Luka drives me to the other side of the city without speaking a word. I’m used to it by now, so I don’t expect him to. But I can tell by the drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel that my presence alone is probably causing him a stress ulcer. By the end of this, I’ll quietly cover his hospital bills.
The thought of anything ending plunges me into the mopes again. I’m looking forward to my pregnancy, but in a way, I’m dreading it, too.
Because it’ll mean I’m that much closer to the finish line.
And I’m not so sure I want to cross it.
Finally, Luka pulls up in front of the café. Funny how parking spots seem to free up on their own accord whenever a Bratva car rolls up, even in the middle of rush hour. Should the History Channel look into that? Flying pyramids, Bigfoot, and now, mysterious parking vacancies?
Then Luka starts getting out, too, and my panic flares. “You’re coming?”
“I… have to?” he answers, somehow sounding more confused than me.
I join my hands in a prayer pose. “Please, Luka. Please, please, take your lunch hour. The last thing I need is Jemma clocking you at the door and assuming I’ve got a bodyguard shadowing me.”
“Youdohave a bodyguard shadowing you.” His brow creases. “And I don’t get a lunch hour.”
“I’ll get you a union contact then. But first, pleeease?” I give him my best puppy dog eyes. “I really don’t want Jemma to think I’m a mob wife.”
“But youarea?—”
“She doesn’t need to know that!” I glance around in panic to see if Jemma is anywhere nearby. The second-to-last thing I need is her overhearing some crucial piece of information that’ll get her sniped at her next wedding reception. “Please? For me?”
Something gives in Luka’s expression. I want to say it’s kindness, but it looks like the beginning of a panic attack. Either way, I’ll take what I can get.
“Okay, then. I’ll be in the car.”
Yes! Victory!
“Bless you,” I whisper. “I’ll bring you back a Danish.”
“I’m actually gluten?—”
But I’m already too far away to hear.
The light inside the café is much warmer than outside. I spy Jemma at our usual table, craning her neck and waving me over, like she’s been waiting a decade and a half.
My chest squeezes.God, I missed her.
When I get to the table, she’s out of her chair before I can blink. “SAMMI!”
Her hug is a chokehold of familiarity, the scent of coffee and vanilla clinging to her hair. For a second, I almost fucking cry.
“Girl,” she says, pulling me back to search my face, “I was literally two kitten reels away from sending out a missing persons report. Again.”
I laugh, too high-pitched and nervous to fool her. “It’s all good. I just ran late. Please, remove 911 from speed dial.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t buy it, but she lets me slide into the booth across from her. “Only if you start spilling. Real tea, not that weak brew you gave me at the office.”
“Can we get literal tea first? Or coffee? Or anything with crazy amounts of sugar in it?”
She summons over a server. “Don’t need to ask me twice.”
We place our orders. She gets a dirty chai, her go-to drink. I opt for my usual coffee, but with three sugars and a double helping of cream. Jemma gives me a curious look, but doesn’t press.
And since I’m way too panicked to remember the cover story I thought up, I pivot. “You go first,” I say with a confidence I’m one hundred percent bullshitting. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. What’s going on with your life?”
Her eyes light up. “Okay, so, you won’t believe this crap…”
