Page 11 of Mile High Daddy

He leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Why did they split?”

I hesitate, the old wounds still tender despite the years. “Let’s just say my dad wasn’t the best at being a husband. My mom left, and we had to start over. It wasn’t easy, but we managed.”

Mikhail doesn’t press, but there’s something in his eyes, a flicker of understanding that catches me off guard.

“Your mother sounds strong,” he says finally, his voice softer than I’ve heard it.

“She is,” I say, smiling faintly. “She had to be.”

He’s finished half of his Whopper, eating it with the same deliberate precision he seems to apply to everything.

“What?” he asks, catching me staring.

I shake my head, laughing softly. “Nothing. It’s just funny seeing you here.”

His brow lifts slightly. “Funny how?”

“You look like the kind of guy who has a private chef,” I reply, taking a sip of my soda. “Not someone who eats Whoppers at roadside Burger Kings.”

His lips twitch into that infuriating smirk of his. “I told you, it’s my first time.”

“Right,” I say, leaning forward. “And how’s the grand introduction to fast food?”

He picks up a fry, inspects it closely, and then eats it. “Surprisingly good.”

I laugh, shaking my head.

“Tell me more about you,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “Why teaching? Why children?”

I hesitate, the directness of his attention making me squirm. He makes it impossible to deflect, his eyes pinning me in place like I’m the only person in the room. “I’ve always liked kids,” I say finally. “They’re honest in a way adults aren’t, you know? And they’re still learning about the world. I wanted to do something that mattered, even if it’s just in a small way.”

Mikhail nods, his expression thoughtful. “It’s an important job. One most people wouldn’t take on.”

The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. I pick at my fries, needing a distraction. “What about Torres?” I ask, nodding toward the car parked outside. “Doesn’t he want to eat?”

Mikhail leans back slightly, his smirk returning. “Torres likes his space. He’ll eat when we’re back on the road.”

“He really isn’t your bodyguard, is he?”

“Not officially,” Mikhail answers.

“Hmm,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re good at dodging questions, you know that?”

“I only dodge the ones I don’t feel like answering,” he counters smoothly, his gray eyes glinting with amusement.

I laugh softly, but his words stick with me.

I watch him through my lashes. Mikhail seems to realize it and looks up. “Do I have something on my face?” he asks.

“You’re older than I thought,” I blurt out, because no man in his twenties has that level of presence, that confidence that demands the whole damn room. And no man in his twenties looks like he walked out of a Brioni ad with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that could strip you down to nothing.

He chuckles, not looking the least offended. “How old would you say I am?”

I chew before answering. “Is that a trick question?”

He laughs again, and for some reason I feel really good about that. Mikhail doesn’t seem like a person who laughs a lot.

We eat in relative silence after that, though I catch him watching me occasionally, his gaze lingering like he’s trying to decipher me as much as I’m trying to figure him out.

---