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“Yeah, I did, and the last time I checked,Iwas the client, not you. I asked how to make my wife happy because I want her to have a stable pregnancy, and yet, dear brother, I still don’t understand what the fuck is going on.”
Ms. Barnett squirmed in her polished loafers and fiddled with her fingers, keeping her head low to avoid the scorching heat, which had absolutely nothing to do with their fire alarm.
Niko held my eyes, his mouth forming a wry line and his eyes rolling, silently suggesting that I was overreacting. Even if, I dare say, I wasn’t.
“And that’s what the lovely lady here is doing. She’s showing us ways to be romantic.”
Anatoly coughed out a short laugh at the same time I said, “What the fuck?”
Romantic?
Romantic?
What the fuck was that? What did it even mean?
Weapons, I could handle. Shitty government officials and top-secret information, I was used to. The fucking Feds, I could deal with. Romance? That was fucking alien, Area 51 conspiracy business, and not my fucking turf.
However, it was somehow related to the reason why I was seated on a chair, facing a projector screen, and listening to some life-sized doll with certified qualifications in event planning and management while she rambled about baby gender reveal ideas.
Rather dramatically, Niko shot up from his chair and peeled the black hoodie over his head from the neck.
“It’s quite hot in here,” he huffed.
No, it wasn’t.
I rubbed between my eyes. “The air-conditioning is working perfectly, Niko.”
“Says you.”
The hoodie rode up and tugged on the white round-neck vest he wore inside, revealing a glimpse of the midnight-blue and black butterflies-choked-on-thorns tattoo crafted across his back. Barnett didn’t miss it, and her skin flushed to a deep, rich red, like the vibrant color of a ripe bell pepper.
With that arrogant, all-knowing cocky grin of his, as huge as his head, he tossed the thick piece of cloth on his vacant seat and walked up to her, unnecessarily leaning in close to ease the remote out of her grasp.
I massaged my temple, gritting my teeth. “Oh, my fucking…Nikolai!”
“Shit. Jeez.” He rolled his eyes and stepped away to point at the screen. “You don’t have to bark so loud. I’m in the same fucking room; I can hear you.”
“Wrap this shit up. You’ve wasted my time enough.”
“Your presentation was perfect, darling.” He smiled at the brunette and glared at me. “Korol, this party is the fucking answer to your cries.”
“I don’t remember crying….”
“You want something that will take her mind off the torture and painyouput her through.” I narrowed my eyes, but he ignored me, continuing the presentation with the passion of a salesman working his ass off to get the deal. “And this is it. Surprise her, invite her friends and family, eat fucking cake. The point is, there are lots of ways to do this.”
Without missing a beat, he continued, “You can pop a fucking balloon, get a smoke machine, fill a pinata. Alex mentioned something about confetti, making handprint art, or just opening a fucking box. Dude, just let your fucking guard down a little, for your baby’s sake.”
He added that last part with a look that revealed more than he said—more than I refused to acknowledge.
I stared at him. “And you chose to have this important meeting in your club.”
All he offered was a quick nod. “Yeah. Now, back to the urgent shit. This sounds great on paper and screen and in theory, but a lot of work goes into the actual planning of this thing. Right, babe?”
Hearing him call herbabeseemed to revive her from whatever world she’d gotten lost in while gaping at him as if he were some sort of god. At the same time, it worsened her case of red-skin syndrome.
“Yes…uh, right,” she stuttered, and he winked.
“See?” His eyes found mine again. “We have to start now with the details. Alex, over to you.”
