Page 34 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
We squealed like excited maniacs. “Happy birthday, Kat!” I laughed, offering her the gift.
Her eyes softened. “You didn’t have to.”
“I didn’t, but I wanted to.”
She hugged me tight and pulled back when she noticed my arm candy. “Oh, I’m sorry….”
“Kat, this is Robert Stone. My boss.” I gave her a look that conveyed more than my words did, and she hummed knowingly. “Robert, this is Kat, the celebrant and my best friend.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Kat. I must say, you have a very beautiful home.”
She smiled, but I knew my friend well enough to see that the shine didn’t reach her eyes, so I quickly intercepted.
Leaning in his side, I whispered, “Uh, Rob, can you excuse us for a minute to—”
“To catch up on some girlie stuff while I busy myself at the bar and flash unsolicited bright smiles to strangers? Sure, I can do that. And you’re welcome. It’s not a bother. I’ll feast my eyes on more interior luxuries while I’m at it.”
The smile of appreciation on my face was genuine, and I gave him a small hug before whisking Katya away from the bar.
We stood near the center of the floor, concealed by thick pillars adorned with gold velvety backdrops, while over a dozen guests talked loudly over each other.
Grabbing two champagne flutes from a passing tray, Katya glanced over my shoulder and wiggled her brows toward Robert’s direction.
“So, your boss, huh? I mean, no judgment on the employer-employee thing. Low-key, he’s kind of a hottie…giving thirty-year-old Leonardo DiCaprio vibes.”
“Robert’s thirty-eight.”
“Ah,way older. That’s a shocker.”
I laughed between a gulp, careful not to spill my drink. “Wait, Leonardo DiCaprio vibes? So, thenhewould be my Jack, and I’ll be his Rose?”
She tapped her cheek, seriously thinking about it before shaking her head disappointedly. “No, because then he’d drown, and you’ll live with a terrible heartbreak for the rest of your life. And he seems like he’s pretty chill.”
“Why does it always have to end tragically? Besides, I think I’m more of a James Franco girl. Cute smile, dark hair, that sort of thing.”
“Isn’t that the guy who played Harry Osborn? The one who wanted Peter’s girl?”
“To be fair, they were best friends, and he liked Mary Jane first before Spidey came along.”
“What movie did you watch?” She snickered. “And since when are you a Spider-Man fan? You used to swoon over Superman in high school.”
“Not Spider-Man, just his mini-nemesis. And sometimes, don’t you just think Superman’s overrated?”
“Doomsday: Superman was certainly not.”
My blood ran cold at the sound ofthatvoice, and I froze mid-laugh, the sound catching awkwardly in my throat.
I recognized it because, after that night, it had been a struggle to forget the voice that breathed my name between hot, fiery kisses. The same voice that aroused sinful desires and harshly rejected me seconds after I’d deluded myself into believing we’d shared a special moment.
First the Gipsy, then Tsar’s, and now Katya’s birthday party?
Was he stalking me? More importantly, why didn’t I genuinely feel upset if he was?
I turned around, almost melting into a puddle, the effect of seeing him again since the unplanned meeting at Tsar’s Steakhouse.
He stood so close to me, the heat and electrifying scent of his body wrapping me in a bubble. He was tall and composedin a charcoal suit that looked like it belonged in a Bond film—custom-cut and sharp enough to slice through the tension crackling between us.
His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, and just for a second, it felt as if we were back at the club—pressed too close, lips tangled, sighs mingling.
