“I was walking in this park one day. I wanted some greenery; I guess it reminded me of home. I didn't grow up in a big city.”
“Where did you grow up?”
My answer comes with a sly smirk. “I'm pretty sure you know that already.”
Dmitri chuckles. “Indulge me.”
“Well, I'm from a small town in New England, not far from Boston, but far enough that we had a lot of woodland and space.”
“And your parents?”
“My dad was—still is—a high school math teacher. My mom was a CPA. We have no idea where she is or what she’s doing now.”
“Your mother left when you were a child.” It sounds odd to be hearing my history coming from his mouth.
“Yeah, my mom left when I was nine. Left and didn't look back. The only reason I know she's still aliveisthat she sends cards every once in a while, but I never respond. She pretty much destroyed my dad, but he did the best he could.”
“It must have destroyed you, too.”
Dmitri’s observation is correct in a way that makes my throat feel tight, and I have totake a drink of water before I can continue.
“We were fine. One of us had to hold it together. He eventually woke up and remembered how to be a parent.”
“You're a fighter, a survivor.” There's a gleam of appreciation inDmitri'seyes that makes me shift with discomfort.
“Are you a psychoanalyst, as well?” It's supposed to be a joke, but it comes off as defensive.
Dmitridoesn't seem to be offended, however. Instead, he reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I am merely trying to get to know the woman who is carrying my child—our child. A strong mother is something every kid needs.”
I flush at thecomplimentand look anywhere but at him. “I always wanted kids, just not as a surprise like this. Not exactly under these circumstances either. But I want to be a better motherthanmy mom was. I want them to know I will never abandon them and exactly how much I love them.”
“You're going to be a wonderful mother.” Dmitri says with a sincere smile on his face.
I just hope he's right. Mychoicesthus far aren't a stellar endorsement of my future parental abilities.
We linger after dinner, learning more about each other. The warmth of the conservatoryenvelopesus, making me feel like I’m glowing and warm inside. And though I am loath to leave the cocoon of softness when we’ve finished, the inner warmth makes it more tolerable when we go back out into the cold, especially when Dmitri takes my hand to take a slow walk around the park.
Generally speaking, I would never be out here this late. And if I had to be,Icertainly wouldn't be walking at such a leisurely pace. Iwouldbe walking as fast as possible, my keys out as a makeshift weapon, pepper spray easily accessible in my bag.
I know I don't have to worry about my safety when I’m with Dmitri. Not only is one of his men trailing us at a discreet distance, but I can’t imagine the average criminal out looking for trouble is going to want to try to tangle with this giant man who exudes danger, lethal danger, if you look close enough. Being with Dmitri is the safest I've ever felt when out at night.
I start to wonder what’s wrong with me that I find all of this exceptionally romantic.
We walk in companionable silence for a time before Dmitri slips his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him. Westop and he rests his head on mine as we stare at the bright city before us, lit up even more so for the holidays. I hear the slow rhythm of his heart, a steady, reassuring beat against my cheek. One of his hands settles low on my back as he pulls me even closer, his warmth a stark contrast to the crisp winter air.
The tenderness of the moment overwhelms me in a rush, and tears sting my eyes.
Damn pregnancy hormones.I'm not usually this sentimental or romantic, and I squeeze my eyes shut before any of them can escape.
We stay like that until I start to shiver. With another of his deep chuckles, Dmitri guides me back to where the car waits. We're nearly there whenhe stopsshort, putting his arm across me.
“What’s—” I start to ask, but then I see it, there’s someone by the car.
“Stay here,” Dmitri says. He starts toward the car without looking back, expecting me to obey his command. I look around for the driver, knowing he can’t be that far behind, and wondering where he is.
I can't hear the conversation asDmitriwalks up to the unknown man, and despite his instruction, I creep closer, which allows me to see the bike leaning against the SUV and the red-and-yellow uniform the messenger is wearing.
There is some back-and-forth between Dmitri and the messenger before the messenger holds out a tablet for asignature. By this time, I'm nearly atDmitri'sshoulder. He gives me a withering look, probably annoyed that I didn't stay where I was.
