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“I guess I should be flattered then,” I mutter.
“I’d consider it a compliment if I were you,” he agrees with a roguish smirk. “Are you not flattered?”
“I’m just used to serving the meat. Not being treated like it.”
His eyes widen, and I have a feeling this man doesn’t have much experience being challenged. “Maybe we started off on the wrong foot,” he croons, though his voice carries an edge of ice that wasn’t there before. “I saw the way you were treated by Zaitsev and his crew. I wanted to smooth over any upset they may have caused. But now, I’m the one apologizing. I guess I didn’t do as much good as I hoped.”
His apology seems sincere, and the manners that have been instilled in me since I was a little girl are banging at the door. I sigh. “I’ll apologize, too. I’ve had a rough… well, a rough couple months. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“It’s okay,” he says with a sly smile. “I’m made of tougher stuff. I can handle you.”
There’s something suggestive in the way he says it. A proposition sitting just under the surface.
This guy is smooth and confident, but he looks twice my age, at least. And unlike the magnetic draw of Kirill, I’m repelled by this man. It doesn’t matter that he’s being polite and flattering me—I want to get as far away from him as possible. My instincts are screaming at me to retreat.
“I’ll handle myself, but thanks.”
For the third time, I try to move around him.
And for the third time, he blocks my path. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re so outspoken. Any other waitress would have fallen on their face the moment Viktoria Kozlov looked at them wrong.”
“Are waitresses especially susceptible to that woman’s brand of venom?” I arch a brow. “I didn’t realize occupations worked that way.”
He chuckles. “You and I need to go out. Clearly, we have a lot to talk about.”
“Maybe I’ll see you at the next event. We cater a lot of these kinds of things.”
I intentionally fail to mention that as of three minutes ago, I’m officially no longer employed by Irving Brock Caterers. I’m sure this man will have forgotten my face by the next fundraiser, anyway. He strikes me as the kind of guy with a belt full of notches.
“Or you can give me your number now,” he suggests. “It would make things easier.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t hand out my number to strangers.”
He holds out his hand, a confident smile on his lips. “Stefano. Not such a stranger anymore, am I?”
Stefano—I think I remember a name like that being on Irving’s list of VIPs in the pre-service briefing, but I could care less. I’m too busy cringing at the sheer mileage on that awful line he just trotted out.
I shake his hand once and then circle around him. As I let go, I back towards the kitchen doors. “Nice to meet you, Stefano, but I’m off work. I’ve gotta go. Have a nice night.”
Before he can argue or order his bodyguards to block my path, I turn around and push open the kitchen doors. But I glance back to the dining room one last time.
I tell myself I’m not looking for anything specific. And yet, sure enough, my eyes land on him.
I shudder and hustle away. I don’t want more of Kirill Zaitsev’s attention.
I’ve had enough for a lifetime.
3
KIRILL
If anyone else disrespected me in front of my date and my right-hand man, I’d make a meal of them. They wouldn’t be able to waltz away from me, hips swaying temptingly from side to side. They wouldn’t be able to walk at all.
But somehow, the sharp words on her tongue drew me in closer instead. I liked her fire, her sass, her refusal to back down. She had a reckless gleam in her eye that said she knew she was walking the plank and she didn’t give a shit about the consequences anymore.
Maybe that’s why I sent Anton to go fetch her from her sniveling little boss. So she could amuse me a little more.
I always get what I want, I said.
