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I suppress a smile. “Yan is like my favorite uncle, totally more approachable than Kolya and Boris.”
“There are more of them?”
“We have an entire army of guards. But don’t worry, I was never interested in them in that sense. One, they’re way older. Two, Papa would skin them alive. Also, he hates Yan with a passion.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s Mom’s best friend and he kind of doesn’t like that. Yan won’t stop provoking him about it, though, so the whole situation is fun to watch.”
“If your father dislikes him so much, why doesn’t he get rid of him?”
“Because Papa knows how much Mom needs a friend.” I grin. “I’m telling you, Yan will have a field day when he knows both you and Papa are jealous of him.”
“I am not jealous.”
“Yeah, right. Wait a minute, how did you see the picture I posted with Yan?”
He remains silent and flat-out ignores me by drinking from his wine.
“You don’t have social media. Did you stalk me through Remi’s account or something?”
“I tried, but he found out about it and exposed me in front of everyone in his super dramatic way.”
I laugh. “I can imagine that. It must’ve been entertaining.”
“No, it wasn’t. And Remi is notthatfunny.”
“He’s hilarious. Don’t be jealous.”
He narrows his eyes on me but says nothing.
“Then how did you stalk me? The only alternative is through the others' accounts, but I doubt they would give you their phones unless…you made an account yourself?”
Silence.
I jump up from my seat and round the table to come to his side. “You did!”
“Sit down and finish your food.”
“No, this is way more important. Does everyone else know you have a form of social media? What’s the handle? Your profile picture? Your first post? Bio? I want to know all the things—”
My words die in my throat when he grabs me by the wrist and forces me to sit down. This time on one of his thighs so that I’m practically riding it.
Heat blossoms where my panties meet his jeans and spreads all over my skin.
His slightly stubbled chin rubs against my cheek as he whispers in dark words, “I said, sit down and eat.”
“If I do, will you tell me your handle?” I don’t recognize the thickness in my voice.
“That’s not important anymore, considering we’re not leaving.”
“Or that’s what you think.”
His eyes, those gorgeous eyes that I’m sure once belonged to a fallen angel, turn to slits. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Annika.” I feel the vibration of his warning before I hear it and help me, Tchaikovsky, his authoritative voice is such a turn-on.
