Page 11 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
I stare at my coffee.
Mia squeals.
The couple at the next table glances over, startled.
I bury my face in my hands. “Mia,” I groan.
“I knew it!” she hisses, just above a whisper. “I knew the moment you walked in here looking all post-sinful and guilty!”
“I do not look post-sinful.”
She cackles. “Oh, babe. You reek of hookup sex. So was it good?”
I don’t answer fast enough. Mia gasps, slapping my arm. “It was! Oh my God!”
I bite my lip, cheeks warming.
She grins. “It was the best sex you’ve ever had, wasn’t it?” Naturally, she’s right.
“Nope, I’m not having this conversation.” I shake my head.
“Oh, come on!”
I sip my coffee, smirking.
She glares at me, but I can see the genuine happiness in her eyes. Because she knows me. She knows I’ve been in a rut, and my dating life has been drier than the Sahara Desert. For once, though, I did something reckless, and I don’t regret it.
Mia leans back in her chair, shaking her head. “So, what now? Are you gonna see him again?”
I hesitate. The answer should be no. But the truth is I have no idea.
I don’t want to think about Sergei. I don’t want to remember the way his hands felt on me, the way he looked at me with that dark, hungry expression.
I don’t want to admit that, two days later, I can still feel him. Instead, I plaster on a smirk. “Nope. It was just fun.”
Mia studies me. “You sure?”
I sip my coffee. “Positive.”
Mia keeps talking—something about living more, overthinking less, and maybe letting go of my chronic need for control. She’s probably right, but I’m not listening.
Something outside the café catches my attention. I don’t know why I notice them at first. New York City is full of people, full of men like them. Spotting a group of well-dressed men who look like they belong in a Sylvester Stallone movie isn’t uncommon.
Still, this group stands out. It’s the way they hold themselves—the controlled, effortless power as they linger on the sidewalk, completely unfazed by the city’s chaos swirling around them.
It’s the way they’re dressed in perfectly tailored suits, dark and expensive. They exude a kind of power and old money that seems out of place outside of a period piece.
A few of them are smoking cigars, their movements slow, unbothered.
“Nicole?” Mia snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Helloooo? Where’d you just go?”
“I…” I shake my head, trying to brush off the sudden unease creeping over me. “Sorry, I just…” My voice dies in my throat.
When I glance back at the group, I swear I see Sergei. The man definitely has the same sharp jaw, the same ice-blue eyes. He looks younger, though. Not by much, but enough to make me second-guess myself.
His stance, too, is calculated, powerful, unreadable.
My stomach tightens when he looks straight at me through the glass. And it’s not just a glance. It’s direct and unwavering, even from across the street and through a crowd of pedestrians and cars.
