Page 11 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

He is probably the most boring man on the planet, but my uncle likes him.

He’s rich. He has good connections.

I sigh.

“Are you alright? You were gone for quite a long time.”

“I bumped into a friend in the ladies'. Sorry, she talks nonstop.”

He laughs. “Oh, yes, I know how you girls are. The powder room is the biggest social hangout.”

I giggle and pick up my glass of wine, all but downing it.

“I’ll get us another bottle.”

I want to say no, to make some excuse to leave, but it’s still so early, and besides that I really, desperately need another drink after that kiss. I wonder if my cheeks are still flushed rosy pink—I wonder if my lips are still swollen.

I touch my fingers to my lips and do my best to hide the soft smile that threatens to spill across my face.

“Here you go.”

My date pours me another glass of wine.

Brandon isn’t a bad guy. He works hard. He does the right thing. In fact, all he ever doesiswork. It’s also all he ever talks about. It’s like he doesn’t exist outside of the office.

Near the beginning of this date, I asked him what he does for fun, and he told me he likes to arrange data in spreadsheets.

Fun?

No thanks. I’d rather be tied to a cement block and thrown into ice-cold water.

I do my best to listen to his long, boring, shitty stories about work and shipments and clients and how well he is doing and how much money he is making. Oh my word. I’m falling asleep here.

I feel like I’m slipping lower and lower in my seat and I can barely keep my eyes open. We have finished the second bottle of wine, and I can’t actually do this for another second.

I pull myself up, forcing my eyes open.

“I had better get going,” I say, as politely as I can, hoping not to offend him.

But he is a bit of a mouse of a man and he doesn’t even try and push me to stay longer. “Oh, of course, anything for you, my dear.”

I always thought of the termmy dearas one that only old people use.

I smile.

I donotroll my eyes, because that would be really rude.

“Thank you for tonight.”

“Here, wait for me, let me give you a ride home. I know your car is here, but you can’t drive after so much wine.”

I am already standing up because I messaged my driver twenty minutes ago to come and fetch me. Besides, no one tells me what to do. Having my uncle boss me around is bad enough.

“You’ve had just as much wine as I have. But anyway, that won’t be necessary, my drivers are already here—two of them. One will drive my car home for me.”

“Oh. Well, then let me walk you to your car,” he insists.

He holds the door open for me, and I realize that with the way he is standing I have to duck around him to get into the car. Of course, he’s done this on purpose.

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