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When I see Pasha waiting for me outside the restaurant, I nearly groan.
Not because of anything bad.
He just looks so damn good.
His thick hair is playfully disheveled and yet somehow makes his charcoal gray look all the more professional. There’s a five o’ clock shadow dusting his jaw and I’m suddenly struck with the desire to find out what that feels between my thighs.
Focus, girl. You’re here to talk business.
At least I didn’t overdress for the occasion. Pasha picked the restaurant, and I figured an LBD would be the safest bet no matter where we ended up being.
To my surprise and delight, this is a deep dish pizza joint.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs into my ear as he helps me slip my coat off. It’s not particularly cold out, but better to be safe now that I’m carrying our little one inside me.
And now, I’m officially overheating.
Pasha hands my coat to the interior valet and nods when the host leads us to our table. His hand never leaves the small of my back. He pulls out my chair and waits for me to be comfortably seated before he settles himself in.
I’ve never felt so protected before.
I’m not sure how I feel about it, exactly.
“This is nice,” I remark awkwardly as I look around the room. It is a pizza place, but one of those higher-end joints where you still get waited on and the water is served with decorative slices of lemon and mint leaves. “A whole lot of men here, though.”
“They’re mine.” Pasha casually flips through the menu and says that like it’s supposed to explain anything at all to me.
“Yours? Like…”
“Security.”
Right. Because that makes sense. I pretend like it does, at least, and peek at the menu. “Hm. Where are the salads?”
“We’re not eating salad.”
“Well, I mean, you don’t have to eat a salad. But I do, and?—”
Pasha closes his menu and motions for the waiter. “You’re not eating a salad.”
“Excuse me?”
But before I can rail into him about dictating my dining choices, the waiter appears with a broad smile and welcomes us to this magical evening. And when he asks us if we know what we want to start with, Pasha orders one of everything off the appetizer menu.
“We’ll let you know when we’re ready for pizza,” he adds.
I blink at him until the waiter leaves. Then: “Are you insane? We can’t eat all that food!”
Pasha simply shrugs. “We’ll box up whatever’s left. It won’t go to waste. Besides, you deserve to have what you want.”
“I want a salad.”
“No, you want to make your mother happy and maintain some demented idea of what your figure is supposed to look like.”
“I… don’t have a rebuttal to that.”
He smiles at me and nudges the basket of buttery breadsticks toward me. “Eat up. Live a little. Fuck your figure. I did, and now, you don’t have to worry about it.”
“I’m not taking that bait, Mister.” I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m also perfectly capable of deciding what I should and should not eat.”
