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She smiles and sighs at the same time. “I don’t know what to say. It means a lot that you trust me.”
“I want to be with you. We’re freakishly good at messing shit up in this relationship, but I’ve never not wanted to be with you. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“I’m terrible at relationships. But I want to be better with you.”
“Me too.”
I stand up and walk around to her side of the desk, where she meets me in an embrace.
“Why didn’t you come home last night?” I ask her, closing my eyes and breathing in the sweet, familiar scent of her perfume.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”
“I did. I always want you to come back to me.”
She relaxes against me. “I slept at Quentin and Jacob’s house.”
“That explains why Quentin just threatened to shank me.”
She laughs against my chest. “He did?”
“Yep.”
She leans back, looking up at me. “Do you have time to go somewhere with me?”
“Somewhere close?”
“Pretty close.”
I grin. “If somewhere is my bed, I was going there to take a nap anyway.”
“It’s not.”
“Well shit then,” I say, teasing her.
She laughs lightly. “But we can do both. My thing first, and then I’ll join you for that nap.”
“Deal.”
She gets her coat and bag and we walk up to Quentin’s desk together.
“Quentin, can you reschedule everything I have before two this afternoon?”
“You got it, boss.”
She slides her hand into mine and we walk out of the office, Quentin still giving me the evil eye.
When we get to the parking lot, she pushes a button and unlocks her Mercedes SUV.
“You got your car back?” I ask.
“Yep. The fire marshal finally let the building owner get the cars from the deck.”
She starts driving, and I soon realize where we’re going.
“I meant what I said. I trust you,” I tell her.
She smiles at me. “I trust you, too.”
Twenty minutes later, she parks a few doors down from the house she went into last night. I give her a skeptical look as we approach the front door together.
“Are you sure about this?”
She nods. “Completely.”
We walk up the stairs to the front porch and she knocks. The same man from last night answers, looking surprised.
“Mila…we weren’t expecting you.” He steps aside so we can walk inside.
The house has hardwood floors and simple furniture, with nothing on the walls. The curtains are all closed, lamps and overhead lights on.
She looks at me. “Colby, this is Vlad. I’ve known him since…well…”
Vlad is a tall, broad man with short dark hair who looks like a bouncer. He doesn’t seem like a guy who smiles much.
“Since you were born,” Vlad says.
“And Vlad, this is Colby Harrison, my husband.”
Vlad arches his brows and grins. “Your husband?”
He puts his hand out to shake mine, his fingers crushing mine. “She’s been keeping you a secret. I’m happy for you both.”
I feel like an idiot for accusing Mila of sleeping with him. He’s graying at the temples and has to be in his late forties, and he clearly doesn’t see her that way.
“How is he today?” she asks.
Vlad frowns. “Not good. You should come back later.”
“We’re going to pop in for just a minute.”
He nods and turns, leading us around a corner to a door that looks like it leads to a basement. We walk down a flight of stairs, reaching another door, where another man sits in a recliner, an automatic rifle sitting on a small table next to him. He doesn’t even blink as Vlad enters a set of numbers into a keypad.
He opens the door and we follow him inside, my hand instinctively wrapping around Mila’s. I have no idea what’s inside that room, but the rifle has me on high alert.
My lips part with surprise as I take in the scene before me. We’re in a wide-open room with a tile floor, fluorescent lights glowing overhead. A little old man lies in a hospital bed, a recliner next to it.
He pinches his brows together and says something in what I think is Russian, his agitation clear.
“Colby,” Mila says, squeezing my hand. “I’d like you to meet my grandfather.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mila
I hate that it had to be like this. If Colby could have met my deda five years ago, he would have met a wise man who loved me dearly.
With the progression of his disease, though, my grandfather isn’t himself anymore. He hasn’t recognized me in a long time. He requires around-the-clock nursing care. Sometimes he still thinks he’s in his prime with enemies to deal with, so he has to be restrained to his bed for his own safety.
Ivan Pavlov’s fall from power was mighty. He told me shortly after his diagnosis with Alzheimer’s that it was penance for all the terrible things he did in his life. He predicted the disease would take him slowly, squeezing out every ounce of his dignity until there was nothing left.
