Page 70 of Dirty Grovel

I suppress the snort of laughter. “You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t mean it all of the time. But I definitely mean it some of the time. Oksana Pavlova is a stone-cold bitch when she wants to be. How do you think she survived this kind of life?”

“She’s a badass,” I correct. “I think you have to be if you want to survive. Too many people took advantage of me over the years because they saw my friendliness as weakness.”

“Well, maybe we could come to some sort of arrangement.”

I frown. “Does it involve a contract?”

He smirks. “Just some old fashioned, good faith. We could give each other lessons. You teach me to be more open and friendly. And I’ll teach you to be a badass.”

I can’t help laughing. “You’re qualified to do that?”

“I know every trick in the book,” he reassures me with a wink. “You just have to watch and learn.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I reach into my trouser pocket and pull out my phone. “I wanted to share something else with you.”

He waits patiently until I’ve opened the pregnancy app I installed shortly after my first doctor’s appointment.

“I found this app that helps you track your pregnancy. I was thinking of adding you to the users tab so that you can follow along, too.”

His eyes widen. “That sounds… personal.”

“Call it a gesture of—what did you call it?—good faith. I thought it would help keep us on the same page.”

I hand him my phone and he takes it gingerly, still looking shell-shocked by the idea. He starts scrolling through the features.

“What is this folder?”

“Just things we’ll need for the baby. Strollers, clothes, diapers… I’ve put down my preferences and once I add your name to the user list, you’ll be able to add your preferences, too.”

“I see,” he mutters, continuing to scroll. “You’ve been busy.”

“I get overwhelmed easily,” I flush. “Apps like these are my jam. They help me compartmentalize. I can put things in neat little folders and access them whenever I want. That’s why I started journaling, too.” I point to the tiny little diary icon at the bottom left corner of the screen. “I’ve recorded a bunch of messages for the baby on there. It’s like an audio diary of thoughts.”

Oleg lifts his eyes to mine. “You’d let me hear this?”

“Yes. You’re the baby’s father and I have nothing to hide.”

He holds my gaze for a few seconds longer than usual. The air between us feels charged.

“Thank you,” he says at last, breaking the kinetic energy between us.

I swallow, trying to summon up the courage to discuss my next point of order with him. I’ve been contemplating this for days now.

But now, I’m finally ready to put it into action.

“There’s something else I want to ask you,” I start nervously. “It’s about my sister. I would like to see her. I think she wants to see me, too. But she can’t leave her own home, much less Las Vegas, because her boyfriend—if you can even call him that—is a freaking psychopath. I’m starting to think she might be in real danger and I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I did nothing.”

He's very quiet, studying me with those liquid gold eyes. “What are you asking me, Sutton?”

I can feel my throat closing up. “I-I’m asking… for your help,” I say. “To bring Sydney down to Nassau. Or to maybe get some money across to her so that she can get here herself.”

I don’t expect the reaction I get.

Which is a stark silence that seems to stretch on for ages.

When Oleg finally speaks, his tone is laced with regret, but it doesn’t soften the sting from his words. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sutton.”

---