7. Evgeny #2
“What do you think about a truce?” I ask. When she just raises a brow, I say, “Like you said, we’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other. We could make this a lot easier on ourselves.”
“How so? You suddenly going to decide to spill all your secrets?”
“I don’t have any secrets, Harper. A truce will save you a lot of time and wasted effort. Don’t waste your new promotion trying to dig up dirt on me.”
She takes a drink before saying, “You know I don’t spend every waking minute thinking about you, right?”
“Just most of them?” I ask, unable to hide my smile.
“Tell me, just completely off the record here,” she starts to say, but I cut her off.
“Everything I say to you is strictly off the record, Harper, unless I tell you otherwise.”
She has the nerve to roll her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but seriously, do you have to be this vain to become a lawyer, like is it a prerequisite for law school, or do you just pick it up along the way?”
“Don’t mistake confidence for vanity,” I tell her.
“I’m confident. I’ve never denied that. I can’t be good at my job and lack confidence in my ability to win a case.
That confidence comes from working my ass off.
Trust me, it’s an earned confidence, and I don’t take it lightly.
It’s not something you get and then have for life.
I’m constantly learning, making sure I’m on top of everything, and studying.
There’s never a moment where I sit back on my ass and think, well, now I know everything there is to know about this. ”
“Do you ever do anything for fun?” she asks.
I lean back and gesture towards our plates. “I’m having dinner with you, aren’t I?”
She laughs. The genuine, lighthearted sound of it filling my kitchen and making me wish I could hear it again, that it could fill every room of this house.
“I’m being serious,” she says when she’s stopped laughing at me.
“So was I,” I tell her, and this time instead of laughing, she gives me a scrutinizing look.
She’s not the kind of person who lets her mind relax.
Every time she looks at me, I can tell her mind is going a mile a minute, trying to figure me out.
I have no doubt she could accomplish the task if I let my guard down.
“You hate me,” she says. “You barely tolerate my presence and you wish I would disappear and leave you alone.”
“If I hated you, you wouldn’t be here. I would never have invited you into my home.”
“You did that to shut me up,” she insists.
“I could’ve lost you tonight. Easily, I might add, but I let you follow me, and then I invited you here and bought you dinner.”
When she starts to get up like she’s going to hunt down her bag and throw money at me, I grab her arm to stop her. Her eyes jump to where my hand is still latched around her forearm, but I don’t let her go.
“Again, if I didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t say that so you’d feel like you needed to pay for your half. I’m trying to get you to understand that this isn’t something I normally do.”
Bringing her eyes back to mine, she asks, “Then why did you?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“That’s a very vague answer, Ev.”
“I’m sure that’s infuriating for you to hear, but it’s the truth.”
“I had no idea defense attorneys were interested in the truth,” she says, and I sigh and let go of her arm.
“We were having such a nice time, Harper.” Standing, I gather up our plates and walk around to the sink. She watches me start to rinse them before loading them into the dishwasher.
“Don’t you have a maid?”
“No. I told you I like my privacy. Despite your refusal to see me as anything other than a jackass, I was being honest with you. I don’t invite people into my home, I wanted to have dinner with you, and I don’t pay someone else to clean up after me.”
She’s quiet while I put the leftovers into the fridge and start to make coffee. It’s only after I’ve poured us each a mug and grabbed the butterscotch creamer that she says, “I thought I was the only one who liked butterscotch creamer.”
I hold up the carton. “You like this?”
“Yeah. Everyone thinks I’m crazy for liking it, but I’ve always loved it.”
“Me too.” I pour some into both our mugs before sliding hers over to her.
After I’ve sat back down, she says, “I’m sorry for being an ass.”
“I’m starting to get used to it,” I say, hiding my smile by taking a drink.
“I have you in my head as being a certain way, and now you’re acting very different, and it’s tripping me up. I’m not sure which to believe.”
“One doesn’t contradict the other. I was a bit more distant with you earlier because I didn’t know you, and you were a reporter who was demanding an interview. I typically don’t respond very well to that.”
She huffs out a breath at the understatement. “I was just trying to do my job.”
“I know, but then you also harassed me at work and stalked me. Some might say that’s crossing a line.”
“Some might call it tenacious and the signs of a hard worker who takes her job seriously,” she counters.
“Some might,” I agree, but my tone makes it obvious I’m guessing that number is very low.
“What made you change your mind?”
“Have I changed my mind?” I can’t help but tease.
When she gives me her I’m not amused look, I say, “A real asshole wouldn’t care enough to bring their dog on a stakeout, and they sure as hell wouldn’t go through the trouble of providing a snack and a favorite blankie.
I figured you couldn’t be all that bad if you love your dog that much.
You can judge a lot about a person by how they treat animals.
” I look back at the greyhound who hasn’t moved since hitting the couch. “He obviously loves you.”
“So Watson is your litmus test?”
I ignore the playful disbelief in her tone and say, “Among other things, yes.”
“And what if I leave here and write an article about it, telling everyone about what it’s like to be inside Ev Nikitin’s home?”
I hide my disappointment at the thought and say, “It’s always a possibility, I guess, but I’ll be very disappointed, and it’ll be the last time I ever invite a reporter into my home and share a meal with them.”
“Well, I’d hate to be the cause of that kind of emotional scarring.” She looks around and gives a dramatic sigh. “Not much to write anyway. You’re a very closed book, Ev.”
The corner of my mouth lifts when I say, “I try.”
“Come on, at least give me something, not for a story, but just for my own curiosity. Tell me something about yourself.” She’s so eager for details that she’s unconsciously leaned closer to me, desperate to grab onto any scrap I can give her.
The only problem is that I can’t give her anything even close to the truth.
I tell her the story I’ve given everyone.
“I grew up here in the city. My parents died when I was young. An uncle took care of me but unfortunately died after I graduated high school. I’m an only child.
There’s not much to tell, Harper. You want a sensational story, but I’m about as boring as they come. ”
Deflated, she slumps back in her chair, and I find myself wishing I could tell her everything, not because I have to, but because I want her to know me, the real me.
It’s a stupid thought, but it’s also persistent, refusing to leave my head now that it’s there.
I like her far more than I should, and until I met her, I’d managed to convince myself that a life alone was one I could handle, one that I could even be content with, but she makes me want more, and that’s a very dangerous fucking thought to be having.
“It’s hard not having parents,” she says, and I try not to feel like the giant ass she thinks I am because we’re about to bond over dead parents when mine are both alive and well, even if they are forced to keep their distance.
“It is,” I agree, trying to convince myself that blanket statements aren’t as bad of a lie.
“I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal, but it does things to you, you know? It’s impossible to not be affected by it, no matter how hard I try to blow it off as no big deal.”
“You’ve done well for yourself, Harper. They’d be very proud of you.”
She looks over at me and I see through to the heart of her.
She may be a tenacious reporter who doesn’t know when to quit, but she’s also the kind of person who can’t help but say, “Yours would be proud of you too, Ev,” because she thinks I’m hurting, and her gut reaction is to comfort me, not pick at the wound so she can get details for a story.
It’s what sets her apart from other reporters, and even though she knows it will inevitably hurt her career, she refuses to change.
I can’t help but admire the hell out of her for that.
She lightens the mood by saying, “I honestly thought your life would be a little more exciting. I’m slightly disappointed.
I at least expected a full staff at home—butlers, housekeepers, cook, the whole she-bang.
And I definitely expected some half-naked groupies or at the very least a girlfriend who looks like she belongs on a Victoria’s Secret runway. ”
I laugh at the very idea of all that.
“Or do you keep all that at some hidden apartment?” she asks.
“No hidden apartment filled with half-naked women and a full staff,” I say, glad I can at least be honest about something.
She finishes her coffee and sets the empty mug on the counter.
“I had a boyfriend who did that,” she admits.
“Not the whole staff thing, but I found out he had a penthouse apartment that he used for hooking up with women. He called it his fuck pad. A real winner, that one.” She gives a self-deprecating laugh.
“Turns out he was a bit of a douchebag.”
“What an ass,” I tell her, wondering how I can get her to tell me his name so I can kill him. “I’m sorry that happened to you. How long ago was it?”