Page 8 of Bratva Claim

“Enjoy, gentlemen.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Benedikt is already moving toward me when I begin to panic.

“No, thank you,” I retort, holding a palm up in the air as if that’s going to do anything in this scenario.

It doesn’t.

Stop being so damn weird.

Now that we’re out of the office, away from the suits and their low, murmured Russian conversations, I realize something that hadn’t quite clicked.

Benedikt Volkov isbig.

Not in an over-the-top, bodybuilder way, but in a broad-shouldered, powerful way. The kind of build that makes you think of stone walls and locked doors. Something immovable, unyielding.

And he’s taller than I thought. I barely reach his shoulder, even in my boots.

Everything about him is sharp and put together, and his suit fits too well to be anything off the rack.

And yet, he moves in it like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t restrict him. Like he could just as easily throw someone through a wall in it as he could sit through a boring meeting.

We step into the hallway and the heavy door clicks shut behind us, muffling the conversation inside.

Benedikt doesn’t say anything as he walks me toward the elevator with his hands in his pockets like he’s considering something.

I steal a look at him, and he’s staring at me. “Join me for dinner.”

It’s not phrased as a question, but I know it is one.

Nope!

Pressing the button, I step back from it and from him. “I can’t.”

“Plans again?”

I push my lips together and nod.

“What day?”

Crap.

“Uh… it’s up in the air right now.”

“Next week, then.”

I stare at the button. “Listen, Mr. Volkov, I don’t date customers.”

“Who said anything about dating?”

Double crap.

Why do you do this?

Lifting my chin, I force myself to glance over to him and into his stunning blue eyes. “And what is this dinner for, then?”

“Talking.”