Page 25 of Hating the Bratva

She looks down at the reservation list in front of her and then up again.

“Just two?” she asks Ivan without taking her eyes off me. She’s sizing me up.

If you want him, please take him.

“Yes,” he says.

She grabs the menus, and we follow her to the back of the dimly lit restaurant. Every table is filled except for a small booth in the back where she sets down our menus.

“Thanks,” Ivan says as we take a seat.

“Your server will be right with you.”

The restaurant is nice and quiet. Soft music plays over the speakers, and a candle flickers in the middle of the table. I grab my menu and look it over. If I can order as soon as the waitress gets to us, maybe I can get this over with fast. I already want to leave, and we haven’t even started dinner.

The silence stretches across the table, and when I peek up from the menu, Ivan’s brown eyes are drilling into me. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but the waitress walks up to the table at the same time.

“Can I start you two off with something to drink?” she asks.

“Iced tea.”

“Rum and coke,” Ivan says. Is he seriously going to drink hard liquor when he has to drive me home after this?

“I’ll be right back with your drink,” the waitress says before walking away.

“Are you serious right now?” I ask him, not able to hide the annoyance in my voice.

“Huh?”

“You have to drive me home.”

He shrugs. “Okay, it’s one drink.”

I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in the booth. “I’m not getting back in that car with you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re not? Then how are you going to get home?”

I don’t say anything. I’ll figure it out, but there’s no way I’m getting in the car with him if he’s going to drink. I already suspect he’s not entirely sober to begin with. The waitress comes back with our drinks, and Ivan clears his throat.

“Can I change my drink to iced tea as well?”

“Of course,” she says before taking the glass of rum and coke away.

“Once we’re married, you’ll have to loosen up a bit.”

His words feel like grease settling in my stomach. Once we’re married. As if after I walk down the aisle, I’ll go along with whatever he wants to do.

“Maybe once you’re a married man, you’ll rethink how heavily you drink,” I retort.

“Doubt it.”

My hands ball into fists in my lap, and it takes everything in me to hold onto my self-control. I grab my menu and read over it again so that I won’t have to look at his face. The waitress comes back with Ivan’s tea, and we both place our orders. We don’t talk much until we get our food.

Getting our food signifies the halfway point of the date, so if I eat fast enough, this will be over quickly. If I can barely stand having dinner with this man, how in the hell am I supposed to marry him? How am I supposed to roll over every morning to see that face? He isn’t bad-looking, but he’s not my type.

“So about the wedding…”

I look up from my food to see him staring at me as he takes a sip of his drink.

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