“Hey, you have a couple days,” I remind her with a light shrug. “There’s no rush. If you aren’t ready to see me, then you don’t have to be. If he doesn’t approve, we’ll simply have to do video tours of the houses so you can give me your opinions.”
“You’d want to do that?” she asks, sounding surprised but not unhappy. “You’d video-chat me through your search when I’m mere miles away, without taking offense?”
Anya, I’d lick a toaster just to see you smile.
“I would never take offense to your boundaries, Anya. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. If you’re never ready, you’re never ready. We’ll simply be texting each other in the old folks’ home, putting our keyboard size all the way up so we can still see.”
She bursts out, laughing. “You’re not serious.”
Crossing a hand over my heart, I bow my head an inch. “I take my future elderly state very seriously.”
“What would your future wife think? Texting another woman for decades?”
The prospect is entirely unsettling. My stomach twists with pain and discomfort as I try to picture a wife who isn’t?—
“Who said anything about getting married?”
Anya blinks at that. “You don’t want to get married some day?”
“Right now I’m taking things a day at a time,” I say evasively. “You know?”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I know what you mean.”
“Besides, we’re still young,” I tack on. “I still know how to work emojis and upload to Instagram without somehow sending a fax.”
“A fax?” She chuckles. “Can you even do that from a phone?”
“I’d figure out how,” I vow seriously.
Chapter Nineteen
Matteo
The weekend came faster than I expected, and so did Anya’s answer. A tentativeyesto spending time with me while I visited her father’s territory. We decided to plan for a dinner meeting on Friday night since her family would be there, and if she felt up for it, she would come tour a house or two with me—Aunt Irina tagging along for added comfort.
I was able to school my excitement in the days leading up to leaving, but as soon as I got onto the private plane, nothing could distract me from thinking about the impending visit. I couldn’t help it. I knew I only had five and half hours in the air, and then an hour or so in my hotel before I would make my way to Anton’s mansion for dinner.
Now sitting in my reclined seat, waiting for the last stretch of the flight to end, I realize that every time an hour passes by, my anticipation only grows stronger. I feel fucking wired, like a kid on Christmas who can’t fucking sleep thinking about Santa coming to town.
Anya
Have a nice flight.
I’ve been staring at that text on and off for nearly the entire trip, counting down the minutes to when I’ll hear her voice again. It sounds ridiculous, but Anya through the phone doesn’t do her justice. She’s meant to be seen and heard in person. Though, I’ll take what I can get when it comes to her. Something is better than nothing.
I don’t know that I’d be able to go back to a life without her in it. Maybe that’s too intense of a declaration for friends, but I don’t care. If she needed to stop talking to me for her mental health, I’d accept it. But I can’t deny that I would probably do something very stupid like becoming a stalker just to see that she’s okay and check in on her from afar.
Shaking off the dark thought, I have to remind myself that they have no place in my mind. I won’t think of the worst, especially now that I feel the jiggle of plane wheels hitting the ground. Rolling to a stop on the tarmac, I breathe out and start to gather my things. The pilot and flight assistant both wait patiently for me to deboard and offer me wishes for a safe trip.
Planning to get a car and head to my hotel, I’m shocked as hell to see shadows standing mere feet away in the landing area. I can’t make out what or who is waiting for me until my feet hit the asphalt. Three men standing in front of a blacked-out SUV, surrounded by what seems to be four different teams of guards and even more cars meant for said groups of armed men.
“I didn’t expect an escort,” I say, closing the distance between us, pulling my shades up, and setting them at the top of my head.
Now that I’ve descended the plane stairs, the bright-ass California sun isn’t searing into my eyes. Blue eyes are pretty,until you feel the heat of the sun piercing into them. They’re sensitive little buggers.
“Mr. Morozov,” I greet when they don’t respond, dropping my duffle bag and extending my hand to be shaken. “I’d greet your brothers but saying three Mr. Morozovs sounds kind of silly, and I think your enforcer might try to strike me if I call him by his name.”
Anton sighs, clapping his hand harshly with mine. He squeezes it tightly, threateningly, but not so hard as to break the bones in my hand. “You can use their names. It’s not like there’s anything else to possibly call them.”
