Page 178 of Dirty Grovel

I’ve been watching Sutton closely for hours now and there’s no sign that she even suspects what I might be up to.

As it should be.

She’s standing by the railing of the yacht, dancing with Lily, Noah, and Teo. Dressed in a loose-fitting, lily-white dress that drapes over her body like liquid silver, with flowers woven into the intricate braids of her hair, she’s the picture of a fairy tale princess.

Albeit a very pregnant one.

The party flows like expensive champagne. Which, of course, we have in abundance, along with sparkling apple juice for Sutton’s sake.

Streamers whip around in the breeze. Games are played. Cake is demolished.

It’s the perfect party.

Even my mother, who had turned up late, dressed in a grey cashmere dress and an accessory I didn’t see coming, looks impressed.

While Sutton is busy in the center of the bow with Faye, Jesse, and Mara, Oksana walks over to me, her heels click-clacking against the deck.

“Son.”

“Maman.”

We both turn to the ocean. I lean against the railing while Oksana remains ramrod straight. Every so often, her gaze slides to the man partaking in polite small talk by the buffet table.

“You’re not going to introduce us?”

“I probably should have told you I was bringing a date,” she concedes.

“You’re allowed,” I offer.

Her lips purse with the ghost of a smile. “His name is Richard. He owns a real estate company in Coral Springs.”

“How long have you been seeing each other?”

“Six months, give or take. But officially, only a few weeks.”

I snort. “My mother, the casual dater. Who would have thought?”

“It’s not casual anymore. We’re—” She winces. “—‘exclusive.’ Or whatever the kids call it these days.”

“Exclusive, hm?” I ask, throwing a glance in the man’s direction. “Surprising.”

“Why?” she asks defensively.

I shrug. “How old is he exactly?”

She stiffens. “Forty-eight.”

I throw her a teasing smile. “That’s a twelve-year difference by my count. He’s closer in age to me than he is to you.”

Oksana scowls. “Are you really going to make me feel bad about this?”

I turn to her, eyebrows raised. “Considering the shit you gave me about Sutton, you bet your ass I’m going to make you feel bad about this. How is Mr. Real Estate Agent worthy of marrying into this family?”

I expect to be met with a rant of epic proportions. I expect defensiveness and self-righteousness and lame-ass excuses like “I’m not the pakhan of the Pavlov Bratva.”.

But instead, I get a sigh. “You’re right.”

“Excuse me?” I gape at her, certain I’ve misheard.

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