Page 39 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
I have no choice but to accept. As my hand loops around his elbow, my heart tremors from something that isn’t fear this time. “Sure.”
“Have fun!” Tiffany calls with a wave. “Call me later!”
Maxim whisks me away to a quiet restaurant two blocks away. The lighting here is dark and romantic as we sit at a table covered in a red tablecloth. Four white candles burn between us on a black holder, a green Christmas tree hugs the corner of the room near the bar, and it’s swathed in red, blue, and gold Christmas decorations and tinsel. A large bird sits atop the tree with sparkling gemstone eyes observing everyone. Soft music plays, but I can’t pinpoint the musician, and the lighting is so low in the restaurant that anything beyond our table appears shrouded in darkness. The illusion of privacy is extreme.
Occasionally, a waiter appears to top up Maxim’s wine or my sparkling water, or to bring more plates of food, but other than that, we’re left alone.
I make it through three plates of utterly tiny dishes before I speak. “Is this how a place like this makes its money? I bet forthe price of one of these tiny dishes I could get a full meal from a burger joint.”
“Would it taste as good?” Maxim asks as he eats his mysterious cube of meat, single rocket leaf, and swirl of sauce in one bite.
My eyes narrow. “You can’t be serious. You’re built like a truck and yet you’re eating meals that look like they were made for Thumbelina.”
“This place is an experience as much as it is a meal.”
“Do you hear how pretentious you sound?”
“Yes,” Maxim replies, much to my surprise. Then he chuckles. “But the wine is good and the chef is a friend, so I make appearances.”
My brow twitches. “You’re putting us through this for a friend?”
“Wouldn’t you do the same for yours?”
My lips part and my answer catches in my throat because yes, I would. I have several times. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Maxim picks up his wine glass. “You strike me as someone very loyal. I don’t think maybe is the answer.”
“I didn’t know you had friends is the most shocking part,” I remark. “I thought you just had people you ordered around. Or hurt.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s your impression of me?”
“Can you blame me?” I tear my gaze away from the alluring bulge of muscle on his arm that rises each time he lifts his glass. “After everything that’s happened these past six days?”
“It’s been an intense week,” he agrees. “How are you feeling?”
“Are you asking if I’m still thinking about telling the truth to the next person I meet?”
“No.” Maxim sighs as if my answer irritates him. “I’m asking how youare.”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Don’t pretend like you care.”
Something akin to pain flashes in Maxim’s eyes, but it’s gone just as soon as I detect it. Maybe it was my imagination. As silence falls between us, guilt worms through my abdomen.
Why do I feel bad? If anything, today was pretty decent and normal. Maybe even better since Stu and Toto’s presence kept away those guests usually eager to disrespect me by demanding that I change songs or just stop playing altogether.
One good day doesn’t erase the past terrible five.
Still, something unsettling weighs down in my gut and I wince inwardly. “Sorry,” I murmur after a moment. “Long day.”
“You’re fine,” Maxim replies easily. “No apology necessary.”
“That’s it?” I lift my gaze. “You’re not mad at me for being a bitch?”
“I wouldn’t call you that,” he replies simply. “Given our situation, I think your responses are valid and understandable.”
