Makari visibly straightens, as if bracing himself. And then it happens—something I never thought I’d see. He looks nervous.
Not afraid. Just… completely out of his depth. Like the ground has shifted beneath him, and he’s scrambling for footing.
“I’m Makari,” he says, voice uncharacteristically formal, slightly accented, as he holds out his hand for hers. When he takes it, he turns her knuckles upward and presses a chaste kiss to them, earning a breathy laugh from her.
Mom smiles warmly, and I watch a man who has stared down armed syndicates and international authorities suddenly look like someone who desperately wants a mother’s approval.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says. “Are you hungry? We have coffee.”
“I—no,” he stammers. “Thank you. I can’t stay.”
My mother’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly at his flustered tone. She flicks her gaze toward me, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.
Oh, there’s something here.
Mak clears his throat, reaching into the small messenger bag at his side—another expensive item now smudged with dirt. He pulls out a wrapped parcel tied with baker’s twine.
“I brought Andrea something,” he says, and suddenly he sounds more like himself. “Honey cake. From Zoya.”
I can’t help smiling at the mention of the elderly Russian woman who runs Mak’s kitchens like a lieutenant; she’s feared by most of his soldiers and even Dima knows to stay out of her way. But Andi won her heart over quickly.
He gently presses the parcel into my hands, careful not to brush my fingers, though his attention lingers there for one charged beat.
Then he steps back, the sunlight catching the damp edges of his boots.
“I should go,” he says, searching for some excuse, eyes vacant for a moment. “I was planning a hike.”
I almost laugh. He looks like a man who has never willingly “planned a hike” in his life, but Mom’s presence clearly has him scrambling for an exit.
“You walked five miles,” I remind him quietly.
He shrugs, as if that’s barely worth noting. “Another few won’t matter.”
Before I can reply, he dips his head in a quiet farewell and turns, climbing the path back toward the trees. The river light catches him as he goes—broad shoulders, steady stride, confidence barely disguising his discomfort. He looks strangely human like this, peeling away the armor he wears everywhere else.
Mom waits until he disappears around the bend of the trail before she finally speaks.
“Well,” she says, crossing her arms. “That man is very handsome.”
I groan. “Mom.”
“And clearly interested,” she adds.
“He’s my boss.”
“Mhmm.”
“And he’s… complicated.”
She softens. “Roxy. Complicated doesn’t mean impossible.”
I sink onto the couch, honey cake still in my hands. No doubt my daughter will catch its scent any moment, and arrive like a badger to wrestle it from me. “He walked five miles upriver just to bring Andi this.”
“And?” Mom prompts, lowering herself beside me.
“And… I don’t know what to do with that.”
She studies me gently. “Your heart’s been guarded for a long time, sweet girl. Longer than it should’ve had to be.”
