The main course arrives, perfectly cooked steak with roasted vegetables. We eat and talk about nothing important. Favorite foods, worst cooking disasters, childhood pets. The conversation flows easier than it has in days, and I find myself laughing at his story about trying to make borscht and somehow setting off the fire alarm.
"You're telling me the great Aleksandr Romanov can't cook?" I grin at him over my wine.
"I can order takeout like a champion." He cuts into his steak. "And I make excellent coffee."
"That's not cooking."
"It requires heat and timing. That's cooking." He points his fork at me. "Don't judge me."
"I'm absolutely judging you." But I'm smiling, really smiling. "A grown man who can't make soup."
"I have people for that."
"Of course you do."
The laughter that follows is genuine, warm, and for a moment I forget where we are. Forget the circumstances that brought us here. This feels like the cabin, like those easy mornings over coffee when he was just Sasha and I was just Maya.
"I miss this," I say quietly.
His eyes meet mine. "Me too."
"It was simpler there." I don't have to explain that I mean my cabin.
"It was a lie there." But there's no accusation in his voice. "We were both pretending to be people we weren't."
"Were we?" I set down my fork. "You weren't pretending. You lost your memories. That's different. Maybe we were just being the people we wanted to be?
He's quiet for a long moment, his gold eyes searching my face. "Maybe."
Dessert arrives, some elaborate chocolate creation that probably has a French name I can't pronounce. We share it, and I catch him watching me lick chocolate from my spoon. The heat in his gaze makes my core clench.
"You're staring," I say.
"You're worth staring at." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Especially when you do that thing with your tongue."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm eating dessert."
"I know. It's distracting." He leans back in his chair, and I notice the way his pants pull tight across his thighs. "In the best possible way."
I'm about to respond, probably something flirty and dangerous, when the dining room door opens. Danil enters, his expression grim.
"Sorry to interrupt." He doesn't look sorry. "But we have a development."
Aleksandr's entire demeanor shifts, the easy warmth replaced by cold focus. "What is it?"
"That former FBI agent, John Davis, called our Montana contact. He's asking questions about Pavel's death." Danil pulls out his phone, reading from notes. "And he mentioned he has information about 'a woman with an expensive car' who was seen in the area multiple times over the past six months."
44
ALEKSANDR
"Awoman with an expensive car" in that small town. The words echo in my head long after Danil leaves to make calls. I stand at my office window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and white, my mind working through possibilities like a chess player calculating moves.
Lena sits curled in the leather chair near my desk, her legs tucked under her, still wearing that green sweater that makes her eyes look almost black. She's been quiet since Danil dropped the news about John Davis, her fingers worrying the hem of her sweater, and I want to cross the room and still her hands with mine.
"We need to go to Montana," I say, turning from the window. "Talk to Davis directly."
Her head snaps up. "We?"
