Dmytro bitterly regretted opening up to Ajax about Anton. About parenting. He shouldn’t have gotten emotional. Shouldn’t have let his guard down.
Trust—for lack of a better word—was supposed to go only one way in a relationship like theirs.
Now Ajax looked at him with new, hopeful eyes. And Dmytro would have to let him down again. It wasn’t unusual for a client to develop feelings for him. But this time it would hurt both of them to walk away.
“This isn’t so bad,is it?” Ajax asked.
“What’s not?”
“This place. No one has a clue who I am here. We can probably even take a few days to chill while Peter finds whoever’s been threatening me. No need for a boat.”
“If Zhenya says we get on a boat, we get on a boat.” Dmytro turned the breakfast menu pages with a snap.
“The boy likes boats as much as you do, Mitya.” Bartosz teased.
“What’s that mean?” Ajax asked.
“Motion sickness, remember?” Dmytro glared at Bartosz. “If we wear patches, it won’t be a problem.”
A couple stared at them from a nearby table. Ajax flushed. “Um, guys.”
“What?”
“Can’t you at least take off your jackets?” Dmytro and Bartosz were dressed alike—both men wore black jeans with black polos and sport jackets. Both were big and brawny enough to announce “hired muscle” to everyone around.
Ajax whispered, “You keep talking about me, but you’re the ones drawing unwanted attention.”
Bartosz’s eyes twinkled. “You think they’ll be less curious once they realize we’re armed?”
“I only mean—”
“Here you go, gentlemen. Thanks for your patience.” Their waiter carried a tray with water and coffee mugs toward them, smiling. He was in his late thirties, wearing low-slung jeans and a skintight Harley-Davidson T-shirt. His eyes stopped on Ajax like he was the last glass of water in Death Valley. “Ooh. What can I get for you, sugar?”
“Chilaquiles, please.” Ajax folded his hands on a placemat featuring eggs and bacon dancing together.
“You want your eggs scrambled or served sunny-side up?”
“Scrambled.”
“Shredded chicken?”
“Yes, please.”
“And for you, sir?” He nodded toward Dmytro.
“I’ll have the same.” Dmytro handed both his and Ajax’s menus over with a sour look.
The server turned to Bartosz. “And you, babe?”
“Fill me in.” Bartosz’s brows lifted flirtatiously. “Do I want waffles or french toast?”
The waiter gave it some thought. “The waffles are out of this world. Like donuts fresh from a waffle iron. Ever tried a bacon waffle?”
“I’ll take that,” said Bartosz. “Plus eggs and potatoes.”
“Wait, you have street tacos al pastor?” Ajax saw a sign on the wall. “Those are the little ones, right? Can I try a couple of those too? Chips and salsa?”
“You bet. What can I get you to drink with that, sweet thing?”
