Page 118 of Meant for Mayhem

Warm light spilled across dark wood floors, polished smooth by decades of footsteps. Exposed brick climbed toward impossibly high ceilings, interrupted by heavy timber beams and wrought-iron chandeliers that looked old enough to have been there since Denver was still a mining town. Framed black-and-white photographs lined the walls, each one capturing a different piece of the city’s history, while shelves of wine disappeared floor to ceiling behind the bar. Everything smelled like butter, fresh herbs, and warm bread. My stomach growled.

“Wow.”

Mikko looked down at me. “Good?”

I took another slow look around.

The hostess greeted Mikko by name before leading us through the dining room, making this feel even fancier. Every table was draped in crisp white linen, tiny candles flickering between crystal glasses. Conversations stayed low enough that silverware against porcelain became part of the music drifting softly through the room. We stopped at a curved leather booth tucked into the back corner, half-hidden beneath an arched brick alcove. It was secluded enough that the rest of the restaurant faded into the background without disappearing completely. I slid onto the bench, smoothing my dress beneath me as Mikko took the seat beside me.

When the maître d’ left us, my pulse fluttered.

There was no team lingering a few tables over, no Logan making inappropriate comments, not even Leena asleep in the next room.

For the first time since I’d met Mikko, it was just us.

Somehow, that realization was more nerve-racking than the restaurant itself.

Our waiter came over next, taking our drink orders and handing over menus. I didn’t order a Diet Coke, but I wanted to, settling for water instead. Mikko didn’t order alcohol either, and I tried to remember if I’d ever seen him drink before.

“It doesn’t bother me.” I pointed to the drink menu. “I can be around alcohol. I just don’t drink it myself.”

He put his own menu down, focusing on me. “I’m not avoiding alcohol because of you. But I also know what it’s taken from you, and that reminder doesn’t deserve a seat at our table.”

My hand stilled, water glass halfway to my mouth. I didn’t talk about my past often, but he listened whenever I offered pieces of it. Even more than listening , he remembered.

He remembered everything.

I took a sip before he could see whatever was written across my face, then picked up my menu, only now noticing it was written in Italian.

“Can you read this?”

“Enough.”

“Great. I was about to point at something and hope for the best.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Would you like me to order for you?”

I looked at him for a second before sliding my menu across the table. This was such a small thing, to trust someone with your food order, and yet, I was sure no one was more capable of picking the right option for me. “Potentially.”

When our waiter came back, Mikko spoke enough Italian that I had another question.

“How many languages do you know?”

“Four.”

I blinked. “Wow. Okay, show off.”

“It’s common in Finland.”

“What was it like growing up there? You’ve never told me much about it.”

Mikko leaned back in the booth, tilting his head from side to side. “Cold and dark.”

I snorted, caught off-guard by the answer even if I should have expected it.

“I love Finland,” he said, smiling now. “Despite the cold and darkness, it’s beautiful. Helsinki in winter feels like the whole city is holding its breath under the snow. The streets go quiet after four in the afternoon when the light disappears, but then the Christmas markets open and everything smells like glögi and gingerbread.”

“That sounds suspiciously cozy for a country that freezes solid half the year.”