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GRACE

“Ace.” He draws the name out slowly, rolling it over his tongue like he’s tasting it, and I resist the urge to squeeze my eyes shut. Somehow he makes Millie’s teasing nickname sound intimate. “Is there a story behind that?”

I bite my bottom lip, doubt creeping in. This was a bold move, too bold. But he’s been calling me Laura since I sat down, and I hate it. I wanted something more… me, something that didn’t make me want to cringe—I figured that would make all of this a little easier—but now I’m not so sure.

How much can I really give away without blowing my cover?

“There is, but it’s boring,” I tease, trying to regain my footing.

“Tell me anyway.”

He fixes those blue-green eyes on mine, and my breath snags. There’s an intensity in the way he looks at me that makes my body feel hot from the inside out.

I break eye contact, clearing my throat as I gather my thoughts.

“It’s a nickname from my best friend. She said I was the best thing to ever happen to her—the reason her luck changed. I’m her Ace. Once she started calling me that, it wasn’t long before everyone else did too.” Everyone being just Millie. People at work either call me Turner or Grace, but I can’t tell him that. “Eventually it stuck.”

He nods slowly, studying me. “You must be a good friend.”

I try to respond to that, but the growing intensity in his stare hypnotizes me into a near fugue state, and I suddenly understand why he’s known as the Viper—it feels like I’m being sized up. That he could strike at any moment. And I swear he isn’t blinking. Or maybe that’s me.

“Okay, your turn,” I say, trying to break out of his spell. “What’s something about you I wouldn’t find on⁠—”

Before I can finish, the waiter arrives. “Smoked salmon roulade with crème fraîche and caviar,” he interrupts, setting two plates down on the table. “Enjoy.” And then he’s gone.

“Hungry?” Dimitri asks, tilting his head slightly.

I take the opportunity to pull away from his mesmerizing stare and glance down at the plate. The fish looks almost raw.

“This looks… good,” I lie politely, my throat dry.

Dimitri leans back in his chair and waves a benevolent hand toward my plate, inviting me to try it first.

Shit. I was hoping he would go before me so I could copy him. How am I supposed to eat this? With the spoon? The fork? My hand?

After a few seconds of awkward hesitation, I scoop up a bite with the spoon. Oh. The salmon practically melts on my tongue—smooth and smoky, with a salty tang from the caviar. I wasn’t expecting it to taste like that.

I chew slowly, pretending to be fascinated by my plate, hoping he won’t notice the confusion on my face. It’s not unpleasant exactly. It’s just not like anything I’ve ever tasted before, and I genuinely can’t tell whether I like it or not.

“You don’t like it.” He guesses accurately, and my head snaps up.

“No, no, it’s nice. It has a, um… refined and clean taste.” I nod, clearly unconvincingly.

He chuckles, finally blinking. “It’s fine. You don’t have to pretend.” His attention shifts past my shoulder, and within seconds our waiter reappears. Dimitri whispers to him, and the man picks up my plate and leaves with it.

“That wasn’t necessary,” I murmur self-consciously. I reach for my champagne flute and take a sip, subtly swishing to wash the taste away.

“I did promise you a memorable night, didn’t I?” he replies calmly as he takes a bite of his salmon.

“Not me specifically. The guests,” I correct.

“Of which you’re one. Look around you. You’re the only one at my table. That makes you my special guest, Plamyashka.”

The soft, natural way his tongue rolls the Russian word makes my heart jolt. For a moment, I can’t say anything at all. When I find my voice again, it comes out slightly less steady than I’d like. Damn it, he keeps knocking me off my footing.

“Plamyashka, huh? I bet all the girls love that nickname,” I subtly taunt, trying to recover.