She rolls her eyes, but also smiles, and her face lights up. “I just didn't take you for a jazz guy.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, Gela Jones.” I offer my arm, which she takes without hesitation. That smallgesture, that lack of hesitation in itself, promises a good night ahead.
The moment we step inside, the club wraps around us like a velvet blanket. The lighting is perfect and oh-so-soft, the conversation hushed and full of secrets, and the smooth notes of the saxophone a delight to the ears.
“Mr. Yuri,” the hostess greets me when she sees me. “Your usual table is ready.”
Gela's eyebrows shoot up. “Your usual table?”
“I come here with friends sometimes,” I explain, and we follow the hostess to our table. Along the way, I see a few acquaintances and nod my hello’s, not wanting to stop when Gela’s with me.
Our table is in the corner with a perfect view of the stage, and within a minute of us settling in, the bottle of champagne arrives.
“Wait.” Gela tries to turn to motion at the retreating waiter. “We didn’t order this.”
I lean across the table and gently place my hand over hers to bring her attention back to mine. When I do, I feel a spark of light shoot up to my elbow, and when she turns with that startled look, I feel like she felt it too.
“I ordered it in advance,” I say.
“You planned this?” Her eyebrows shoot up, and she quickly pulls away her hand. I hadn’t even noticed I still had it beneath mine.
“I had a feeling you'd nail the SkyMark deal,” I said, grabbing the bottle and pouring us both a glass each.
“You did?” she gushes.
“To Gela Jones.” I raise my glass, “marketing genius and tamer of corporate giants.”
She clinks her glass against mine, a pretty little blush creeping up her neck. “You really have way too much faith in me if you ordered us a Dom.”
“I've seen you work. You're unstoppable when you want something.” I take a sip, watching her over the rim of my glass. “That's something I admire about you.”
God, she looks beautiful with the light playing across her features in this dim room.
“Well, thank you for this.” She gestures around. “It's... unexpected.”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“Definitely good,” she smiles, relaxing into her chair. “Though I'm still trying to picture you sitting here with your friends, brooding over your problems while listening to jazz.”
“What? Hey! I don't always brood,” I protest dramatically. “Sometimes I reminisce about my wild youth.”
She nearly chokes on her champagne. “Your wild youth? Oh, please tell me more about what you did in those ancient times!”
“Careful, Gela Jones,” I tease back. “I've had more fun during my time than you've ever known. You see, when I was your age, I didn’t work half as hard.”
She leans forward with a playful challenge, smacked right across her face. “Oh, really? You, of all the people in the world, had fun? That’s hard to believe unless you prove it.”
I match her posture, close enough now that I’m hyperaware of how easy it would be for me to kiss her, how easyit would be to tell her all that’s running through my mind, but I don’t want to scare her off yet. “When I was your age, I once stole a yacht.”
“You did not!” she gasps, clutching her chest in true shock.
“I did, too!” I nod proudly. “It belonged to some Italian businessman. My brothers and I took it out for a spin in the Mediterranean, and we had to jump ship near Ibiza when the coast guard spotted us.”
Her mouth drops open. “You're making this up. Please tell me you’re making this up!”
“Want more?” I grin. “I've raced motorcycles through the streets of Moscow at midnight. Climbed the outside of a hotel to crash a royal wedding. And I once spent three days at a rave in Berlin without sleeping.”
“Okay, okay,” she laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “I get it. You weren't always the serious crime lord.”
