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I stand up, adjusting the front of my pants as I go, and take a step towards her.
“Wait!” she gasps, fear creeping into her act. “Benjamin. He can’t—I don’t want him to see this.”
“He’s an infant. He won’t remember.”
“It doesn’t matter. Kids shouldn’t be around when their parents are doing anything unsavory.”
I arch a brow. “Unsavory?”
“You know what I mean,” she snaps.
I do. And I admire it. There may be a lot of reasons not to hire Piper as Benjamin’s nanny, but the woman cares for him. I know she’ll protect him.
That’s reason enough for me.
She turns, positioning her body between me and Benjamin. “Do what you want with me, but get him out of here first. Please.”
I swallow down the desire that rises up at that invitation. Oh, if she only knew what I wanted to do with her.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Her shoulders sag. “Timofey, please. I don’t want him to see—”
“He won’t see anything.”
“I know he’s sleeping,” she says. “But still. It’s the only thing I’ll ever ask from you. Get him out of here.”
“I’ve warned you about lying.”
“I’m not—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt. “He doesn’t need to leave. You and I will be the ones leaving.”
She frowns. “Where are we going?”
“Dinner.”
42
PIPER
The chandelier hanging over my head feels like a threat. Any moment, Timofey is going to pull a cord and it’s going to come crashing down on me, I just know it.
Honestly, right now, that doesn’t sound so bad. Death would be preferable to watching our bottle blonde waitress shoot “fuck me” eyes at Timofey all night.
This restaurant is supposed to be fancy, for God’s sake. Can’t she keep it in her pants?
“And for you?” the waitress asks. She’s talking to me, but her eyes are too busy perusing Timofey to look in my direction.
I don’t know why I’m here. Not just here, as in, in this moment, jealous over a waitress I don’t know making eyes at a man I wish I didn’t know.
But here as inhere. At this restaurant. With Timofey.
I asked a million times on the car ride over, but he refused to say anything. I’m sure he has a reason, of course. He has a reason for everything. And I’m sure that reason is infuriating. It always is with him.
“Chef salad,” I say, folding my menu closed and sliding it over to her. “No dressing.”
At that, the woman finally glances in my direction, surprised. “You want a… dry side salad? For your entree?”
