Page 10

I hold the door open for Quinn as we arrive at Chez Noir, the chic, upscale restaurant.

She steps inside, her green eyes scanning the room with a hint of skepticism.

I lean in close, my lips nearly brushing her ear as I whisper, “It's essential to maintain appearances, to be seen in public together.”

Quinn turns to me with a smirk. “How romantic. Way to sweep a girl off her feet.”

I flash her a charming grin. “I could take you on a real one sometime.”

“I'd rather eat dirt,” she quips, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I chuckle under my breath as the hostess leads us to our table. Quinn's fiery wit never fails to amuse me. I may be the one holding her to a bargain she never wished to be a part of, but she refuses to be a passive prisoner. It's one of the many things I find intriguing about her.

We take our seats, and I lean back in my chair to observe Quinn as she peruses the menu, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her strawberry-blonde hair falls in soft waves around her face. Even in the dim lighting, her beauty is undeniable.

“What's your poison tonight, Princess?” I ask, nodding towards the drink menu. “Let me guess—something fruity and girly?”

Quinn's eyes narrow as she meets my gaze. “Vodka martini. Dry. And don't call me princess.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” I retort with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. This playful back-and-forth has become our ritual. I enjoy pushing her buttons, and sometimes, I feel she likes to push mine, too.

The waiter comes over to take our drinks and dinner orders. “I'll have a scotch, neat,” I say without looking at the menu. “And the lady will have a large vodka martini. Make it extra dry and extra dirty.”

Quinn gives me a look that could cut glass, but doesn't correct me. I stifle a satisfied grin. Little by little, I'm learning how to navigate her moods—when to push and when to yield. I know ordering her a double shot is something she’d never pick a fight over.

Once the waiter leaves, I shift my focus back to Quinn. She's watching me closely, her green eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight, stunning beyond belief. In moments like this, it's easy to forget that she’s merely a partner in crime. The boundary between us feels blurred, dangerous, even perilous. At least, from my perspective.

Our drinks arrive, and I pass her hers. “Don’t go dancing on tables once you down this,” I tease.

“You wish.” She rolls her eyes, taking the glass from me. When our hands touch, I feel a spark go up my arm and quickly retreat.

“You’re right. I’d hate to see that disaster.” I grin over at her.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent dancer.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen me yet,” I shrug, and jump off my chair, give a complicated twirl with a click of my fingers, and sit back down.

She laughs. God, how she laughs. I instantly realize I’d do anything to hear it again.

“You dance like my grandfather,” she says, trying to catch her breath through her laughter.

“Your grandfather? Tell me about your family, Quinn. What were they like?”

I ask because I’m genuinely curious.

She hesitates for a moment, her gaze drifting to the white tablecloth. “My parents are the most loving people you can imagine. They always put my needs before their own. They’re retired now, traveling the world.” A wistful smile plays on her lips. “I lost my grandparents when I was young, but I still remember how they doted on me. They made every visit feel like a special occasion.”

I nod, sensing the undercurrent of sadness beneath her words. “I never got to meet mine.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, clutching at her chest. “And your parents?”

“They passed when we were in Russia. I miss them every day.”

Quinn meets my gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between us. “I'm sorry,” she says softly.

I shrug, attempting to downplay the sudden vulnerability I feel. “It was a long time ago.” I take a sip of my scotch, welcoming the familiar burn. “Growing up in a Russian Bratva family wasn't easy, but my grandparents always ensured I felt loved, even when my parents were occupied with other things. They're the reason I have any good memories of my childhood.”

Quinn leans forward, her curiosity piqued. “What was it like? Growing up there?”

I paint a picture for her of snowy winters and lively family gatherings, of the warmth that thrived amidst the harsh realities of our lives. “I moved to New York over a year ago,” I continue, “to help my cousins, Ivan and Boris, with their business. It was an opportunity to start anew, to build something of my own.”

I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she pieces together the fragments of my past. Sharing parts of myself I usually keep locked away is a strange sensation, but there's something about Quinn that makes me want to open up.

Soon after, our food arrives, momentarily breaking the charged atmosphere between us. I raise my glass in a mock toast. “To warm winters,” I say, my voice tinged with irony.

Quinn mirrors my gesture, her lips curling into a wry smile. “If a New York winter is warm, keep me far away from Russia,” she laughs, and we both drink in camaraderie.

***

I lean back in my chair, watching Quinn as she takes another bite of her grilled fish. “So, tell me,” I drawl, a mischievous glint in my eye, “what made a nice girl like you start a high-end dating agency?”

Quinn scoffs, setting her glass down with a clink. “Who says I'm a nice girl?” she retorts, arching a brow in challenge.

I can't help but grin at her fiery response. “Fair enough. But seriously, what made you choose this line of work?”

She shrugs, a hint of vulnerability flickering across her face. “I guess I just wanted to help people find happiness, even if I couldn't find it for myself.”

The admission catches me off guard, and I find myself leaning forward, intrigued. “And why is that? Too busy playing matchmaker to focus on your own love life?”

Quinn meets my gaze head-on, her green eyes sparking with defiance. “Maybe I just have high standards. Not everyone can handle a woman who knows what she wants.”

The tension between us is palpable, and our banter carries an undercurrent of attraction. Just as I'm about to throw out another teasing remark, our next drink arrives, momentarily breaking the spell with the waiter's presence.

As we continue to dig into our food, a comfortable silence settles over us, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and the low hum of conversation from nearby tables. Between bites, I steal glances at Quinn, marveling at how graceful and poised she is.

She catches me staring and quirks a brow, a half-smile playing on her lips. “What?”

I shake my head, chuckling softly. “Nothing. It's just... I'm not used to this. Having dinner with a beautiful woman who isn't afraid to put me in my place.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, but I can see the blush creeping up her neck. “Or perhaps you’ve been too dense to notice the women who have.”

“Ouch.” I pretend to hold my heart in pain.

She giggles.

We fall back into our easy banter, trading stories of our lives past as we savor our meal and drinks. With each passing moment, I can feel the walls between us crumbling, the initial hostility giving way to a tentative connection.

Just when I finish placing our order for dessert, a familiar voice cuts through our conversation, shattering the fragile bubble we've created. “Mark? Is that you?”

I turn to see Natasha, an old fling from my wilder days, sauntering towards our table in a low-cut, fitted black dress. She’s stunning, yes, but a bit too wild for my taste. Her red lips curl into a friendly smile, but there's a calculating glint in her eyes as she takes in the sight of Quinn and me together.

“Natalia, what a surprise,” I say, rising to greet her with a polite kiss on the cheek. I can feel Quinn's gaze boring into my back, assessing the situation with a guarded expression.

“It's been ages! How have you been?” Natalia gushes, her hand lingering on my arm just a bit too long.

I give her a tight smile, my body language making it clear that her presence is unwelcome.

“I've been well, thanks for asking. If you'll excuse us, we were just in the middle of dinner.”

Natalia's eyes flick to Quinn, a hint of jealousy flashing across her face before she composes herself. “Of course, I didn't mean to interrupt. It was lovely seeing you, Mark. Don't be a stranger! If I remember correctly, you used to call me at all hours of the night!”

With a final, lingering glance, she sashays away, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.

I turn back to Quinn, expecting to find her brimming with questions in that curious way of hers. Instead, I'm met with a carefully neutral expression, her eyes shuttered and distant.

“An old friend?” she asks, her tone deceptively light.

“Something like that. Just a fling, actually,” I reply, trying to gauge her reaction.

“Ancient history, really.”

Quinn nods, her fingers toying with the stem of her wine glass.

The easy camaraderie from earlier has evaporated, replaced by a palpable tension that hangs heavy in the air.

I attempt to lighten the mood with a joke about my misspent youth, but Quinn's laughter rings hollow, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

By the time we finish our dessert—hers still barely touched—I can sense her retreating further into herself, her responses becoming more reserved and guarded.

“Quinn?” I ask, tentatively. “Is everything alright?”

Did I do something? Did I say something?

Quinn sets down her fork with a soft clink and meets my gaze. “I'm feeling a bit tired, Mark. I think it's best if we call it a night.”

I study her face, noting the slight furrow of her brow and the tension in her shoulders. Is she truly tired, or is it something more? I can sense her desire to retreat, to put some distance between us.

Part of me wants to press further, to coax her into staying a little longer. But I know that would only push her further away. So instead, I nod in understanding and signal for the check. “Of course, Quinn. Let's get you home.”

I can't help but feel a pang of frustration as I pay the bill. We were making progress, slowly chipping away at the walls she's built around herself. What the hell happened?