Page 207 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

He tips a fake cap at me and closes the door before circling around to the driver’s side.

We drive off, leaving the diner in our wake.

56

Esme

Once we’re back on the road, I fiddle with the radio, trying to find a channel with music that doesn’t annoy me.

“Jesus,” I complain, after I’ve changed the station for the fifth time. “Doesn’t anyone listen torealmusic anymore?”

Artem gives me an amused glance. “You’re not a fan of rap?”

I shrug. “I like some of it,” I admit. “A little Tupac every now and again. But classical music is my happy place.”

“Listening to you play the piano in Hawaii was one of the highlights of that trip,” Artem says unexpectedly.

I glance at him, incredibly touched by his words. “Really?”

“Really,” he nods. “Hands down, you’re one of the best pianists I’ve ever heard perform.”

“Uh-huh,” I smile. “And how many have you heard perform?”

He gives me a grin that makes my ovaries do a little dance. “I don’t need a fuck ton of experience to know when someone is good,” he tells me.

My fingers twitch, a telltale sign that I’ve been away from my piano for too long. It feels like years since I’ve last played.

“You miss it, don’t you?” Artem asks, as though he’s just read my mind.

“How can you tell?”

“Your fingers do this weird twitching thing. I figured it had something to do with playing piano.”

I look at him in surprise and he smirks at me. “Yeah, I’m observant,” he says. “Did you assume my talents were limited to kicking ass and fucking?”

I snort with laughter and shake my head at him. “I’ll admit, I did assume that.”

“I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

I smile, but my heart can’t help fluttering every time he looks at me with that tilted smile. It gives meideas.The kind of ideas that would require pulling over to the side of the road and removing my Walmart t-shirt and shorts.

Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that. Seeing as how there’s a murderous Russian man pursuing us and all.

“So,” I say to fight the rising blush in my cheeks and heat between my legs, “what kind of music do you listen to?”

“I don’t listen to much, to be honest.”

I can only gawk at him. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “I’m always working,” he replies. “And when I’m alone in my apartment, I like to lie in bed with silence. That’s my music.”

“Wow,” I comment. “Very poetic. Also, boring as hell.”

He smirks. “I like Viktor Tsoi. He was a Russian musician.”

I wrinkle my brow. “Never heard of him. You sure you didn’t just make that up to impress me?”

“He was popular in Russia,” Artem tells me, chuckling. “He died young.”

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