Page 5 of Bratva Claim

“You sound distracted.”

“It’s a busy morning.”

“You sound as though you’re typingsomething.”

My head shoots up and I scan the space, expecting to find him—I don’t know—somewhere in front of me.

“What makes you say that?” I ask cautiously.

“A hunch.”

“Sounds like paranoia.”

“Sounds like guilt,” he counters smoothly.

I scoff, flipping my phone face down. “I don’t even know what I’d be guilty of.”

“Neither do I. Yet.”

A violent shiver runs down my spine.

There’s something about the way he says it, calmly and confidently, like he’s waiting for me to slip up.

Which is ridiculous because I haven’t done anything wrong, except not want to deliver his order.

I clear my throat, forcing a lightness into my tone. “Well, if you figure it out, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll have your order ready first thing tomorrow morning.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make me shift uncomfortably. Then, finally, he says, “See that you do.”

And just like that, the call ends.

I exhale loudly, pressing my palm against my forehead.

What the hell was that?

A simple order, and yet I feel like I just walked out of an interrogation room.

The man is intense. And way too good-looking.

A dangerous combination.

“Sienna?”

I glance up to find Lucy watching me from across the counter, arms crossed, one perfectly arched brow lifted in amusement.

With her blonde hair pulled into a messy bun and her bright green eyes glowing with mischief, she looks how she always does—like she knows something I don’t.

Which, unfortunately, is usually true.

“What?”

Her smirk deepens. “You look flushed.”

I roll my eyes and busy myself with wiping down the counter. “It’s hot in here.”

“Uh-huh.” She leans in, her petite frame barely reaching over the counter even on her toes. “Or maybe it’s that very intimidating Russian who just called you to place an order.”

“How do you know?” She points at my order pad, her gold-painted nails tapping against the paper, and I groan. “I hate you.”