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Standing in the window, arms crossed, watching me leave.
By the time my shift ends, the sky is already deep blue, the late evening air crisp as I step outside the coffee shop. I pull my coat tighter around me, exhaling, half expecting to feel some sort of relief.
Instead, I freeze at the sight of Mikhail, leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. A slight thrill runs through me at his presence, even though I tell myself I should still be mad.
I slow my steps, tilting my head. “How long have you been here?”
Mikhail doesn’t answer. Just watches me. His gray eyes flick over my face, scanning, assessing, like he’s making sure I’m okay, even if he’ll never say it out loud.
A warmth fills my chest, unexpected and annoying all at once. I figured he’d still be pissed that I left—maybe even try to teach me a lesson by ignoring me.
But he’s here. Waiting.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I don’t say anything as I walk toward him, letting the moment hang between us.
Mikhail opens the car door for me, and just as I’m about to step inside, something catches my eye across the street.
A black car. The window is rolled down just enough, and in the driver’s seat, I see him.
Ryan.
He’s staring right at me.
My breath hitches, my stomach tightening as a chill races down my spine.
He doesn’t linger. The second he sees me looking, he drives off, his car blending into the night.
Mikhail must catch my hesitation, because he steps closer. “What is it?”
I force my body to move, shaking my head as I slide into the passenger seat. “Nothing,” I say, voice tight, unsure.
Mikhail doesn’t look convinced.
But he doesn’t push.
And as he pulls onto the road, I can’t shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.
25
MIKHAIL
The diner is quiet, the late afternoon sun slanting through the windows, catching the glint of silver napkin holders and syrup bottles stacked along the counter. The scent of coffee and fried food lingers in the air.
Torres is already here, seated at a booth near the back, stirring a cup of coffee he won’t drink. A plate of pie sits untouched in front of him.
“I hate this place,” he says when I join him.
I shrug. “Well, it’s just a block down from where Lila works and I can’t be on the road the entire day, waiting for her.”
“You’re like, obsessed with her,” he says, deadpan, before taking a slow sip of his coffee.
I narrow my eyes. “She’s my wife.”
Torres grins. “Yeah, yeah. You keep saying that. But I don’t see you babysitting any of your other investments.”
I shrug. “Tell me what you came here to say.”