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“Just get in, Paige. You’re not getting a damn thing without me.”
She doesn’t look thrilled about it, but she knows I’m not letting her leave alone. So she slumps into the passenger seat and we head off.
Her arms are crossed and her gaze is fixed pointedly out of the window. She’s all riled up and has no idea what to do with all the tension in her body, so it sets every bone to humming like a struck gong.
Finally, two minutes into the drive, she turns to me. “You could have said hello to them at the very least. They both miss you.”
“It’s been a long fucking day, Paige. I don’t have the energy to—”
“They’re family,” she says, cutting me off. “Do you know what I would give to have that? All I dreamed about when I was growing up was having a mother who wanted me to be happy. People who gave a shit whether I was sad or lonely or afraid. You have it all and you’re busy avoiding them when you should be enjoying them.”
I grit my teeth. “I can’t enjoy anything until Petyr Ivanov is dead.”
She shakes her head. “You’ll miss it all, Misha. You’ll miss all the things that matter and you’ll regret it later.”
“Don’t waste your time caring about my feelings,” I say curtly. “I’m not worth it.”
Her eyes slide to mine. They’re filled with passion and emotion and hope—all the things I refuse to get close to. “Maybe I think you are.”
71
PAIGE
Maybe I think you are.
It wasn’t exactly a full-blown admission of my burgeoning feelings for him. But it’s close enough that my palms are sweaty and my pulse is racing.
When I glance over, Misha’s expression is carefully concealed, but shoulders are tense.
He taps on the window. “We’re here.”
It’s only then that I realize we’re not driving anymore. We’re parked at the corner of a quiet street. The building in front of us has a sign that reads“Ellie’s Ice Cream Parlor.”
It’s been painted since I was here last. The bright canary yellow was swapped out for a bubblegum pink that hurts my eyes. For some reason I can’t quite explain, I miss the old version.
“One middle of the night mint chocolate chip whatever-the-fuck coming up,” Misha grumbles, undoing his seat belt.
“No.”
“No?” He turns to me incredulously. “We just drove across town in the middle of the night because you ranted about needing this specific shit.”
“It doesn’t sound good anymore.” The thought of it actually turns my stomach. “I want…”
You.
“Something else,” I finish lamely. Even with a gun to my head, I couldn’t possibly think of a single other ice cream flavor right now.
I’m too distracted. He’s too distracting.
“Okay,” he says with exaggerated, sarcastic patience. “Then tell me: what are you craving? Crepes? Popcorn? Preferably something on the other side of the city so we can take a nice, leisurely ride there.”
I groan loudly and bang the back of my head against the headrest. “I don’t know, okay? I was craving ice cream. Now, I’m not. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Fine,” he says. “Then I’ll just go in there and get a pint of every single flavor they’ve got.”
His deep voice is mesmerizing. Especially when he’s upset, it seems to take up more oxygen. It makes it hard to breathe.
The truth is, I wanted ice cream until the moment we got in this confined space together. Now, the woodsy scent of him is everywhere and there is only one thing I want.
