Page 89 of Inked Adonis

Grams giggles and slaps Myles’s arm. “You flatterer, you.”

She’s so happy that I momentarily forget how nervous I am to walk into a room filled with Chicago’s upper crust.

But the moment the doors close behind me, it wallops me all over again.

The room smells like power, if that’s even a thing. It’s a heady blend of expensive cologne and fancy food. The men are tall, the women are in heels, and I feel like a lost hobbit as I sneak a few carrots from a charcuterie board and find a shadowy stretch of wall to cower against.

I assumed it would just be me and Grams tonight—maybe Sam and Myles, too. I imagined normal seats in the stadium, the two of us cheering along with the rest of Chicago’s rabble. Anonymous. Easy. Safe. Not like…

“Champagne, ma’am?”

I blink up at a waiter in a suit vest who’s holding a tray of champagne flutes in front of me. I thought sporting events were for beer, but I accept one of the flutes anyway, with a mumbled “Thank you.”

Then I hurry to find Myles and Grams before someone quizzes me on which forks to use first or my favorite kind of caviar.

Somehow, they’ve found their way to the front of the VIP section. Grams is pressed to the glass that overlooks the entirerink. It’s the best view in the house, and the smile on her face tells me she knows it.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Samuil Litvinov never does anything halfway.

Including introducing his new live-in girlfriend to Chicago’s elite, apparently. I would’ve assumed he’d want to be by my side for this, setting people’s expectations and ensuring I wasn’t getting sloppy drunk on free champagne and embarrassing him.

But he’s nowhere in sight.

Myles is doing a decent job of shielding us from the curious crowd. I don’t recognize anyone, but the way he greets them tells me that they’re all connected in some way to the Litvinov Group’s business interests.

Which means a lot of them probably know Katerina Alekseeva.

God, she’d really fit in with this crew.

I absentmindedly pat the burner phone still in my pocket. I’m not sure why I even brought it with me. Just in case, I guess.

In case of what, I don’t know.

“Myles…” I sidle a little closer to him as Grams ropes the man to her left into a conversation about the Blackhawks winning the Cup in 2015.

“What’s up?” he asks breezily, already polishing off a glass of champagne.

“When will Sam be here?”

Myles checks his watch and frowns. “Actually, he was supposed to be here already. Something must’ve come up.”

I look back towards the door and two women twist around, working hard to look like they weren’t just staring at me. But the way their heads dip together, nervous smiles on their faces, I know I was the subject of their conversation.

“Why do people think I’m here?” I ask.

“To watch the game?” Myles guesses with a shrug.

He’s a man, but even he isn’t that oblivious. My eyes narrow. “Don’t be cute.”

“I can’t help it.” He beams, flashing me that toothy grin. “It’s my superpower. Maybe you could mention that to Hope, by the way.”

“Answer the question. Who do these people think I am?”

I do file away his interest in Hope for perusal at a later date, though. I store it in thethat’s-maybe-not-a-bad-ideafolder.

“Considering you’re sitting in Samuil’s box, they’re probably thinking you’re his guest.”

I want to ask how many “guests” Samuil has brought up here. Am I the latest in a long line? Is everyone around me taking bets on whether I’ll ever be seen again?

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