Page 4 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

LILLY

O ne week.

Seven days of pretending I'm fine.

Seven days of serving drinks to men not him.

Seven days of waiting for a text that never came.

I never gave him my number. But Nikolai Vetrov is the kind of man who doesn’t need permission to get what he wants.

He said he’d be in touch. He didn’t call. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe I was just a good fuck. A body. A fix.

I shouldn’t care. It was a one-night stand. Sometimes, a little random sex is all a girl needs.

I should leave it at that.

But every time a six-foot-three man walks through that door, my heart gets whiplash.

It’s never him.

I'm wiping down tables in the main dining area when Trish calls to me.

“Table 9 needs service.”

My stomach drops through the floor. Bratva hangout. Last time I walked into that corner, sin hung her head in shame.

“Can't someone else?—”

“He asked for you specifically.”

He. He’s back.

My heart stutters, then sprints.

I glance toward the VIP section and my breath catches. There he is. Nikolai Vetrov, looking like the devil himself.

And he’s staring right at me.

Dark hair, expensive watch, the kind of eyes that make knees hit the floor.

He’s with a man. But it’s Nikolai who beckons, who shines, who devours the world around me.

“Lilly.” Trish snaps her fingers in front of my face. “You're drooling.”

I'm not drooling. I'm having a small stroke.

I glance at her, silently begging for mercy.

She gives me a look like she dares me to flinch.

She saw me leave that night. She handed me back the napkin. Gave me the evening off.

But the other girls?

Jealous.

Asking why I left early. Why I glowed the next morning. What I spoke to Nikolai Petrov about.

They whisper behind their hands. Give me side-eyes and tight-lipped smirks. Around here, Bratva attention is currency. And I had all of it for one night.

If I go over there again and so much as blink wrong, I’m fucked. If word gets back to management that I'm sleeping with customers...

“Move, now!” Trish's voice is flat. Final. “He's not the kind of man you say no to twice.”

Right. Like I needed that reminder.

I have no safety net. Parents—gone. Car crash when I was twenty-two. No siblings. No trust fund. No soft place to land.

Just rent. Bills. And Trish, who looks one wrong answer away from firing me.

So I square my shoulders, grab my tray, and head toward the lion’s den.

Toward him.

I spent the last week trying to convince myself it was just sex. The kind that ruins you for every other man alive, sure.

But still—just sex.

Except every time I close my eyes, it’s his hands I feel. Rough. Sure. Everywhere.

And all I can think about is how he made me come three times in one night without even breaking a sweat.

I’m screwed. Completely, utterly screwed. And not in the good way.

I check my reflection in the wall mirror as I pass.

Hair's decent.

Makeup's still intact.

Skirt's the right length.

But my hands are shaking. My heart kicks. My stomach flips. My skin burns with memory.

Get it together, Lilly. You're a professional. You can serve two men drinks without having a mental breakdown.

Even if one of them has seen you naked.

Even if one of them knows exactly how to make you beg.

Even if one of them left you a cryptic note and disappeared like a ghost.

The walk to Table 9 feels like a death march. Each step louder than the last. Every eye in the room might as well be on me.

I round the corner into the VIP section and there they are. The other man is younger. Blonde hair, sharp jaw. Good looking in a conventional way. The kind of guy who probably has women throwing themselves at him.

But compared to Nikolai, he looks like a boy playing dress-up.

Nikolai watches me as I approach, his eyes roving over my body. My toes curl. My throat goes dry.

And when he lifts a finger and crooks it, beckoning me over, exactly the way he curled it inside me, my knees nearly give out.

He sees it. Smiles. The kind of smile the devil would sell his soul to wear.

I approach the table on unsteady legs.

“Good evening, gentlemen. What can I get you to drink?”

My voice comes out steady. Professional. A surprise to my own ears.

The blonde man looks up now, and his eyes do a slow sweep from my face to my feet and back up again.

It's not subtle.

It's not respectful.

It's the kind of look that makes my skin crawl.

“Well, well,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “No wonder you wanted to come back here, Nik. The view's certainly improved.”

Nikolai's jaw ticks, but he doesn't say anything.

“I'll have a scotch,” the blonde stares at me like I'm on the menu. “Top shelf. And you, sweetheart, can bring it nice and slow. Give us something to look at.”

My cheeks burn, but I keep my expression neutral. I've dealt with worse.

Drunk college boys who think waitresses are fair game. Businessmen who mistake service for availability. Assholes who think money buys them the right to say whatever they want.

“Of course,” I say through gritted teeth. “And for you, sir?”

I force myself to look at Nikolai. It's a mistake. His eyes are storm clouds, dark and turbulent. When our gazes meet, I feel that familiar pull in my stomach. That magnetic force that made me follow him to the twenty-fifth floor.

“Vodka,” he says gruffly. “Neat.”

“Coming right up.”

I turn to leave, but the blonde man's voice stops me.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

I turn back with a smile, even though I want to tell him where he can shove his sweetheart.

“Yes?”

He leans forward with a predatory smile. “With a body like that, do you do private parties?”

The question hangs in the air like poison gas.

I open my mouth to deliver a cutting response, but nothing comes out. Why bother? Men like him will never change.

I notice the change in Nikolai just before I turn to go.

He's gone perfectly still. The kind of stillness that comes before violence.

“Viktor,” he says, voice deadly quiet. “Shut your mouth.”

Viktor just laughs. “What? I'm just being friendly. Aren't you friendly, sweetheart?”

He reaches out like he's going to touch my arm.

That's when Nikolai moves.