She jabbed a finger at the pocket where I kept that card.
"I'm using every trick I've got to rebuild you from head to toe." Her eyes burned with determination. "And you only need to do one thing—"
She paused for effect.
"Tonight, you give him that damn card."
Chapter Four
Kirill & Harper
Kirill
She was late.
In this city, few people made me wait. My patience was running thin. I wanted to stand up, have Boris pull the car around, and cross this name off my list for good. But Olga's words from yesterday still rang in my ears.
"She's the only option, Kirill. The only one. You know how hard it is to find a girl like that these days?" Then Olga paused, as if this reason wasn't persuasive enough, and added another line.
"Plus, she's got a great ass."
I suspected she'd gone mad in that damn nursing home, but I had no choice.
Olga was the only family I had left in this world. When I was ten, crawling out from my parents' corpses covered in blood, she raised me with that old hunting rifle and a will of iron. If she wanted the stars, I'd figure out how to get them for her. A wife was nothing in comparison.
So here I sat like a fool, enduring the stares around me, waiting for this nurse named Harper Evans.
Finally, movement at the door.
Boris walked in like a moving wall. And behind Boris's massive black bulk, that "great ass" Harper Evans finally appeared.
I narrowed my eyes, looking her over past that ridiculous bouquet of roses.
Honestly, it took me a few seconds to confirm it was her.
Harper Evans wasn't acting like herself. Today, she'd made herself... very strange.
She wore a chiffon dress in an aggressively hot pink, feet crammed into matching pointed-toe heels. That wasn't even the worst part. Her hair looked shellacked with too much hairspray, her eyelids glittered with some cheap shimmer that caught the restaurant's crystal chandeliers at weird angles.
I never understood young girls' fashion trends.
But as a man with normal aesthetic judgment, I had to make a fair assessment. This was a disaster. It didn't suit her at all.
The outfit didn't highlight her beauty—it buried every inch of those curves that could make a man's throat go dry.
What a waste.
Boris led her to the table.
Harper was clearly nervous. Her cheeks flushed red from nearly tripping on her way in, both hands clutching that worn handbag so tight her knuckles turned white.
"Mr. Orlov."
"If you're planning to drink for courage," I broke the silence, pushing aside the heavy wine list, "I suggest going straight for whiskey."
Harper's eyes flew wide, like me speaking to her was worthy of shock.
"Thank you. Water's fine." She dropped her head, staring at the tablecloth pattern like her life depended on it.
