He holds my gaze for a beat longer than feels casual. Then that easy half-grin is back. “So. We’ve established I don’t have a name. And ‘hey, you’ is getting old. I’m open to suggestions.”
I seize the change in subject gratefully. “How about George?”
“Pass.”
“Paul?”
He narrows his eyes. “If you say Ringo, I’m walking out that door.”
“You remembered something!” I point my fork at him, delighted despite myself.
He blinks, then the grin widens. “Huh. I guess I did. But that’s still a hard no on Ringo.”
“Fine, fine. What about...” The idea strikes, and I know it’s ridiculous, which is exactly why I like it. “Oh! Johnny Utah. FromPoint Break.”
“From what?”
“Keanu Reeves? Surfing bank robbers? Come on, it’s only the best movie of all time.” He stares at me. “Okay, we are absolutely watching it when your head is better. It’s a classic, and I found you on the beach, so the name is practically destiny.” I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. When did I last smile this hard? I can’t remember. “Johnny. For now.”
He rolls his eyes, but the fight against his smile is a losing battle. “Johnny Utah.” He tests it. Shrugs. “Alright. Johnny it is. Until the real thing comes back.”
Something warm and reckless blooms in my chest. My family doesn’t take my suggestions. Not about names, not about dinner, not about my own future. A stranger with no memory just accepted the first thing I offered, and the smallness of that, the simplicity, makes me ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
He stands and heads to the sink, rolling up his sleeves before I can tell him to sit back down. He turns on the water and picks up the sponge like he’s done this a thousand times.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’ve been resting all day. I’ll lose my mind if I rest any more.”
So we fall into it. He washes, I dry. Standing side by side at the sink feels so absurdly normal that I almost forget who I am. Two people in a kitchen after dinner. Water running. The clink of dishes. I’ve never done this before. Not once. Not with anyone.
The thought blooms warm and then turns sharp, because I know this is temporary. All of it. He’ll remember who he is and leave. My father will call me home. This quiet kitchen will go back to being a holding cell for one.
He hands me the last glass and it slips, still wet, through my fingers. His hand closes over mine before it drops, catching the glass and holding it there. Holding me there. That’s all it is. His hand on my hand.
But the heat that rolls through my body is so sudden, so sharp, that I forget how to form words. His eyes meet mine, dark and searching, and the kitchen shrinks to the size of his gaze. I’m not breathing. And for one dangerous, stupid second, all I can think is:I want.
Buzz. Buzz.
My phone vibrates against the countertop and I jerk backward, nearly dropping the glass again. He catches it with reflexes that are way too fast for a man with a concussion, but I’m already stepping away, pulling my hand back, not meeting his eyes.
“Sorry. I should get that.”
I grab the phone and retreat to my bedroom, closing the door behind me and pressing my back against it. My fingers are still tingling. My face is hot. And I’m furious with myself for letting that happen, for leaning into a moment that can’t go anywhere, because I am not free and he is not mine and nothing about this situation ends well for either of us.
I swipe the screen.
The name at the top turns my hands to ice.
Nikolai:I’ll be in the area in a couple weeks. Business in Miami. I’m stopping by after.
My shoulders draw up toward my ears before I can stop them. An old reflex, from years of bracing for whatever my brother throws next. I force them back down and type back.
Me:I’m fine here, Nik. You don’t need to come.
Nikolai:Dad wants eyes on you. Not a discussion.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed. My fingers won’t stay still. The Bratva is at war with the Andrettis right now, an ugly, escalating fight for control of Vegas. My father, the Pakhan, needs an edge, and the Colombians are it. Luis Restrepo’s family has everything the Bratva currently doesn’t: more soldiers, expanded drug pipelines, laundering infrastructure across half a continent. My marriage to Luis seals that alliance.
