be the strong one, always.
And when I finally cracked, broke down, and I finally admitted I was struggling—he left. "
"I'm not him."
"I know that. Logically, I know that." She pressed her fingers to her temples again.
"But the last three days… the shooting, watching Karla get hit, Angelina being taken, being trapped in this hospital with nothing to do but think, it reminded me what happens when I let my guard down. When I let people in."
"People get hurt," I finished quietly.
"People get hurt," she agreed. "And I can't…" Her voice cracked and tears pooled in her beautiful brown eyes. "I can't watch another person I care about get hurt because of me."
I sat on the edge of her bed, carefully avoiding her injured arm.
"Imani. Look at me."
She did, reluctantly.
"That shooting had nothing to do with you. Vincent was after Angelina. You and your friends just happened to be there. None of that was your fault."
"But if I hadn't suggested lunch this wouldn’t have happened."
"Then he would have tried something else. Another time, another place. You didn't cause this." I took her good hand. "And pushing me away isn't going to protect me from the world. It's just going to make both of us miserable."
"You don't understand." She pulled her hand back. "I'm not good at this. At being vulnerable. At needing someone. I'm the one people come to for advice. I solve problems. I don't have problems."
"Everyone has problems, Imani."
"Not me. I can't afford to." She was getting agitated now, her heart rate monitor beeping faster. "I have a business to run. Clients depending on me. I can't be the consultant who falls apart because she got scared. I can't be the woman who needs rescuing."
"No one's rescuing you." I stopped, trying to find the right words. "I'm just here. Because I want to be. Because talking to you wasn't enough. Because when I heard what happened, the only thing I could think about was getting to you and making sure you were okay."
"Why?" The question was almost desperate. "Why do you care? We barely know each other. We kissed once. That doesn't mean anything."
"It means something to me." I held her gaze. "I don't know what this is between us. But I want to find out. And I think you do too, which is why you're fighting so hard to push me away."
She looked away. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" I moved closer. "Because at the wedding, when we were in your hotel room?—"
After the wedding…
The hotel room was standard luxury, nothing flashy. Imani had kicked off her heels the moment we walked in, immediately losing three inches of height.
"Finally," she'd muttered. "Those things are torture devices."
"You looked incredible in them though." I'd settled on the couch while she poured us both water from the minibar. "Actually, you looked incredible, period."
"Smooth talker." But she was smiling as she handed me the glass.
"I'm Russian. It's genetic."
We'd talked for hours. About her consulting business, how she'd built it from nothing after her divorce, how satisfying it was to help minority-owned businesses scale. About my role in the family business, the parts I could talk about, anyway. About her marriage and why it had fallen apart.
"He wanted a trophy wife," she'd said, curled up on the opposite end of the couch.
"Someone successful enough to look good at events but not so successful that I overshadowed him.
When my business started taking off, when I started making more money than him, he couldn't handle it. That and other things."
"His loss."
"I used to think that. Now I'm not sure." She'd looked at me, vulnerable in a way I suspected she rarely was. "What if he was right? What if I am too much? Too driven, too ambitious, too needy."
"Stop." I'd moved closer. "You're not too much. You're exactly enough. And any man who can't see that is an idiot."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough." I'd reached out, touching the side of her face. "I know you're brilliant and funny and you don't suffer fools. I know you challenge me in ways no one else does. And I know," I'd leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away, "that I really want to kiss you right now."
"That's a terrible idea," she'd whispered, but she licked her lips almost in invitation.
"Probably."
"We live in different cities."
"I can travel. It’s not like you’re far."
"This is moving too fast."
"We can slow down."
"Nikolai, you’re not listening."
I'd kissed her.
She'd kissed me back.
And for about thirty perfect seconds, nothing else had mattered.
Not the distance. Not the complications.
Not the fact that we'd just met. Just her lips on mine, her hand in my hair, the soft sound she'd made when I'd deepened the kiss.
The way she invited me on top of her as I leaned her back on the couch.
Her arms as they fell to my neck, pulling me closer.
She'd pulled away first, breathing hard.
"This is complicated," she'd said.
"I don't care."
"You should." But she hadn't tried to push me off of her. "I'm complicated. My life is complicated. I come with baggage and trust issues and a business that requires me to travel constantly."
"So?"
"So you deserve someone easier. Someone who doesn't come with all this," she'd gestured at herself, "mess."
"I don't want easy." I'd cupped her face. "I want you. Mess and all."
She'd kissed me again then. Softer. Sweeter.
"I'm going to hurt you," she'd whispered against my lips.
"Probably."
"And you're still interested?"
"Absolutely."
She'd laughed, the sound shaky. "You're insane."
"About you? Yes."
We'd stayed like that until 3 AM, talking and kissing and slowly learning each other. And when I'd finally left, she'd stood in the doorway.
"Text me when you get home."
And I'd known I was in trouble. Nobody ever made sure that I was safe. Nobody looked after me. There was an assumption that everything was fine with me, but nobody actually took the extra step to find out. She had and I couldn’t stop looking at her for that reason.
She didn’t have to care, but she did, because she was naturally kind.