Page 19 of My Ex’s Dad

I rear back to frown at her. Hearing that she has an ex, and not a current man in her life, sounds fucking amazing. But I despise him already. Both for having her first before I could and also for how he treated her.

“He was never into my body, and…” She frowns, more in anger than sadness. “And he was always telling me I was too fat.”

I grip the back of her neck and pull her in close to kiss her. I manage to erase that frown, but when we part for air, she’s slow to smile back at me. “He sounds like a fucking moron.”

She pulls her lips in and hesitates. “I don’t know if you really mean that.”

I nod. “It’s his loss he can’t appreciate a gorgeous woman.” I smooth my hands over her hips, wishing I had the time to hold on to her like I did last night, fucking her until she begged to come.

“No, I mean, you can’t actually think that about him. Because, um…” She winces. “Um, he’s your son.”

I don’t release her. Her statement surprises me, but it isn’t working as a deterrent to my desire for her. “What?”

She bobs her head and tucks some of her golden hair back behind her ear. “Yeah. I didn’t realize it last night. But I saw your tattoo this morning.” She presses her fingertip to the one on my chest. “This one, that says you’re the boss of the Sokolov Family. And it clicked.” She lowers her gaze again, but only for a second. “I dated Roman for just under a year. We shared an apartment. But when I walked in on him cheating on me with my best friend a week ago, I left him.” She clears her throat, tipping her chin up higher, as if saying that fills her with pride, not shame. “He brought me here over the holidays.”

Instead of bringing you to the family gatherings.

My stupid son brought some other woman, instead. Not her.

Now it makes sense. I thought something about Liliana’s voice was familiar, and I realize I must have heard her in the background sometime when Roman called me.

“And I left a few things. I came here to get them, and I didn’t count on crashing into your car. Or meeting you. Or letting last night happen.” She licks her lips. “I didn’t know you were his father.”

I capture her in a kiss again, showing how this doesn’t make a difference to me. “And I didn’t know my son could be stupid enough to let someone like you go.” In case she gets the idea I want to take my son’s place, to be her man and start something serious—something I don’t make time or effort for in my life—I stand and lift her with me. Once she’s on her feet, I take her hand and squeeze it. “I think we agreed on breakfast.”

She seems surprised, smiling sweetly. “I think it was dinner, actually.”

I stride toward my pants to pull them on. “I suppose we were distracted then.”

“I’ll say.” She pulls her gaze from me and turns to go. “Breakfast it is.”

Musing over the fact that I slept with my son’s ex, I wonder if she’ll revert to that shyness downstairs. Viktor routes a call to me, though, and I take it before I go down to eat. Feeding Liliana is my priority, but as I listen to the report from one of my supervisors, work takes precedence. It always does. I step out of my room to pace the landing and listen. Viktor is staying in his quarters on the other side of the mansion, giving me space, but this isn’t anything I can hand off to him.

I’m later than I want to be when I come down the stairs. To my surprise, Liliana’s made herself useful in the kitchen. A full spread of food is set out.

“You made this?” I ask, hearing how stupid it sounds the moment I step into the large kitchen.

“No. I ordered it in,” she replies with a sarcastic tease. No one’s on the road out there. The pots and pans in the sink are proof of how fast she whipped up breakfast.

“Hmm.”

She sits, ready to dig in, and using her foot, she slides another stool at the island out to me, a silent invitation to join her.

“You made all of this?” I ask as I sit, once again hating how simple I sound.

“Yeah. What? Are you used to something else?” she asks before taking a bite.

Yeah. I fucking am.

It’s not that she made food for me. It’s that she took the initiative to make food at all. For herself. She’s self-sufficient, which is sexy as fuck after only ever meeting women who rely on hired help to get through life. She’s competent, too, which is obvious the second I take a bite of eggs and have to fight back a groan. And she’s so laid-back about having made me a meal at all.

It’s then that I realize how used I am to people like Elena looking at me and expecting me to provide. Relying on me to have Viktor reserve a table or order around their particular dietary demands. Being on the receiving end of a home-cooked meal shouldn’t feel this remarkable, but it does. Sometimes it’s the small things that matter so much more.

“This is amazing,” I admit as I eat, stunned that my son could’ve ever let her go. That he could have ever been so stupid to lose her.

“Eh.” She makes a face. “The pancakes could use a little more vanilla.”

I smile, amused that she can be so candid about critiquing her own results. Not out of shame or embarrassment, just an open acknowledgment that she could improve.