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Nina blinks innocently at me as she gnaws on the ring, chewing and exploring.
“What are you?” I ask in awe, turning to Marion. “The baby whisperer?”
“Just a seasoned veteran.” She lifts Callum out of his stroller and settles him on her lap. “Cal here is my fourth.” She must see the horror on my face because she laughs. “Yeah, I know. He was a surprise. We thought we were done after our third. Abigail was supposed to be our youngest. But she’s eight years old and the proudest big sister in the world.”
“Life had other ideas.”
“Exactly.” Her deep brown eyes brighten. “When I got pregnant with him, I didn’t know how I was gonna manage three kids, a full-time job, and a house. But you just figure it out.”
“I keep waiting for that to happen.”
Marion tickles Nina’s stomach, and the adorable little bundle who was screaming not thirty seconds ago has the audacity to giggle. “You’re doing just fine from where I’m sitting.”
“Not sure my wife would agree.” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
She gives me a sad smile. “They say the first year of marriage is the hardest, but it’s not—it’s the first year after you have a baby. If the sleep deprivation didn’t kill us first, Derek and I were going to tear each other’s throats out.”
“And yet you have four kids.”
“We found a rhythm,” she says with a shrug. “I’m sure you and your wife will, too. Some days, all I could focus on was loving my husband a little more than I hated him.”
“Laila has got the hate part of the equation down,” I mutter, only half-joking. “We’re working on the love.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you,” Marion assures me. “She’s just a new mother. No matter how much you try to help, women end up doing the lion’s share. It’s a biological inevitability, but that doesn’t make it easier.”
“Also not making it easier is the fact I wasn’t around much the last few months.” I don’t know why I’m sharing so much with astranger. Maybe because sheisa stranger. And probably because she isn’t giving me the judgmental glare I definitely deserve.
“Is that what you’re doing here? Making up for lost time?”
“Trying to. My wife is also busy this morning, working on her yoga certification. She wants to be a teacher.”
Marion whistles. “Good for her. I didn’t get back to my own hobbies until well after kid number two. Laila’s ahead of the curve. That’s good. She’ll feel like herself in no time.”
I want that to be a good thing, but what if Laila’s normal self hates my guts, too?
“I’m still not sure she’ll forgive me.”
Marion bounces her son on her knee. “Just keep showing up. She’ll get there eventually.”
“Easy to say when you don’t know how badly I screwed up.”
She raises her eyebrows and considers me for a moment. “In my experience, there’s no screw-up so bad that you can’t come back from.”
If only I could believe that she’s right.
Pobeda is front and center, lining the glass shelves of the bar like glittering trophies on display. Rurik, the bartender I poached from one of the biggest clubs in Manhattan, is standing behind the counter, pouring drinks for Dom and me to sample.
“Well?” Dominik asks, wagging his eyebrows at me over the bar. “Everything looks pretty good, am I right?”
I can’t bite back my smile. “It looks pretty fucking great.”
No one would ever accuse me of counting my chickens before they hatch. There’s always time for shit to go sideways—but at this moment, it looks like Pobeda is going to be a success.
“How’s the cocktail list coming along, Rurik?”
“I’ve been experimenting with the gin and the bourbon.” He slides a handwritten menu across the bar to me. “I’ve got three new cocktails for you to try. Let me make you a Pobeda Signature.”
He pours a dark red liquid into a martini glass and tops it with rock salt and mint before pushing it towards us. “Let me know what you think.”
