Page 19 of The Mafia King's Baby

“I don’t know. Relaxed? No, that’s not right.” She tilts her head, studying me with the intensity of someone who’s known me for fifteen years. “You look like you’ve been thoroughly?—”

“Can we order first?” I interrupt, heat flooding my cheeks.

“Oh, my, Celia.” Her eyes widen with delighted realization. “You slept with someone.”

“Keep your voice down.” I glance around the restaurant, though it’s mostly empty in the lull between lunch and dinner crowds.

“You did! You actually had sex with a human male who isn’t Tripp the Terrible.” She leans across the table, grinning like she’s won the lottery. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Proving how observant she is, she says, “Bullshit. You’re practically glowing, and you’re wearing lipstick on a Thursday afternoon, which you never do unless something significant has happened.” She flags down our server and orders for both of us without consulting the menu, a privilege earned through two years of shared meals and identical taste in comfort food. “Spill.”

I give her the edited version. Attractive guest, unexpected chemistry, and one night of adult companionship that was never meant to be more than temporary connection. I leave out the money on the counter, and how it turned the whole night into something tainted and sordid in my mind.

“I’m proud of you,” she says when I finish the sanitized account.

“For what?”

“For doing something spontaneous and fun without overthinking it to death.” She raises her iced tea in a mock toast. “Though you probably shouldn’t advertise that as coming with the room. Your QwikRent reviews might get interesting.”

I laugh despite myself, grateful for her ability to find humor in situations that make me want to hide under blankets. “It wasn’t planned. It just...happened.”

“That’s usually how it works. So, when are you seeing him again?”

“I’m not. He left this morning for San Francisco, back to his real life and whatever business brought him through Lake Tahoe in the first place.” I try to keep my tone light and unaffected. “It was exactly what it was supposed to be. A brief encounter, no strings attached.” I grimace when I say, “I don’t even know if he’s married or in a relationship. I didn’t think to ask.” I groan in disgust.

She pats my hand. “Not your fault if he is a cheater, but do you think he was?”

Going with my gut, I say, “No. I don’t think he has anyone special. He seemed…lonely, like me. We both needed last night, I think.”

Gemma studies my face with the careful attention of someone who’s learned to read between my carefully constructed words over the past two years of friendship. “Yes, and now you wish it could be more.”

“It doesn’t matter what I wish. He’s gone, and I’ll probably never see him again.” I take a large bite of my sandwich to avoid further discussion.

“Did he at least leave his contact information? Say he’d call when he gets back to wherever he’s from?”

“He left a note saying he’d be in touch.”

“Well, that’s something. Maybe?—”

I shake my head. “Gemma, can we talk about something else? Please?”

She recognizes the note in my voice that means I’m approaching my limit for emotional excavation. “Of course. How’s the job search going?”

We spend the rest of lunch discussing career prospects and her latest dating disasters, which are comfortable topics that don’t require me to examine my feelings about mysterious strangers who disappear before dawn.

As the afternoon progresses, my thoughts return to Aleks despite my best efforts at distraction. Not just to the physical intimacy we shared, though that was certainly memorable, but to the conversations that preceded it. The way he listened when I talked about my father, the grief I glimpsed when he mentioned his brother, and the sense that beneath his polite exterior lay depths I’d barely begun to explore.

Had I imagined the connection I felt when we opened up to each other? Was the chemistry purely physical, enhanced by wine and candlelight and the novelty of sleeping with someone who wasn’t Tripp?

By evening, curiosity gets the better of me. I open my laptop and search for “Aleks Sokolov” in various combinations with terms like “international trade,” “Eastern Europe,” and “business.” The searches return nothing useful. No LinkedIn profile, no company websites, and no social media presence that matches the man who shared my bed last night.

In an age when everyone leaves digital footprints, when even my elderly neighbors have Facebook accounts they barely use, complete online anonymity strikes me as unusual. Most legitimate businesspeople have some kind of professional web presence, even if it’s just a basic company listing or industry directory entry.

I try variations of the spelling. Aleksander Sokolov, Alex Sokoloff, Alexander Sokolov but still find nothing that matches the man I met or explains what kind of trade business requires complete digital invisibility.

The absence of information bothers me more than it should. I tell myself that some people value privacy, that not everyone needs to broadcast their professional activities online, but something about the complete void where there should be at least some trace of his existence makes my investigative instincts itch.

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