I grin, tapping the edge of my plate with a finger. “Food’s easy. These mashed potatoes, though I have a favorite breakfast, dessert, and so forth. It’s hard to decide on just one thing.”
“Ooh, now that’s a compliment to your chef. Song?”
A playlist runs through my mind, and I almost name two other songs, one my favorite car jam and one my most-played calming classical symphony, but I settle on something else.
“Started from the Bottom by Drake. I used to sing it with my squad, so it’s got good memories. Movie, uh . . . Die Hard, I guess? I don’t really watch movies or TV that often, but I watch Die Hard every Christmas so I guess it’s a favorite.”
“Your squad?” she asks, and I have a moment of mentally kicking myself for exposing that much.
“I was in the Army for a while. My squad worked well together, and we had some fun even in the godforsaken places we were stationed.”
“How was the Army for you? You don’t seem like the type to take orders and obey commands.” Her words are light, but the huskiness betrays her true meaning, her true desire to have me tell her what to do even as she chafes against that same desire.
“I didn’t if I could help it, but I recognize the importance of having someone ultimately responsible for the mission. Sometimes, it was me. Other times, someone higher than me or someone with a different skillset. As long as it was a success, I was okay with that.”
“This mission with Nikolai, are you ultimately responsible for that? Or is someone else pulling the duty card on this one?” she pries, taking us back to the elephant in the corner. The axe over our necks begins swinging again, Nikolai’s threat echoing in my head.
“This one’s on me. Nikolai has something I want. I have something he wants. It’s simple supply and demand, bartering one valued item for another.” I lift my shoulder dismissively like it’s an easy equation, not one with a multitude of moving parts and considerations.
“You make it sound so easy, but our dinner tonight says it’s not,” Kitty points out. “That you wanted to have me over, go over our stories, tells me that you’re concerned.”
“I’m not concerned per se,” I lie, “but I like to be prepared for every foreseeable outcome. This was something I did not see coming. I don’t like that, and I’m rectifying it as we speak.”
“So that you can sprinkle your dad’s ashes in some remote cave?” she asks, and I can tell in her voice that she doesn’t believe that story at all.
Problem is, if she doesn’t believe me, Nikolai probably doesn’t either, and I need him to think that’s all my trip into his territory consists of. If he thinks there’s something more, something I’m not telling him, he’ll shoot first and ask questions later.
I nod, and she demands, “Tell me about him, your dad.”
Normally, I would never share a single thing beyond the bare bones of what could be found online. Life is safer when you neither confirm nor deny any bit of information.
But something has changed between us with the chit-chat and banter, the wine loosening our tongues, the charge between us making me buzzy with the desire to continue our conversation at almost any cost. Talk about damn near anything or nothing at all.
I recognize the oddity of it and council myself to tread carefully, speaking in broken sentences as I pull my thoughts together.
“My dad was a workaholic of the worst kind, obsessive and passionate about his work. Often to the detriment of me and Caleb, who would go weeks without seeing him. But we had Mom, and she was better than any two parents could be. Then she was gone, and we didn’t have one remaining parent. We had none because Dad was still always gone. Jetting here, working there, and we spent our time in this big house with the nannies and staff. Grant, the house manager you met? He taught me to ride a bike, drive a car, and helped me get ready for my first date. He’s been more of a father than my own dad was, and even he kept me at arm’s length, always professional.”
I clear my throat, the emotion thick in my chest and head, and it takes me a minute to realize that Kitty isn’t saying anything.