I frowned at him. “Alive, Misha. Alive, comfortable, and willing to help me surprise my wife.”
He nodded again. “That is no problem. It is easier than other possibilities.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
“Mikhail.”
“Yes, Mr. Sidorov?”
“Do I look like I was about to have you kill some random author?”
He paused too long. My eyes narrowed.
“I thought perhaps she was Mrs. Sidorov’s competition. My apologies.”
“Nah. My wife has no competition in anything. And don't apologize. Just answer.”
“You move quickly when it involves your wife,” he said carefully.
I stared. He stared back. Finally, he looked away.
Smart man.
“Find out who is hosting. Security needs to be tight, even if the location gotta change. Get us the table closest to the stage. Make sure my wife can meet her privately before the event. No cameras. No crowd. No bullshit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I wanna surprise Theory, so I need to speak to the author first.”
His eyes came back to mine. “About this surprise?”
“The surprise is a poem.”
That knocked him off his square. His brow lifted. Barely, but I saw it. I don't know why I said it. The idea had barely formed in my head, and I had no idea if I could do it. But Theory loved and respected words. So, on top of everything else, I would give them to her.
“A poem?” Mikhail repeated.
I scowled at him. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I am not looking.”
“You looking.”
“I would never look,” he denied, the statement as ridiculous as this conversation.
I stepped closer. “You tell people I wrote a poem, I’ma make your insides look like?—”
“Borscht,” he finished gravely.
“Exactly.”
He nodded. “I will guard your artistic privacy with my life.”
“Now you being funny.”
The side of his mouth tilted slightly. “A little,” he admitted. “You should stop leaving me alone with Julien Reed.”
