Page 15 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

“How about we eat here?” she asked. “They’re supposed to have delicious sea bass.”

I pulled up the resort’s menu and showed her the prices, which were just as eye-watering as the steakhouse I chose. “Try again,” I said.

“Well, since you did tell me to research where to go tonight,” she started, giving me a side eye like I was trying to do her job instead of surprising her with an extravagant night out. “I found a local brewery called the Dog and Kettle.”

Her hand trembled slightly as she showed it to me on her phone. I could barely see past the sudden flash of anger. Not exactly new where Laurel was concerned, but I thought we found some common ground when we were joking around at the vineyard. Now she was back to making subtle jabs that I couldn’t possibly know anything about fine dining and relegating us to some dumpy local brewhouse.

I’d traveled all over the world, damn it. Oh, right, she also thought everything in my life was handed to me, and I didn’t appreciate any of it. She didn’t have to say the words. I could read her face like a book. Yes, I was born rich, but I worked for the most important things in my life.

“Just please take a look at it,” she said, her voice trembling as much as her hand.

There was something about that desperate plea that made me take her phone and scroll through the pictures of the Dog and Kettle. Not actually dumpy at all, it looked like a respectable setup, with several good-sized fermentation vessels and a row of taps that made my mouth water.

Yeah, I could use a good beer, and the hundreds of reviews assured me that’s what I would get there.

When I agreed, she relaxed a little bit, and by the time we arrived, she was once again back to normal, with only a few darted glances around as soon as we got inside. It wasn’t like I had never been around someone who was being followed, and I’d been tailed plenty of times myself. I knew what it looked like, and that was exactly how she was acting.

“You got enemies?” I asked in a joking tone after a burly guy told us to sit wherever we wanted.

“Just you,” she answered snappily enough that I figured I was imagining things.

I was in too deep with her, too invested. Making things up because I was used to being around a totally different kind of person from Laurel. She wasn’t going to stab me in the back, figuratively or literally. She was just a woman with a job to do, and fighting to do her best.

I grabbed my chest, feigning shock and horror at her quip. “Not in a million years,” I said, putting my hand on the small of her back and guiding her toward the bar. “Now it’s my turn to show off my expertise.”

“I’ll do my best to appreciate it,” she said, sickly sweet, letting me know she didn’t think I had done the same while we were at the winery.

God, she was infuriating, so why the hell was I smiling? Especially since there were still unanswered questions because I didn’t buy that there was no history here for her, even if it wasn’t at Canyon Vines.

I was going to dig deeper, because I had to know everything about her, but right now, I only wanted to relax and enjoy her company, even if she kept needling me. Which she would. And I’d continue to love it.

Chapter 9 - Laurel

The Dog and Kettle was set off the side of a road, surrounded by a picket fence, with a couple of lazy hounds hanging around in the outdoor seating area, not paying anyone any mind. To live up to the rest of the name, various teakettles ranging from dinged-up tin to shiny copper were hanging from twinkle lights along the edge of the peaked roof.

A burly man with tattoos and a beard halfway down his chest greeted us and told us to make ourselves at home, and I followed Mik toward the bar, which took up the entire length of the big place. Despite its size, it was set up to have a homey, English pub feel, which got overtaken by the country music blasting from an old-fashioned juke box.

Behind a glass wall, I could see into the brewery, with several massive stainless steel tanks that Mik nodded approvingly at. He was no longer up in arms at me for suggesting something less than five-star dining, and I was glad because it meant I didn’t have to put more than a few dollars on the company card for a toothbrush.

I had always wanted to visit this place myself, but my snobby ex would rather have died than ever show up there, so I was able to relax knowing Rand wouldn’t be popping up to surprise me.

As Mik ordered the first round from the dozens of taps, I wondered if maybe Rand’s influence during the year I worked for him had rubbed off on me. Was I as much of a snob as him now? Even if I wanted to deny it, I had been acting like it, probably bordering on insufferable.

If only Mik didn’t get under my skin so badly, almost asking for me to fight him at every turn. I cared about the restaurant, and my future reputation depended on my demanding the best.

“This was a good choice,” he said begrudgingly, his eyes on two of the bartenders, who were talking to each other and glancing back at us.

I didn’t recognize them, but there was no limit to Rand’s influence in this town, and I couldn’t make myself smile or agree with Mik as one of them headed over to us, looking purposeful.

I braced myself, and oddly, Mik seemed to do the same. The barstools were close together, and the place was already packed. He was already a big man, but as the flannel-clad bartender came close, Mik somehow expanded.

“Are you Mikhail Fokin?” he asked, though it was clear he was already certain he was right.

“Who’s asking?”

I swiveled around, bumping my knees against his, to see him giving the bartender a glare that should have dropped him on the spot. I was no stranger to his imperious attitude, but what did this guy do to deserve it?

The bartender introduced himself, waving at the other man behind the bar. “I’m the owner here,” he said. “I’ve got ten bucks riding on you being responsible for one of my customers’ favorite imports last summer, Zabava pale lager?”