Stop running away from your dreams,Alex’s most recent text had read. Asshole.
He pulled into the lot next toKrasavitsaand jumped out of the car, tossing the keys to Raul, the lead valet.
“Back again?” Raul asked.
“No rest for the wicked.” Dimitri went in through the front, nodding at everyone as he passed.
His mother was seated at one of the best tables. It boasted both a full view of the restaurant and relative privacy.
“Mama.” He leaned down to greet her.
“You walk in here like you own the place.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“I do.” He sat across from her. “Now, you want to tell me why you’re really here?”
“I told you, I’m having dinner.” She spread her hands to indicate the assortment of plates on the table.
“What, did you order one of everything?”
She winked. “I know the owner. So, let’s get to the real reason why I’m here.”
He held his breath. Here it came.
“I want to meet her.”
He exhaled. Yup, there it was. “Not yet.”
His mother’s brows—waxed to within an inch of their life, since they were naturally as thick as his own—arched. “Why not?”
“She’s . . .” One of the waiters appeared with an extra wine glass and set it at his elbow. Dimitri poured from the open bottle of red on the table, just to have something to do. “Skittish.” There. That was the perfect word for Natasha.
His mother frowned and repeated the word back to him. “Puglivaya?What does she have to be skittish about? You will make a great husband. I made sure of that.”
“I know that. And you know that. But she . . . she doesn’t trust me.”
His mother frowned and munched on a french fry. They were her weakness, and he’d grown up with a healthy appreciation for fries.Krasavitsamade excellent fries, crafted to his specifications. He trusted his head chef, but not with fries. They were skinny, salty, slightly crunchy, and served in a cone with ketchup and garlic aioli on the side.
“Why doesn’t she trust you?” His mother pinned him with a shrewd gaze. “Have you given her reason not to?”
Dimitri stole some of her fries and scooped up a healthy dollop of aioli with them. “I guess so.”
Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “I don’t want to know.”
“It’s better that you don’t.”
“So, what are you doing to show her that shecantrust you?”
He finished chewing, lest she tell him not to talk with his mouth full. “I’m trying to show her.”
“Odobreniye.”She shrugged. “Buthow?”
“What, specifically?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she sprained her ankle.”
“How? Is she also a dancer?”
