He smirks. “So to answer your question about what I think of you in this dress, I think the dress is worthy of your body. But just barely.”
I glance over my shoulder at the mirror. Instead of a stiff, uncomfortable pose—my usual move when trying on clothes—I look different. I’m on Sasha’s lap, my hair draped over one shoulder, my leg around his waist, the dress hitched up enough to show off the expanse of my thigh.
I look… Wow.
“See?” he asks. “That’s a little glimpse of what you look like to me, every moment of the day.”
“Then we should get the dress.”
He winks. “We should get it in every color.”
It’s later that evening. The booth at Volver’s is a lovely little cocoon of candlelight and velvet. Chicago glitters just beyond the windows. The restaurant is packed, but it feels like it’s just us. My dress catches the low flicker of the candle on the table, making me feel deliciously glamorous.
Sasha pours sparkling water into two champagne flutes, adding a twist of lime.
“You know,” I say, “you don’t have to go sober on my behalf.”
“I can show a little solidarity with you every now and then. Besides, I don’t mind having a clear head—all the better to appreciate my lovely company.”
I shift in my seat a little. Something is both different and familiar about Sasha. He’s the same guy, Bratva connections and all. But he’s…nicer? Is that it? Either way, I kind of like it.
A thought occurs to me. “You know, I can’t help but wonder if you’ve been listening to Bogdan’s relationship advice. It feels like you’ve dialed things up in the empathy department.”
He chuckles. “More than that. Let’s just say I’m trying to do things a little differently.”
“Well, it’s working for you.”
“Then that sounds like a perfect toast.” He raises his glass, bubbles floating among the wedge of lime. “To doing things a little differently.”
I smile. “I’ll drink to that.”
We tap rims, and I bring the drink to my lips. Sasha and I lock eyes over the glasses. As we do, a very uncomfortable thought occurs to me—what if there are ulterior motives going on? What if this isn’t about Sasha turning a corner, but him trying to butter me up for some reason?
Before I can give the matter too much more thought, the server arrives with our meals—two filet mignon, charred broccolini, and scalloped potatoes. My mouth actually starts to water, and I have to swallow
“You alright over there?” he asks, a wry play on his lips.
“Yes, I’m just hungry.”
He laughs, reaching over and cutting into my steak. I watch the process hypnotically, my gaze locked onto the slice of knife into meat, more juices flowing out, the cut revealing the gorgeous medium pink inside.
“Normally, rarer would be the way to go,” he says, spearing the cut-off piece with his fork and raising it toward me. “But seeing as how you’re pregnant, it’s better to be a little more done.”
I’m staring at the meat. By total instinct, I lean forward and wrap my mouth around the bite. The taste is intense. Perfectly cooked, perfectly tender. It’s so good, in fact, I barely notice the fact that he’s feeding me.
I chew, closing my eyes and savoring every bite. After I swallow, I tell him, “You know, I can cut my own food.”
“I know. But it’s hard to resist taking care of you in every way I can.”
I tilt my head as I gaze at him. “Can I ask you something?”
“I insist.”
There’s something about Sasha in these moments, something more open than I’ve seen from him, maybe ever. I want to take advantage of it. His eyes are fixed on me as he cuts his steak and takesa bite.
“Tell me something true,” I say. “Not somethingpakhan. Not something CEO. Just Sasha.”
His jaw works as he finishes chewing. Then he flicks those obsidian pools back to me, but instead of dark and unreadable, they’re almost warm.
