Chapter 18 #2
Every aspect of the restaurant has some aspect of live nature incorporated into it, whether it’s in the form of physical vines running along the wall, or smaller cuttings placed in clear vases.
The large windows let in the last rays of sunlight creeping away in the sky, shading everything in glittering gold.
When I glance towards Mikhail once again, his gaze is softer than usual, and the thick shield he usually hides behind is missing completely. Then he pulls back a chair from the table and allows me to sit before rounding to his side.
I can’t help but stare at the man in front of me.
He’s different in this place. The romantic lighting and beautiful greenery bring out a gentleness in his features that is usually frozen in some sort of scowl.
His dark, wavy hair looks so soft against his forehead, and his eyebrows offset the electric blue of his irises, capturing my attention with the intensity of the view.
It reminds me of that first time I saw him, that capturing gaze cutting through the dark shadows of the alley.
“Why do you study business?” He asks, snapping me out of the intensity of the moment. I have to repeat the question in my head, jump-starting my scattered thoughts.
“I like to learn about finance,” I say, then pause, weighing how much to reveal. “I need to understand it. Financial literacy is survival for women like me—women who refuse to be dependent on anyone else’s money or decisions. I won’t end up trapped...” I trail off, not ready to share that part yet.
He considers me, brow lifting like he knows there’s more to my answer. His gaze sharpens with interest, and I can practically see him filing away every word I’ve said. Thankfully, he says nothing to challenge me on the subject.
“What did you do this week?” I ask, trying to start off easy and turn the focus back to him for once.
I haven’t been on a date for a while, though, this doesn’t really feel like a date to me.
Dates are awkward and stressful, and involve a lot of pleasantries and unwanted touches.
Somehow, nothing has felt any different than my previous interactions with Mikhail.
And none of his touches have gone unwanted by me.
“Oh, you know. Just business,” he responds vaguely, shield clicking back into place like a steel door slamming shut.
“That’s not really an answer,” I press, frustrated by his evasiveness.
“I’m surprised you have time for all that business in between stalking my location and calling to berate me on my whereabouts.” I raise an eyebrow in challenge.
“I apologized for that. And I wasn’t stalking you. I was simply checking up on you.” His face twinges with amusement.
“Uh-huh. And I’m sure you check up on all your... friends that way?”
“I like to watch over the people I care about.”
His words reverberate through my head. The people he cares about. He cares about me. I try to brush past the realization and how much it means to me, even as alarm bells ring in my head about his definition of “watching over.”
“That’s a strange way to check up on people. Maybe you should consider working on your communication skills.” I take a cool sip of water, hiding my smile against the glass.
“And how am I supposed to do that, Menace?”
“Have you ever tried therapy?”
He cracks a smile.
“I think I’d prefer a more intimate lesson plan.”
The waiter returns to the table with a bottle of wine, filling our glasses without a word, before leaving the table once again.
“I’m sure you would. Unfortunately, I don’t have a penchant for taking on self-proclaimed projects.”
My response earns me another smirk, and I realize just how much I love being responsible for creating such a beautiful expression on such a serious man’s face.
“Oh? Do go on,” He probes, taking a sip of wine from his glass. I watch his throat move to swallow. Damn, can throats be sexy?
“There are lots of men searching for a woman to fix them.”
A low laugh pulls from his lips.
“Don’t worry, Menace. You don’t have to fix me. I believe I’m what they consider irreparable,” he replies with that same deep intensity in his eyes, and I realize he’s deflected yet again—turned my attempt at understanding him into a flirtatious exchange.
A moment of silence stretches between us.
A feeling I’ve never felt before rises up my throat, embracing the intimacy of our words and counting down the inches separating our lips.
I glance down to catch a peek of his mouth, and when my gaze bounces back up, he leans forward the smallest bit, gravitating closer to me.
The spell snaps when the waiter returns, this time with food that we didn’t even order. I’m not complaining, though, because it smells so damn heavenly. A creamy pasta is set in front of me. My first bite makes me moan in appreciation, and I blush red when I realize I made the sound out loud.
“How old are you?” I suddenly ask, trying to distract from my awkward reaction to the spiced goodness of the pasta. I bet this plate alone costs four of my school credit hours.
“Thirty-one,” he responds, fork paused on his plate, his rapt attention focusing on me. The singularity of it is a bit unsettling, so I glance back down at my food in search of respite.
“Is that a problem?” He suddenly asks when I say nothing in response.
“I’m twenty-two,” I tell him. He nods his head.
“I know. Does the difference bother you?” Of course, he knows. He seems to know everything about me while revealing nothing about himself.
I consider it for a moment, taking a sip of wine.
“No, not really,” I decide. “Though my mother always told me to watch out for the older men.” The memory makes me smile wistfully, taking me back to our good years.
“She’d say: you should wonder why they couldn’t get any of the women their own age.
They might’ve just run out of bridges to burn in their own bracket. ”
“And what do you think?” His voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the slight tension in his jaw. “Have I burned too many bridges?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack.
“Are you close to your mother?” Mikhail asks, smoothly changing the subject before I can answer.
The hazy, warm memory fades out of reach, like limestone crumbling off a cliff.
“Not so much, anymore,” I respond, flicking my fork against the empty plate. I can’t help the frown that overtakes my face, reminding me of the circumstances I’m fighting to fix.
A hand reaches over to brush against mine.
“I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“You didn’t,” I murmur, moving my gaze to the place where our skin touches. I don’t dare move, not wanting to scare away his touch, even as I wonder if this tenderness is real or just another way to gather information about me.
Instead of pulling back, his other hand comes up to brush my hair back from my cheek. He leans even closer, and my heart pounds so hard I wonder if he can hear it.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” His voice is soft and low.
“Yes, I believe you have.”
Another swipe of his thumb against my cheek.
“Will you come back to my place for a drink?”