Page 47 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“You really don’t like parties, do you?” I come up with the first excuse I can find that won’t have me admit how sexy I find her.
“I like parties fine,” she says, eyes forward. “Just not this kind.”
“This kind?” I ask curiously.
“Does a bottle of wine in bed with some take-out pizza count for a party?” she offers up.
I chuckle. “Only if there’s bad reality TV involved.”
She turns to me, one brow arched. “You watch reality TV?”
“I watch whatever puts that look on your face.”
She scoffs, but her lips twitch, trying not to smile. “What look?”
“That look,” I say, leaning a little closer. “The one where you’re trying not to laugh. You get this tiny dimple right here—” I brush my thumb gently against her cheek, “—and your eyes go soft, like you’re almost starting to like me.”
Her smile falters the second my thumb touches her cheek.
I pull back a fraction, the shift in her energy sharp enough to make me second-guess the moment.
Too much. Too fast.
Fucking idiot.
“Well, maybe I don’t hate you,” she whispers, as she looks ahead.
Relief loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize was clenched.
“Well,” I say, my voice low, a little hoarse. “That’s progress.”
She doesn’t answer, but she’s not pulling away either.
“Maybe,” I say, after a beat, “we could be friends.”
That earns a laugh. A short, surprised one. She turns her head, eyebrows raised. “Friends?”
“Why not?”
She gives me a flat look, amused but unconvinced. “Yeah, right.”
“What?” I ask, feigning offense. “You’ve got too many already to count me as one?”
Her grin widens. The first real one since we got in the car.
“Well, I just don’t have time for friends.”
“You never had friends?” My eyebrows shoot right up.
She side-eyes me. “I had friends.”
“Had?”
She huffs. “I went from being my father’s daughter to med school to Mass Gen. Not a lot of spare hours for brunch and mani-pedis.”
“And now you’re married to a Bratva boss. Really upping the fun factor.”
“Don’t mock me. I wasn’t exactly invited into this mess.”
