“I can’t ask you to do that.”
I’m such a hypocrite because that’s exactly what I was hoping he’d offer. Not all of me, obviously, just the desperate part.
“You didn’t. I offered.” He shakes his head. “Don’t make me beg for your hand in fake marriage. I mean, I can get down on one knee. Pretend to propose.”
He starts to rise, but I lunge over the table to hold him down.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Make me the happiest man at this table and be my fake fiancée.” He moves the coffee out of the way as he grabs a napkin and quickly fashions it into a giant ring.
Laughter erupts as I let go of his lapels and throw my arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I don’t think as I start to pepper his cheeks with kisses, the smoothness of his shave electric under my lips.
I like him with a close beard, but there’s something about his smooth-shaven cheek that’s delightful.
I got that all the time with Max since he kept himself clean-shaven, but?—
I stop myself and breathe. “Thank you.”
He pulls me off him and gently pushes me back to my side of the booth. “It’s nothing.”
But Ilya looks pleased, his cheeks a little flushed.
“It’s not nothing. It’s a lot. For me. It means so much to me,” I say, the words tumbling out.
His grin blooms. “Friends help each other out, right?”
“Yes.” I smile back. “They do. And I promise you won’t have to do anything awkward like kiss me.”
He chuckles. “Well, thank goodness I don’t have to do anything disgusting like that.”
I ignore his sarcasm, grateful for it. “You know, they make this amazing-looking chocolate cake. We should get some to celebrate?—”
“I’ll have a piece sent to you,” he says, getting to his feet.
I rise, too, my smile slipping a little. “You’re going?”
Ilya nods apologetically. “Yeah. I’ve got meetings. What do you think the suit’s for?”
“Me?”
“You wish.” He kisses my cheek.
He smells divine, like musk and a Tuscan summer, citrusy and fresh, with a touch of dark promises in that musk.
“There’s a lot of boring stuff that takes up time.”
“My brother owes you a raise,” I say, only half joking. “You practically live in the mansion, and you’re burning the candle at both ends in the name of business. You’re working so hard for him that a raise is?—”
“My little champion dove,” he says with a laugh, then he switches to English. “Text me all the details of this meetingon Friday, and don’t worry about Demyan. He appreciates me. He’s done a lot for me, and I’m happy to return the favor.”
It hits me that for most of the conversation, we’ve been speaking Russian. I didn’t even notice I’d code-switched until this moment. There’s something about Ilya that both languages feel right.
He kisses my cheek again, his hand warm on my arm, his lips tingling my skin.
But it’s over too quickly, and then he heads out the door, stopping only at the counter to pay and point out the cake.
