Page 61 of Convenient Vows

Lev doesn’t back off. “Does this have anything to do with your little visit to the ladies earlier?”

I stiffen, then sigh in resignation. “I should have known you both will hear about it.”

Viktor’s expression doesn’t change. “Nothing stays secret under my roof, Zasha. You should know that.”

I sigh and drop my gloves. “I’m in love with my wife.”

Lev blinks once. Then twice. “You… what?”

Viktor just stares at me. “Say that again.”

I turn to the bench and start unstrapping the gloves. “You heard me. I’m not repeating it.”

Lev whistles low. “And here I thought you were just going soft. Turns out you're in love.”

Viktor’s still watching me like I’ve grown a second head. “What did the girls do to you?” he asks. “Did they put you up to this?”

I shake my head. “They did nothing to me. I went to them to ask for advice.”

Lev chokes on a laugh. “Zasha Petrov. Deadliest son of a bitch I know. Now seeking romance coaching from his boss’s wife and kid sister.”

I shoot him a look. “Mock me again and I’ll knock out your teeth.”

He holds up his hands. “Hey, no judgment. I’m just surprised. I didn’t even think you knew the word ‘courtship.’”

Viktor narrows his eyes. “So what does this mean? Candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach?”

“Exactly that,” I say dryly. “Might even throw in some poetry if she doesn’t run screaming first.”

Lev laughs again, still half in shock.

Viktor shakes his head like he doesn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.

But I don’t care.

Let them laugh, after all, I’ve faced worse than a bruised ego.

If it means she smiles at me the way she dose — open and unguarded, like I’m something she wants, then I’m more than willing to learn every language her heart speaks. Even if it means humbling myself one painfully awkward gesture at a time. And tonight, I will be starting with flowers.

After I settle into my car, I search on the internet for a reputable flower shop.

Why the fuck are there too many damn flowers.

Lilies, roses, daisies, hydrangeas, orchids. And lilies alone apparently come in a dozen types — stargazer, calla, oriental, Peruvian. What the fuck is a Peruvian lily?

I close the browser tab before I punch the device and decide to go to the florist shop myself.

The place smells like sugar and earth. I hate the music playing — some tinny love song about first kisses and forever — and I hate how cheerful the girl behind the counter is when I walk in.

“Welcome!” she chirps. “Shopping for someone special?”

I grunt. “Something like that.”

She flutters around me like a hummingbird with too much caffeine, asking questions I don’t know how to answer.

“What’s the occasion?”

“What’s her favorite color?”

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