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As I pick up my knife and fork, I ask, “Are you at least trained to protect people?”
Max just gives me an unnerving stare while Papa launches into a detailed explanation of why Max is the right man to protect me.
“Mr. Levin is highly trained in all types of fighting styles. He has an impressive record of not missing a target. I believe there isn’t a person alive you’ll be safer with than him.”
It feels like Papa’s leaving out a vital piece of information, but I don’t mention it.
Wanting to satisfy my curiosity, I ask, “Where are you from, Mr. Levin?”
Lightly, he shakes his head. “Call me Max.”
I cut a piece from the center breast of the chicken and pop the meat into my mouth.
“I was born in Moscow,” he answers.
Russian?
Why does that impress me?
“You don’t have a Russian accent,” I mention.
“I’ve traveled a lot. I lost it along the way.”
Something tells me that’s not the entire truth, but seeing as we’re talking about an accent, I don’t question his answer.
Turning my attention to Papa, I ask, “How will everything work? Do I have to let Max know whenever I’m going out?”
I take a bite of a crunchy potato and almost moan from how good it tastes.
I should steal Philippe from Papa so he can cook for me.
“Mr. Levin will move in with you, so you’re never alone,” Papa announces.
The bite of potato goes down the wrong hole, and I start coughing, my eyes instantly watering. It feels like the potato takes up permanent residence in my throat.
Just as the panic that I’m choking hits, Max is next to my chair and yanking me to my feet. His chest presses against my back, his arms locking around me. His fist pushes against the space between my stomach and my ribs, and the potato goes flying across the room.
A coughing fit overwhelms me, which has Max ordering in a commanding tone, “Breathe through your nose.”
My body doesn’t hesitate and does as it’s told. I manage to get some air into my lungs and cough the scratchy feeling out of my throat. A glass of water appears in front of my face, and I take it from Max. The liquid clears my throat, and I start to breathe normally again.
Jesus.
“Better?” Papa asks.
I nod and shoot Max a glance as he returns to his seat. My legs are trembling from choking on a piece of potato, and I quickly drop down on my chair.
I take a couple of deep breaths, my eyes locking on the man who just saved me from dying an embarrassing death.
Not even an hour since I met him, and he’s already saving my butt.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
“Just doing my job,” he mutters before continuing to eat his food.
Only then do I remember what Papa said, and my eyes fly to my father’s face. “Max is moving in with me? Why? I don’t think it’s needed.”
“It’s not open for discussion,mon amour,” Papa says. “Until the threat has been dealt with, Mr. Levin will be by your side day and night. It’s for your safety. I can’t have anything happen to you.”
