Page 77 of Dirty Grovel

She frowns. “You seem to be implying that my appearance here is an inconvenience.”

“A little notice would have been nice.”

“And give you time to clear out before I got here?” she says shrewdly. “I think not.”

“If you came here with an agenda?—”

“I came here to see how my son is doing,” she cuts me off. “We haven’t spoken in weeks. You were supposed to come to Nassau for three days and you’ve ended up staying for over a month. Every time I ask you or Artem when you’re planning on returning home, I’m ignored. You left me no other choice, Oleg. Just because you decide to hide out here doesn’t mean the world has stopped spinning. There are plans underway, decisions that need to be made.”

“You’re referring to the task I gave you a few months ago.”

“‘Find me a wife,’ you said,” she says curtly. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.” She pulls out her phone. “And I’ve narrowed it down to three candidates. All immensely appropriate.”

I roll my eyes. “Truly the stuff love is made of.”

She throws me a side glare. “I’m not trying to find you the love of your life, if there is even such a thing. I’m trying to find you a suitable partner. Someone who can carry your name and bear your babies. Someone who can represent the family and uphold our honor.”

Gritting my teeth, I turn away from her towards the dining table. “It’s too early in the day for this conversation.”

“Is there a reason you’re being so cagey about this?” Oksana asks. “In case you need reminding,youare the one who asked for my help.”

“I recall perfectly.”

“Then what’s changed?”

“I’m a busy man with lots of different balls in the air,” I huff. “It’s my prerogative to change my mind.”

“Actually, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. It’s a man’s prerogative to listen to the women in his life. In your case, that woman is me.”

“Don’t you have it all tied up in a neat little bow?”

Oksana strides past me to the head of the table. “Really, Oleg. If you were a little boy, I’d put you over my knee. You’ve exasperated me right into a headache—” She stops short, her gaze flitting to the third place-setting at the table. “Is someone joining us for dinner?”

Do it.

Just rip off the fucking Band-Aid.

“As a matter of fact, someone is.”

The plan is to tell Oksana about Sutton. Then to excuse myself, track Sutton down, and break the news to her next.

But before I can do either, Sutton walks right into the living room…

Wearing loose hair, denim shorts that just about cover her ass, and a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

It’s the closest I’ve seen Oksana come to actual surprise. Her eyes flare as they run down Sutton’s laidback outfit choice.

Considering Oksana is decked out in a white cashmere dress and a black Dior belt cinched around her waist, she probably thinks that showing up for dinner in denim is as heinously offensive as spitting in the food.

“Ms. Palmer,” Oksana croaks, her voice not quite as silky smooth as it normally is, “what are you doing in my house?”

Sutton’s eyes go wide.

But she still doesn’t look nearly as surprised as Oksana.

“I wasn’t aware that this was your house,” she says carefully. “I thought it was Oleg’s. He’s the one who brought me here.”

Oksana turns her arctic gaze on me. “Is that so?”

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