Page 44 of Point Proven
“You know, I could’ve just bought you warmmilk.”
“But it wouldn’t have the caffeine or… uh,tangto it that I like.”
“What tang? It’s glorified sugar.” Drumming my fingers along the table, my stomach growled. “God, how much longer is the food going to take?”
“Hopefully not long,” the familiar voice crooned, overpowering the chime of the bell alerting his presence.
Auburn hair tamed just as it’d been in his office, confidence oozed from Levander in thick waves. Clashing with his porcelain skin, the black trench coat he’d wrapped himself in seemed to be made with the highest quality fabric. The plush fur lining his neck kept him protected from the crisp air that blanketed Novosibirsk, while also ensuring he stood out against the crowd.
Offering us a cheeky grin, his capped-silver canines made their appearance as he slipped onto the bench beside me. “You all seem…elated.”
“Levander!” Oren smiled, his radiancenotinfluencing me. Raising his arm, he held out two cups. “Need creamers?”
“Oh, sohecan have them, but not me?”
“Yes. He liked my cookies.”
“Don’t mind the siblings fighting. They both areclearlyin need of a nap.” Thorne reached across the table to shake his hand. “Presuming you’re well-rested?”
Levander snorted. “Oh, God no, I don’t adjust well to new places. Or well, time zones, I guess.”
“Me either,” I muttered, resting my elbows on the table. “God,where’s the food?”
“Well… we still have one?—”
“Eggs and steak. Who?” Standing at the head of the table, plates lined the waitress’s arm. Thorne raised his hand, and she settled the meal in front of him. “Thank you.”
Smiling, she dipped her chin. “French toast?”
“That’s me!” Oren grabbed it from her while shimmying, his excitement growing as his tongue darted out to swipe his bottom lip.
“Blinchiki?”
Raising my hand, I reached for the plate, but she placed it in front of me with a raised brow. “You like this? Yes?”
“Very much. My boyfriend…” Trailing off, I cleared my throat. “He used to make crepes often.”
Unprompted, the male standing at the counter glanced over his shoulder. Phthalo green irises greeted me, further emphasized by honey-blonde locks. Lifting an unamused brow, his gaze swept over me, lips curling with a tinge of disgust.
“Unruly American.” His accent was thick andheavilyRussian.
The waitress, Irina, turned around briefly to roll her eyes at the guest. “He does not know different.” Turning back to me, her gaze softened. “You try them, butnotcrepes. Thicker. Fluffier.Betterthan French.”
Spouting off a statement in Russian, the man’s glare deepened, but his words were pointed at the woman serving us.
Oren snapped his attention toward the blonde-haired man. “What’s he saying? Is he being rude?—”
Thorne shook his head. “No. He’s essentially telling her not to be insensitive toward the French.”
“O-Oh…”
She muttered one final statement, setting the last dish in front of Levander as our unprompted visitor left the café. “SavoryGrenki.”
“Beautiful. Thanks, doll.”
As the waitress stepped away, a husky timbre broke through the clattering of unrolled utensils. “Got room for one more?”
I know that voice.
