I roll my eyes and look away before grumbling. “Scottish. He has an accent.”
She takes my hand again and squeezes hard. “Mama!”
“I know.”
“How tall?”
“Jazzie.”
“How. Tall. Woman!”
“Six feet. At least. Probably more.”
She’s fucking beaming. “Facial hair?”
I swallow hard, the image ofALLthat’s Adam Maksimov assaulting my mind. “Full beard.”
She hums. “Tats?”
I squirm in my seat. “…I could see some on his hands… and neck.”
“I am going topass out.”
“Pick up your cheese,” I try again.
But this girl is not picking up her string cheese. She is staring at me with both hands holding mine, her mouth stretched in a wide grin, looking like she’s twelve years old again. And for the first time in ages, she looks happy about something that’s happening in this house.
I look at my crazy, beautiful, completely unhelpful child. And the laugh I was holding back comes out. Just a little. In the smallest hiccup.
“This is not funny,” I tell her again, weaker.
“Mama. He iscoming back. Tolive here.Because he saw you.Mama, do you know how many men decide big things just by looking at a woman? And you are sitting here trying to act like this is abad thing…”
“It is a bad thing. He’s aBratvaboss!”
“He’s a Scottish Bratva boss who came formeand sawyou. He is inlovewith you.”
“He isnotin love with me. He met me forty-five minutes ago.”
She winks. “And he is moving in.”
“To protect us.”
“Tolive with you.” She wags her eyebrows.
“Jasmine.”
“Inyour house.”
“Jasmine, listen to me…”
“Where yousleep.”
“Jasmine Maria Venn.”
She finally picks up the string cheese, brushes it off, takes a bite, and stares at me chewing.
“Mama,” she says around the cheese, “I’m so happy for you.”
