That evening, I stand in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear. It's just dinner, I keep telling myself. But after the L-word slipped, I feel… almost giddy. Oh, he didn't say he loved me, and I don't know how I would feel about that if he had, but he said it was something he lovedaboutme. So that means something, right?
Why am I even stressing over this? It's just dinner, for God's sake!
I settle on dark jeans and a soft cashmere sweater in deep green. Nothing fancy, but nicer than my usual loungewear. I leave my hair down, apply minimal makeup, and tell myself this isn't a date.
It's definitely not a date.
The formal dining room is intimidating. Crystal chandeliers, a table that seats twenty, and enough silverware to confuse an etiquette expert. But Aleksandr has set only two places at one end, close enough for conversation without shouting across the expanse.
He stands when I enter, and my mouth goes dry. He's changed into dark slacks and a white shirt, no tie, the top two buttons undone to reveal the strong column of his throat. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently, and those gold eyes track over me, leaving tiny shivers in their path.
"You look beautiful," he says, pulling out my chair.
"I'm just wearing jeans," I say a bit nervously. I sit, hyperaware of his hands on the back of my chair, his body close enough that I can feel his heat.
The staff serves the first course, some kind of soup that smells amazing. We eat in silence for a moment, and the tension is thick enough to cut.
"So," I finally say. "Books. What do you read?"
He looks surprised by the question. "History, mostly. Military strategy. Some philosophy."
"That's very serious."
"I'm a very serious person." But there's humor in his eyes. "What about you?"
"Mysteries. Thrillers. Anything that lets me solve puzzles." I take a sip of water. "I used to read romance novels, but they seemed too unrealistic after everything…"
"After running for your life from a Mob boss?"
"After learning that happy endings are fiction." The words come out more bitter than I intend.
His expression softens. "Not all of them."
"Name one real-life happy ending."
He frowns in thought. "This old couple I see at the park when I drive to my downtown office. They are always walking and holding hands, smiling and laughing."
I bark out a laugh. "They could just be senile and think they're on their first date."
"Fair point." He's quiet for a moment. "What kind of music do you like?"
The subject change is obvious but welcome. "Everything. Rock, pop, classical. I used to go to concerts before I had to disappear."
"What was the last concert you saw?"
I think back, and the memory makes me smile. "Some indie band at a tiny venue in the city. The lead singer forgot the lyrics halfway through the second song and just started making them up. The crowd loved it."
"Sounds chaotic."
"It was perfect." I take another bite of soup. "What about you? Do Mob bosses go to concerts?"
"This Mob boss does." His mouth quirks. "I saw the symphony last year. Tchaikovsky. The1812 Overturewith real cannons."
"Showoff."
"It was impressive." He refills my wine glass. "I'll take you sometime. If you want."
The offer hangs between us, implying a future I'm not sure we have. "Maybe."
