He places a slow, tender kiss on my forehead. “No one diminishes you ever again,” he says. “No one will ever make you feel small.”
I turn my face, pressing against his throat as the tears form. My heart feels as if it’s cracking open.
In that moment, it’s beyond clear.
I’m falling hard for him. Fast, irrevocably.
And strangely enough, the darkness inside Roman feels like the safest place to be.
CHAPTER 26
AMALIE
“Mr. Barinov, your table is ready.”
The restaurant Roman picked for our evening out is a bit overwhelming. Muted golden light spills over white tablecloths so crisp they look like you could cut your finger on the iron creases. A pianist sits in the corner, playing delicate tunes. All of the well-dressed diners are seated closely together, speaking in quiet tones like they’re closing deals or hiding affairs.
All eyes look to Roman when we walk in. The maître d’ smiles. “Please, right this way.”
Roman nods once, not saying a word. I try to appear nonchalant, like this is normal for me. But it isn’t, not even a little.
“You alright?” Roman asks, seeming to sense my discomfort.
“Fine. Just soaking it all in. Not my usual kind of place. I’m more of a fast and casual kind of girl when I’m in the mood to treat myself.”
Roman pulls my chair out for me when we arrive at the table. It’s a small gesture, but it makes my stomach flutter in a stupid, girlish way all the same. Roman always seems to pull that giddy feeling out of me.
Roman slides into the chair across from me, his posture relaxed, eyes locked on mine. “Deep breath,” he says. “This place won’t bite.”
“You sure about that? The pianist looks like he might be the type.”
Roman smirks a tiny bit just as our waiter arrives. He’s about my age, handsome in a boyish kind of way, and very well-poised.
“Good evening,” he says, opening a bottle of still water and pouring two glasses.
“Whiskey. Neat,” Roman says, his eyes on the menu.
“Very good, Mr. Barinov.”
I look over the drink list. It’s like a damn phone book. And I’ve never exactly been a wine connoisseur.
As if sensing my issue, Roman speaks up. “The ’11 Cab,” he says, his eyes still on the menu. “No sampling necessary.”
I smile just a bit. It’s uncanny how well he reads me.
“Of course,” the waiter replies. Then he recites the specials, everything sounding way too fancy. I’m trying to pay attention, but instead I find myself fantasizing about a big slice of deep-dish oozing with cheese.
“And to start,” he says, his eyes flicking up and down my body in a way I’m all too familiar with. My blood runs cold. I know that look. It’s not a look of appreciation. It’s a look of judgement. “Foryou, Mr. Barinov, may I recommend the scallops. And for your companion, perhaps the beet and citrus salad. Very light.”
I stare at him for long moment. There’s no mistaking his tone as he speaks the words “very light.” No mistaking the slight smirk that crosses his lips, as if he’s getting away with something.
A familiar heat crawls up my neck. But it’s different this time. I don’t feel embarrassment. I feel anger.
Roman regards me carefully, as if weighing whether or not to step in.
I set the menu down slowly. “I’m not on a diet.”
The waiter blinks, as if he didn’t expect me to say anything. “Oh. Of course. I just meant?—”
