She was fresh-faced, wearing a turtleneck jumper and slightly baggy jeans, and she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She also looked young as hell. The sight brought up all sorts of memories I’d tried to bury deep inside.
“What’s good here?” she asked, tapping her lip.
“Do I look like I come here a lot?”
“You look like you eat babies and virgins for lunch, so no, you don’t look like you come here a lot.
“I’ll pass on the babies, but there’s one particular virgin I do enjoy eating, who’ll play nice and not tempt me unless she wants that to happen in an undoubtedly filthy bathroom down the hall,” I mused, looking at the menu. It was laminated and sticky. I dropped it onto the table.
Molly ignored me in favor of the menu, giving me plenty of time to indulge in my favorite hobby—watching her.
“Can I get pancakes?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because it’s after lunchtime,” she pointed out.
“I’m not your dad. Get what you want,” I said shortly. Christ.
“Speaking of dads, how’s Henry?” Molly asked.
Henry Madison was a thorn in my fucking side. I had him locked up in a bratva safe house somewhere, and Ivan looked in on him now and again. I still hadn’t pulled the trigger and wasn’t sure what to do with him. Killing him would upset Molly, and I couldn’t stomach it.
“Assume he’s alive and outstaying his welcome on the bratva dime until I tell you otherwise. How was Mara?”
“She was well. Sheiswell in that new place. It’s beautiful there.” She sighed, turning to look out the window. “You know, it’s the first time someone other than me has cared what happened to her in years. It feels weird.” She nibbled on her nail, looking like eighteen-year-old Mallory had stepped out of my memory and sat down opposite me.
“What does?”
“Not being alone anymore.” She turned a broad smile on the approaching server. “You’ve been my ghost for so long, I can’t get used to the fact you’re real.”
I didn’t trust myself to respond, but I knew exactly how she felt.
After we ordered, Molly took a long breath and fixed me with a probing look. “If I ask you something important, will you promise to tell me the truth?”
“I always tell you the truth, Molly, even when it hurts.”
She swallowed. “Are you engaged?”
Her question took me completely off guard. Molly knew about the engagement? The last few days suddenly clicked into place. The dinner party and the cold shoulder. Her withdrawal, which I’d assumed was an overreaction to Fede’s phone call. She knew, and she’d known for a few days.
“Yes,” I answered her honestly.
She flinched, and her earlier happiness vanished. “You didn’t want to tell me, so I could . . . manage my expectations?”
“I had no need to tell you, Princess. I might be engaged, but I’m not getting married.”
It took a moment for my statement to sink in, and curiosity filled her eyes. “You’re not?”
“There is only one woman I’ve ever considered marrying. If it’s not her, I’m not getting married. The ball’s in your court, Miss Madison.”
She didn’t ask if it was her. There was no need. Both of us knew.
Molly nodded, cutting a corner of her syrup-soaked pancake. “Good to know, weird boy.” Then she pinned me with a smile, and my heart stirred in my chest.
It was like the sunrise on my face after a long, dark Russian winter.
37