Page 15 of Deceitful Vows

Too late.

Bartender Two takes my picture without consent.

“Are they clear?” Bartender Two jerks up his chin before spinning his phone screen around to get Bartender One’s approval. “That’s as clear as a glass of water not removed from the Hudson.” He gets off track as quickly as I do when I find something interesting. “What phone is that? It takes a damn good picture. I can even see the tiny little freckles adorning her adorable nose.”

When I realize what he is doing—killing my suspicion with compliments—I pull the damp dish towel off his shoulder and throw it in his face.

“Delete that,” I demand, pointing to Bartender Two, “before I show you what happens when I don’t consent to having my photo taken.”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he attempts to delete the image.

I sayattemptbecause Bartender One snatches his phone out of his grasp before he can. “If you delete the evidence of our blistering yet somewhat one-sided exchange, how will he rat me out to the po-po if your name shows up on a missing person’s report tomorrow?”

I am completely and utterly lost. Mercifully, he is better at reading my confused prompts than my not-interested ones. “Lync’s got my plates and your image stored in his phone, so if you fail to show up tomorrow to meet with your sister, he has all the info he needs to finally see me in cuffs.”

“I’d do it, too,” Lync assures me. “Mikhail hasn’t shut up about his bike since he bought it.” He leans in closer. “That was a very long six months ago. So you can be assured I’ll doanythingfor a couple of hours of peace.”

I fight to hide my smile when Mikhail rolls his eyes before switching the television program back to football. A penalty shootout has Lync passive in under a minute, and all of Mikhail’s focus back on me. “Take a right at the end of the alleyway. After a second set of lights, you’ll see a glass-and-steel building half a click up. You can’t miss it. I’m in the penthouse. If you’d rather keep your visit under wraps, park in the underground garage and take the service elevator to the top floor. This code will get you inside my apartment.” After flipping over my hand, he writes a four-digit PIN code onto my palm. “It changes anytime it’s used, so if you are planning to leave and come back, collect the key from the entryway table first.”

“Why would I leave?” When he smirks, I free my foot from his trap. “I’d have to arrive before I could leave, and that isnevergoing to happen.”

“It’s happening,” Mikhail argues. “And to make sure, I’ll treat the Triple Threat Team to a hotel room for the night.” He flashes dimples as he nudges his head to the trio awaiting his return. “Then there will be no chance I’ll accidentally stumble to my bed in the middle of the night for a late-night snuggle.” His smile grows. “I’ve been caught out before. Consequences of having only one bed and a marshmallow heart.”

“Offering strangers your bed for the night nothing out of the ordinary for you, Marshmallow Man?”

He bops my nose with his pen, instantly weakening my defenses. “I only do it for the girls I like.” The pen clatters into a stack of twenty when he tosses it into a holder at the side of an ancient cash register. “And you’ve got me fascinated as fuck.” His nose screws up like it’s an effort to deliver his next words without vomit. “But I’m starting to think not all my interests center around me.” He signals to a patron demanding attention that he won’t be a minute before training his eyes on mine. “You good?”

I want to say no. I want to tell him he’s crazy to invite a stranger into his home, but something stops me. I just have no clue what it is, so instead, I nod, preferring to lie without words.

6

ZOYA

“You can’t seriously be contemplating this,” I murmur to myself as my rust bucket slowly pulls up to a massive steel-and-glass structure taller than the clouds.

Mikhail was right. You can’t miss his building. It’s huge and impressive, with a doorman and a team of valets who are so eager for me to move on one walks up to my driver’s side window before I reach the line several other vehicles are vying for.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

White air puffs from my mouth as I wind down my window. “Uh… I didn’t mean to come this way. I am seeking the service entrance.”

An expression crosses his face I have no issue deciphering.

He thinks I am him—that I’m the help.

“Past the potted hedge and to the right.”

I drink in the hedge before asking, “Is that the closest exit?”

He either doesn’t hear me or is too rushed off his feet to act cordially. “Past the hedge and to the right,” he repeats before he races to a flashy car cutting the line.

I can’t see who is seated behind the wheel. He must be famous, because camera bulbs flash as often as the motorists he cut off toot their horns.

“Ma’am,” a second concierge says, startling me, “I need you to move, please. You’re creating a fire hazard.”

A fire hazard in a driveway?

Too frazzled by the frenzy occurring around me to argue, I mouth an apology before seeking an opening in the long valet line. My gears crunch when I find a small gap between two low-riding vehicles that appear almost futuristic. LEDs light up the underbelly of their over-polished shells, and their pistons hiss with only the slightest compression of their gas pedals.

---