Page 17 of Baby for My Ex's Brother

I ignore her again. “Is this another Hugo situation?”

“Hugo will be there. But this isn’t about him.”

I wait.

“I would like your company,” he says again, simply, like the sentence is complete, like it requires nothing further, like it’s a perfectly sufficient explanation on its own.

He simply wants my company.

Here is the thing about Ivan Fedorov. He makes me want to say yes.

Not in the way that people make you feel obligated to say yes, or in the way that circumstances back you into a corner until yes is the only available option. Just—yes. Clean and uncomplicated.

I have told myself no about so many things. No to the sister who never wanted me around. No to the college that couldn’t educate me. No to the jobs that would have made me smaller.

I have a very specific script for my own life, and normally I follow it carefully. I wake up, eat my egg white sandwich with sausage and Colby Jack cheese, take a shower, braid my hair so I don’thave to dry it. I don’t do daily makeup. I come to the shop, get the ball rolling, order my Italian beef from Gino’s for lunch, and move through my day.

Then I come home, eat a bowl of fruit, unbraid my hair, read or watch some dark romance, and go to bed. If I’m feeling like I need a change, I get a coffee from the donut shop next door.

This has been a reliable routine for four years. I don’t do change.

Which is why it took me too many speech rehearsals just to talk myself into walking into that wedding. It was off book. Last night was so far off book that I didn’t have a script for it. That’s why I consulted Cherry and Mike on it, and even that didn’t help.

But I embraced the chaos, and I just existed in the moment and said yes like it was the improv class I took a few years ago. It was exhilarating.

I trace one finger along the edge of Hairy’s tank. He does a lap as I feel the word bubbling out of me.

“Yes.”

6

IVAN

The elevator arrives at4:47. I hear the familiar rhythm of Armin’s stride across the marble—lighter than most of my men, a tall man’s careful gait—then the two measured knocks before he enters.

I don’t look up from the freight manifests.

He wears a charcoal suit that fits his thin frame precisely, nothing extraneous. His hair is brown, going gray at the temples, trimmed close to his skull. My sovetnik is efficient in all things.

He sets the file on my desk and stands with his hands behind his back, watching me. “She’s not your usual type.”

I continue signing. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you usually don’t ask for second files. Or third. Or whatever number this is.” He shifts his weight, still studying me. “You want details on her father? I have them. Vehicle make, I have it. But this,” he gestures at the slim folder, “This is unusual for you. Is there something I should be made aware of, Ivan?”

Probably. But telling him anything risks attaching more importance to the matter than is currently appropriate.

I finish the last signature and set the pen down. “The file is all I require.”

Armin’s gaze holds mine for a moment, searching. He’s not afraid of me, which is useful, but he’s not immune to the temperature of a room. “Ivan?—”

“That’ll be all.”

He stands for a full beat, waiting for an explanation I don’t offer. It’s not his business. When the door closes behind him, I reach for the folder.

Luna Ambrose.Age twenty-eight. South side address. A credit rating that suggests she pays her bills early and carries no debt, which is either discipline or fear. The photograph is from her business license, taken against a blue backdrop that does nothing for her skin.

She’s not smiling. Most people smile for license photographs, performative compliance, but she looks at the camera as if it had asked an improper question, and she decided not to answer.