Page 85 of Baby for the Bratva King

“It was.” I plop in the booth, Fleur sitting opposite.

“I still think you should take a test.”

“I’m fine.”

“Our father was a psycho, but he never made you sick.”

I pick up the menu, using it to hide my face. We’re good at reading each other, and I still don’t want Fleur finding out about Felix’s mafia adventures.

I run through the list of options. Iced matcha; coffee with a whole bunch of different flavors. If me and Fleur are eating out—we rarely ever do—we skip over the fancy stuff and order the cheap things on the menu. Usually, that consists of two small cappuccinos and a bowl of fries to share.

“What would you like?”

“Right,” says Fleur, stalled for a second. “I forget we have the funds to order a whole ass meal.” She picks up the menu, reading the descriptions. “Banana pancakes. Yum. I’ve always wanted to try those.”

“Great,” I say, rising from the booth. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, a pregnancy test from the CVS around the corner, if you don’t mind.”

I glare at her. “Anything else from here?”

“No, that’s all.”

I drag myself to the counter, heavy with anxiety. Interestingly, I’m starving, which is why I order the all-day breakfast with two extra hash browns.”

“Holy shit,” says the server behind the counter as I’m playing my order. “Saskia Brouwer?”

“Um, yeah,” I stutter. This whole being spotted in public thing is new. I have no idea how I’m supposed to act.

“You’re dating Felix Pozharsky, right?” she squeaks. I swear her face turns green for a second.

Before I can answer her other question, she hits me with another. “I saw your online tutorials. I tried pole dancing once but I gave up, it was too slippery. How the hell do you grip?”

“Try a brass pole,” I suggest. “And some grip solution. I can recommend some if you like.”

“No, that’s okay,” says the girl, shaking off the conversation, like she just wanted to ask questions and hold a conversation, not learn anything new about pole.

“Is that everything for you today?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Perfect,” she squeals while staring into my soul, like she wants to put a hex on me. Mixed fucking signals. “Enjoy the rest of your day!”

I walk away like a robot. What a weird interaction.

“Spotted out in the wild—Miss. Saskia Brouwer,” narrates Fleur, intimidating the Gossip Central Magazine journalists.

“Don’t use that name.”

“Soon it will be Saskia Pozharsky.” She quirks up in her seat. “Hey. That actually sounds good.”

“Fleur.” I slide into the booth. “We’re not getting married.”

“But that’s what dating is for. You’re wasting your time otherwise.”

Unfortunately, I don’t see it that way. I’m too focused on enjoying the stupid journey.

I lean in. “Do you think father has a point?”