Page 11 of Scarlet Vows
The Roast ismy favorite spot. The coffee shop’s popular with its cute little booths in black and white geometric designs, the bursts of greenery from the plants, and of course its amazing coffee and tea.
The place smells like heaven, and the buzz of the machines and the quiet chatter of patrons make my heart lift.
Here, no one bugs me or hits on me, and it’s such a happy little spot that I’ve always found it a panacea for sadness and the jagged edges of my broken heart.
But this morning, I can’t stop the jump and dance of my nerves as I wait for Ilya.
Honestly, I was so glad he called.
Earlier, I pressed call and then disconnect so many times that I’m sure I could now be a world-champ yo-yo star.
And the fact that he wants to talk to me about something will make this whole thing less embarrassing.
It’s almost Friday, and I have no idea what to do. The whole Santo thing is… I don’t know. Weird. Potentially scary?
All I said to Isla was that the big guy just couldn’t get the point. I didn’t tell her how he’d slid his hand up my skirt orthat I knew who he was. She thought the six-foot-six guy was hot.
I’m not endangering her.
So I didn’t tell her. And outside of Erin, I don’t think there’s anyone else I could tell. Erin’s friend Kara is great, but we’re not that close.
There’s only one other person.
Ilya.
And if I’m honest, out of everyone I know, he’s the one who may have an idea of how to get out of this thing with Santo.
We’re close.
I can tell him anything.
It’s kind of weird. I’ve known him since I can remember, but it’s only since Max died that we got even closer. Our friendship became its own entity, one that exists outside Demyan.
Two years ago, I couldn’t imagine actually functioning, smiling, or having fun. But Ilya changed that. He didn’t tiptoe around my loss, didn’t change how he was. And more importantly, he’s never once treated me like I’m suddenly made of glass.
No, Ilya was always there with a broad shoulder to cry on. Vodka, whiskey, and a pack of cards at the ready.
With him, there was no before or after Max.
By that, I mean he wasn’t a before-Max Ilya or after-Max Ilya. His shoulder was the same one I cried on when I broke my arm and when the first boy I liked didn’t like me.
And he’s always made me laugh.
Ilya, treating me like normal, was what I needed. Exactly what I needed.
And through it, I’ve come to see I can say anything to him. Our friendship’s that deep. I treasure it.
The fact he’s easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt, either.
I sense him the moment the door opens. The pressure changes, heads turn, and Ilya steps in wearing a crisp suit. The dark gray brings an air of distinguishment to him. Even though I know he can kill without blinking, the suit hides that savage edge, just like it hides the grin beneath his surface, his terrible jokes, his laughter.
My stomach flips.
But as he approaches, the smile I’m used to only half emerges, and he seems distracted.
Immediately, I reach out to him. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine.” He squeezes my fingers, and that touch revs the heat inside me.
