Chapter 25
Nick
MY LEFT ARM WAS GOING numb from carrying four canvas bags overloaded with groceries. I told myself it was just normal weight, but the plastic handle had already worked a deep red groove into my fingers.
I paused under the entryway to fish out the spare key Nadya had given me this morning when we had arrived in New York.
From what I gathered, it was a lot more meaningful than Nadya let on.
She hadn’t trusted any man enough to bring them to her place, and I had access any time I needed it with this key.
The security door was still pathetically easy to open. Honestly, I would’ve been able to get in even without the key, and I absolutely hated it. This was not a safe place to live, even without someone targeting my girl. A child burglar would be able to come inside easily.
I made it all the way to the elevator before disaster struck.
A streak of black and white fur blurred out from behind a radiator and launched itself at the swinging grocery bag, claws out. I jerked sideways, but it was too late. The cat latched onto the bag of meatballs and ran with it dragging on the floor.
Nadya picked that moment to get home. As soon as she opened the security door, the cat burglar darted between her legs and disappeared with its loot.
“Did that cat just mug you?” she asked.
I groaned, my shoulders slumping in defeat. “It got my balls.”
Nadya grinned. “I don’t know why. A cat who’d rob an FBI agent clearly already has balls.”
“Hush, you. Let’s go inside before the rest of the feline gang shows up.”
We went up to her apartment, and I took a moment to inspect her locks. Not completely terrible with the deadbolt, and none of that smart lock crap that might get hacked, but nothing was reinforced, so her door could get kicked in.
As I followed Nadya inside, I noticed an extra latch at the top that probably wouldn’t handle a good kick but could at least slow down anyone exceptionally determined to make it inside.
The door itself needed an update. Hopefully, Sean would handle it.
Or Ryan, who was supposed to show up tomorrow morning.
We walked straight to the kitchen where Nadya hung her hoodie on the back of a chair and shook her hair out.
I set the bags on the counter and started unloading: box of penne, a jar of tomato sauce, garlic, a single zucchini, a bag of romaine, and a loaf of Italian bread.
There was also a six-pack of seltzer, a wedge of parmesan, and a bar of fancy milk chocolate.
“You’re not one of those guys who buys groceries and then expects me to cook it all, right?” Nadya asked, arms folded.
“Negative. I’m one of those guys who cooks and then expects you to pretend it doesn’t taste like shit.” I handed her the chocolate. “And this is for you.”
“Thanks.” She beamed at me as she unwrapped my offering and popped the first piece into her mouth. “I have meatballs in the freezer. Ljuba made a bunch and left them in case of an emergency. Want me to cook them?”
“She had cat burglar emergencies before?” I asked as I opened the freezer and found the stash.
“No, Tuna, I think cats just like you,” Nadya answered with a cheeky smile.
She got out a pan, rattled around for a spatula, then motioned for me to move. “I’ll do the meatballs. You do the salad and garlic bread.”
There wasn’t enough space for both of us to move around, so I waited until she started browning the meatballs before I went for the cutting board. The kitchen was the size of a large closet, which meant that every time I turned or reached, I ended up elbowing her or bumping into her hip.
After the third collision, Nadya asked, “You ever cook with someone before?”
“My mom.”
And every time I had, I wondered if she would’ve cooked with my sister instead.
My entire childhood was one giant what if.
Every excursion with my parents made me wonder what it would’ve been like if Isabella had been there?
Would we go on different rides because she would’ve been scared?
Would we split up so we could both get what we wanted?
Would we eat burgers or go for the hot dog stand?
Would I have ever met Nadya at all if Isabella hadn’t been snatched up?
I probably never would’ve worked for the FBI, so I wouldn’t have gone to New York that year since that trip had been work-related.
The salad came together fast, so I sliced bread, slathered it with butter and minced garlic, and stuck it under the broiler.
Nadya was doing something complicated with the sauce, adding a pinch of this and a glug of that until the smell of tomato and garlic filled the whole apartment. She had a way of moving that made chaos look like choreography—every splash just absorbed into the motion.
While the sauce simmered, Nadya leaned back against the counter and asked, “So, how was your day?”
“Productive,” I said. “Talked to Renat.”
She nodded, eyes on the window. “And you talked to Sean?”
She might’ve voiced it as a question, but the look on her face told me she already knew.
“He’ll send someone tomorrow morning to make your apartment more secure,” I answered.
She looked at me, not quite smiling. “Are you always this overprotective?”
I shrugged. “When I care about someone, yeah.”
My words hung in the air. What was I doing? I shouldn’t say things like that. She was still a witness.
Although, if I only went after George for the kidnapping, then I wouldn’t need Nadya as a witness. That case was straightforward. I had seen with my own eyes how Ljuba had jumped out of the car and done her best to run away.
Nadya looked down at her hands, then back at me. “It’s kinda nice to have someone other than my sisters worry about me.”
“It’s also kinda codependent,” I said, hoping to make her laugh. “But my therapist says as long as you’re honest about it, it’s fine.”
Nadya rolled her eyes, but there was a real smile behind it. I was becoming addicted to these smiles.
“Your therapist gives you a lot of dating advice?” she asked jokingly.
“Mostly that I’m not allowed to use handcuffs recreationally,” I deadpanned.
She snorted and reached for the salad bowl, bumping me with her hip. “You’re so full of shit. Why even work in law enforcement if you don’t use handcuffs recreationally?”
I set the salad down and watched as she grated parmesan over the meatballs, her wrist flicking, curls bouncing every time she looked up at me to see if I was watching.
Of course I was. Nadya was like a solar flare—light and heat, making me feel like if I got too close, I’d never be the same.
I busied myself with the bread, just to avoid blurting out something embarrassing.
Like how in this exact moment, in this exact room, I felt more at home than anywhere since my own house growing up.
“God, this smells good,” she said, tasting the sauce with a wooden spoon. “If you don’t like it, you’re not allowed to say.”
I grinned. “Don’t worry, my taste buds are calibrated to hospital cafeteria food. This is basically five stars.”
She snorted and set the spoon down, then leaned back against the counter, arms folded, looking at me like she was waiting for the punchline.
Maybe there was one. Maybe after spending so long keeping everyone at arm’s length, I went and got attached.
Maybe the punchline was that the more I tried to protect Nadya, the more I wanted things I couldn’t have.
I stepped closer without even realizing it. She was right there, and if I wanted to, I could just reach out and—
She did it first, tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand, then putting that same hand tentatively on my chest. I covered her hand with mine, feeling how tiny it was against my chest.
We hovered there, neither of us breathing, faces eight inches apart. I knew all the reasons why I shouldn’t close that distance, but the taste of her laughter was still in the air.
Fuck those reasons.
I lowered my head, cupped her face and claimed her lips, feeling the softness of her lips, the urgency, the hunger. She tasted like chocolate and salt and something wild underneath.
The spoon clattered to the counter as she wrapped her arms around my neck, rising on tiptoe. I leaned down and pushed her against the cool edge of the counter. She made a sound low in her throat, the kind that made me want to take her and never let go.
A lifetime of iron discipline snapped the leash. I slid my mouth along her jaw and pressed my forehead to hers. Yeah, that leash wasn’t enough to step away, but at least I stopped kissing her.
I let my hand drift down to cup the side of her neck, all the while searching her face for anything resembling regret. There wasn’t any.
I spun her gently to face the stove. “Don’t burn the sauce, chef.”
The air between us vibrated like a plucked wire; even after stepping back, her absence felt as loud as her laughter. It was like I could smell her energy in the air.
We plated up our food. The bread came out perfect. Salad crisp, meatballs almost burnt, but Nadya spooned them onto the pasta with a flourish.
We ate at her little kitchen table, which was a decent enough size since she used to live here with her two sisters. It showed quite a few signs of use, and I could picture them here, cooking and eating together, telling each other about their day.
“How was the gallery? Did Lara agree to display your painting?” I asked.
“Better. She wants me to have another solo show, but I need more pieces for it.”
“That’s good, right?”
She turned her head to the side, considering. “Yeah. It’s just intimidating. And it feels weird, you know? I’m showing everyone how messed up I am, and they are paying me for it. Not that I’d say no to someone wanting to buy my work.”
“I bet. Brooklyn can’t be cheap to live in, especially now that you have to rent this place by yourself instead of splitting it three ways.”
Nadya waved it off. “Vera and Ljuba are still paying their thirds, but yeah, I should probably look for something smaller. There’s no reason to pay for the second bedroom.”
But she hadn’t considered a roommate. Honestly, I would’ve had a problem sharing my space with a stranger, too. I had seen too many horror stories to consider compromising my own safety, and I was well trained to deal with any threat.
Was it safer to be alone in Nadya’s case, though?
Well, having me stay here was definitely safer, but I doubted others would protect her the same way.
The problem was, there were only so many days I could stay here before my boss called me home, unless I found a really good reason to stay.
That reason had evaporated the moment I found out Renat was handling the trafficking angle.
Nadya stabbed pasta onto her fork, popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes in a slow, theatrical way. “Not bad, Tuna. Not bad at all.”
“It’s nearly impossible to screw up pasta,” I answered, trying the meatballs. “Damn, this actually is good.”
“All the credit goes to Ljuba. She has a special recipe.”
Right, her sister was a chef. “But you’re the one who made the sauce and didn’t burn anything.”
She poked at the browned ball. “Got pretty close, though.”
“Close doesn’t count.”
“That’s what she said,” Nadya fired back.
I cracked up at that, my eyes glued to Nadya. This unguarded, easy happiness suited her.
After dinner, we washed dishes together in the double sink. Nadya washed, and I rinsed. The routine felt weirdly normal, like we’d been doing it forever. The small touches of our elbows became just a part of it.
As I dried the last glass, Nadya said, “You know you don’t have to stay, right?”
I tossed the towel over my shoulder. “For the record, I like being here, and you don’t have to pretend you don’t want me to stay.”
Our eyes locked, and her body tilted toward me. The air got thick and heavy. We stood that way, inches apart, each waiting for the other to break the tension.
Finally, she reached up, fingers brushing the bruise under my eye. “Still hurts?” she whispered.
“It looks worse than it feels,” I answered.
She searched my eyes for a long second, then pressed her lips to the edge of the bruise, just once. My skin tingled.
Then her mouth moved lower, to the corner of my mouth. This kiss was softer, more careful.
When she pulled back, her face was flushed. “We shouldn’t, right?”
“No,” I said, “but I really, really want to.”
My hands lingered on her hips, and then I kissed her for real, losing track of everything but the feel of her. Her lips, warm and urgent. The way her body pressed against mine. I pulled her in, and she arched into me.
We stumbled backward, my spine hitting the fridge. She climbed me, and I lifted her up with one hand under her delectable ass while the other tangled in her hair. Her hands slid under my shirt, burning against my skin.
I wanted her more than I’d wanted anything in a long time. I didn’t care that it was stupid, or reckless, or that I was supposed to be protecting her instead of falling for her. This, right here, holding her to me, kissing her, had been the one thing I had wanted ever since that first night.