The tangle of thoughts twisted through my mind. It seemed wrong to be dwelling on my own problems when my cousin’s hopes and dreams were crashing around her.
“Poppy,” Penelope breathed.
I started realizing that she’d been talking. “Yeah?”
“How are things? You haven’t responded to a single message.” The accusation in her words was another blast of guilt.
“Ivan took my phone. He only gave it back because….” Because why? Pity? Generosity?
“He messages me, you know,” Penelope laughed ruefully. “He gives me updates because I threatened to shoot him.”
I barked a laugh. “You would too.”
“And he knows it.” Penelope rolled onto her back, stretching her legs out. The material of her yoga pants stretched stark black against the white duvet.
“I’ve been cooking traditional Bulgarian foods,” I admitted, “learning about their culture, and even trying to tackle the language.”
Penelope laughed again. “Remember when you burned water!”
“Did not,” I grumbled. “I scorched the dry pot, and your mother was nice about it.”
“And now you’re cooking traditional dishes for the Mad Dog.” The penetrating look my cousin gave me spoke volumes. “Sounds like you’re settling in?”
I met her arched brow, not sure how to answer the question. Eventually I said, “I’m making the best of it.”
The Mad Dog. It wasn’t the first time I heard the term applied to Ivan. An insult, laced with fear and preconceived notions. I didn’t think it was a fair assessment. Ivan was loyal and protective. He might not be as polished as some of the bosses, and his style was more grunge meets biker, but he didn’t need to be refined.
He was perfect the way he was.
Oh, crap. I’m defending him.
Because, deep down, I liked him. Just a little. But not enough.
“Ivan’s not that bad,” I insisted, trying to convince my cousin.
“And? Is it long-term?” While she was focused on me, Penelope reached gently, folding her fingers over her stomach.
Her empty stomach.
“He’s not losing Brady again,” I sighed. “And Brady adores him. Calls himfatherin Bulgarian.”
Penelope frowned. “So you’re stuck with him.”
“Stuck.” I tasted the word. “That doesn’t sound right, but I guess so.”
“How would you describe it?” She propped herself on an elbow, still holding her belly.
“Co-parenting.”
Her eyes bulged. “Oh, my word, you’re sleeping with him!”
I groaned, flopping down to mirror her. “Not yet. I mean, we did something. But it’s not like that.”
Penelope lifted her head off her hand and began to count on her fingers. “Not yet. Did something. Not like that.”
“Kissing and he went down there.” I waved at my body, icy tongues of embarrassment shooting up my neck and blistering my face. Just because I read some pretty spicy books didn’t mean I could talk about that stuff with a straight face. “He wants me.”
“And you want him.”
