Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

5. Zoya

5

ZOYA

“ A re you sure you don’t want me to refrigerate that for you?”

The bartender, who has been serving me water for the past four hours without a single grumble of annoyance, nudges his head to the giant slice of mедови?к I purchased from the restaurant of the Broadbent Hotel.

It cost me a fortune since they had to make it fresh, but because I was just as confident my effort would be returned tenfold, I acted like the dip in my bank balance was half what it was.

It seems as if karma took the night off.

I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Aleena, and I sat at this end of the bar because it had an uninterrupted view of the only restaurant in a fifty-mile radius that serves freshly made mедови?к .

“It’s looking a little worse for wear,” the bartender continues, reminding me that he asked a question.

“That’s the design. Its sour cream and condensed milk combination resembles curdled milk.” When he screws up his nose, I laugh. “Sounds disgusting, but it is actually quite delicious.” He gives me a look as if to say, Are you gonna cough up the goods? “I would if it was mine. I bought this for my sister.”

He stops looking like he’s on the verge of dying when my last word echoes in his ears. “Your sister?”

“Uh-huh. It’s her birthday today. She’s twenty-two and supposedly so in love with this hotel’s mедови?к . If I were to find her anywhere today, it would be here.”

“Oh…” The shortness of his reply and the fact he is a stranger shouldn’t make it seem as if he said so much more than he did, but you’d swear he didn’t shut up until he was blue in the face.

“What?”

Remorse darkens his eyes. “There was a group of girls in earlier when my shift started.” He lowers his focus to the container I’m sheltering like a bodyguard would a pop star. “They were seeking a slab of that but left with some other sickly combination and a heap of attention.” His jaw tics when he scans the patrons surrounding us. “Almost as much attention as you’ve been getting for the past four hours.” He returns his eyes to my face before dragging them down my body. He looks closer to my age than the thirty bracket I was placing him in when his teeth catch his lower lip, and he murmurs on a moan, “ Almost. ”

I’d usually be flattered by his compliment. I’m just too disappointed to respond how I generally would. Furthermore, even with hours whizzing by fast enough to make me dizzy, I haven’t been able to get my exchange with Andrik out of my head. It keeps leaking through the cracks and has me scanning the crowd as often for a dark-haired man as I’ve been seeking a blonde-haired beauty.

After swallowing my disappointment, I ask, “How long ago did your shift start?”

The bartender checks the time while tossing a tea towel over his shoulder. “Almost eight hours ago, which means I’m only half an hour from clocking out.” His eyes display his interest, not to mention his smile when he asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to share that? I can rustle up some forks in my apartment. It’s only a couple of miles from here.”

I’d feel bad turning him down if he didn’t have the gaga eyes of a buxom trio at the other end of the bar. They’ve been eyeballing him all evening and seem more than eager to try out the position I falsely claimed I was a pro at earlier today.

“I’m—”

“About to break my ever-lovin’ heart.”

It is evil for me to smile. It can’t be helped, though. You can’t hear the playfulness in his tone. It has me on the cusp of believing a night with him would be worth the possible discomfort I’ll face when I finally build up the courage to test Dr. Hemway’s theory that not all endometriosis sufferers endure pain during sex.

He slides a napkin with his digits on it across the sticky bar. “In case you change your mind.” My smile notches my cheeks higher when he moseys to the other side of the bar while saying, “I’ll even kick them out of my bed mid-deed if you’re not into sharing.”

“And if I was interested?” I ask, doing anything to keep the tension off the fact that I turned down an invitation from a devilishly good-looking man for a stranger I’ll most likely never see again.

The bartender groans before he grips his chest like his heart can’t possibly sustain more damage. “I’d die a very happy man.”

He winks like he has the world at his feet when I slip off the barstool and store his number in my pocket before he gives the buxom trio the star treatment they’ve been seeking for the past several hours.

I smile, glad someone is getting their rocks off tonight, before I head for the exit.

I’m about to break into the foyer when the bartender’s deep rumble stops me in my tracks. “They restock the dessert cabinet every day at midday.” He waits for me to crank my neck back to face him before saying, “That’s what they told the blonde in the middle of the pack when she wasn’t as adamant as you that she must have that specific cake.”

His reply announces he was watching me longer than I was seated in his bar, awaiting the arrival of my baby sister. I let it slide, however, since he’s given me hope I may still see her before returning home for another long stint of absence.

“I’m guessing I am gonna see you tomorrow?”

I don’t take even a second to consider my reply. “Your guess would be correct.”

The trio’s lips drop into a pout when he devotes his attention back to me enough for them to lose the heat of his gaze. “Where are you staying?” My brow barely lifts when he attempts to eradicate my confusion. “You’re not a local. If you were, I would have sniffed you out years ago.” He takes a moment to relish my furled lips and then adds, “And you’re not a hotel guest, or you would have taken advantage of the canapes and free booze offered after four p.m. every afternoon, so where are you gonna rest your head for the night?”

Bartenders are like hairdressers—they know everything. Trying to deceive them is just foolish, so I be honest. “I was planning to drive home. Now I’ll probably just find a place to stay on the outskirts of town.”

By place, I mean a truck stop or a gas station, where I will sleep in my car with the tire wrench hidden under the hoodie I’m going to treat as a blanket.

The bartender, still nameless, sees through my lie in under a second. “Truck stops ain’t no place for a lady.” I’m already stammering for air from how easily he read me, so you can picture my gasping state when he says, “You can crash at mine.”

Not paying attention to my headshake, he snags a set of keys from beneath the bar and then tosses them at me.

I either catch them or let them fall to the floor.

I catch them. It doesn’t mean what the trio at the end of the bar thinks.

I’m not going home with him.

“I’m not… I can’t.” That whiny brat with a voice oddly similar to mine had better quit stuttering before I smack her. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.”

“You either stay at my place, or I’ll spend the night circling the truck stops, seeking you in the…”—he twists his lips as he contemplates—“rusted white Lada Niva you’re getting around in that is most likely older than you.” I snap my mouth shut. “Your stingy ass is as uneager as the rest of us to pay the valet parking rate here, so you parked behind me in an alleyway a couple of blocks up.”

I don’t feel threatened by him. He doesn’t give off dark and dangerous vibes like Andrik, though it won’t stop me from saying, “You said you arrived for your shift eight hours ago.” He nods, unknowingly inching toward my trap. “So how did you see me park behind you a little over four hours ago?”

I assume he’s seconds from being snared by my trap. I’m poorly mistaken. “Do you really think I’d park my custom Irbis in an alleyway without making sure she was wired up to the hilt with surveillance?”

I have no clue what an Irbis is, but it is clearly important to him. He switches the football on the TV to a live feed of the alleyway two blocks up from the hotel.

“Hey!” a fellow bartender shouts in frustration. “I was watching that.”

“Now you’re watching my bike,” Bartender One replies, his tone firm enough for his colleague to back down on his campaign in an instant.

Bartender One’s motorcycle replicates a Harley Davidson. It is all black with chrome features. It’s a sexy bike—even more so when featured next to my bomb, which is one coastal visit from being completely rusted out.

After admiring his favorite mode of transport for a few more seconds, he tells the complaining bartender to snap a picture of the tags on his bike.

When he does as asked, Bartender One nudges his head to me before saying with a smile, “Now her.”

“I don’t conse?—”

Too late.

Bartender Two takes my picture without consent.

“Are they clear?” Bartender Two jerks up his chin before spinning his phone screen around to get Bartender One’s approval. “That’s as clear as a glass of water not removed from the Hudson.” He gets off track as quickly as I do when I find something interesting. “What phone is that? It takes a damn good picture. I can even see the tiny little freckles adorning her adorable nose.”

When I realize what he is doing—killing my suspicion with compliments—I pull the damp dish towel off his shoulder and throw it in his face.

“Delete that,” I demand, pointing to Bartender Two, “before I show you what happens when I don’t consent to having my photo taken.”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he attempts to delete the image.

I say attempt because Bartender One snatches his phone out of his grasp before he can. “If you delete the evidence of our blistering yet somewhat one-sided exchange, how will he rat me out to the po-po if your name shows up on a missing person’s report tomorrow?”

I am completely and utterly lost. Mercifully, he is better at reading my confused prompts than my not-interested ones. “Lync’s got my plates and your image stored in his phone, so if you fail to show up tomorrow to meet with your sister, he has all the info he needs to finally see me in cuffs.”

“I’d do it, too,” Lync assures me. “Mikhail hasn’t shut up about his bike since he bought it.” He leans in closer. “That was a very long six months ago. So you can be assured I’ll do anything for a couple of hours of peace.”

I fight to hide my smile when Mikhail rolls his eyes before switching the television program back to football. A penalty shootout has Lync passive in under a minute, and all of Mikhail’s focus back on me. “Take a right at the end of the alleyway. After a second set of lights, you’ll see a glass-and-steel building half a click up. You can’t miss it. I’m in the penthouse. If you’d rather keep your visit under wraps, park in the underground garage and take the service elevator to the top floor. This code will get you inside my apartment.” After flipping over my hand, he writes a four-digit PIN code onto my palm. “It changes anytime it’s used, so if you are planning to leave and come back, collect the key from the entryway table first.”

“Why would I leave?” When he smirks, I free my foot from his trap. “I’d have to arrive before I could leave, and that is never going to happen.”

“It’s happening,” Mikhail argues. “And to make sure, I’ll treat the Triple Threat Team to a hotel room for the night.” He flashes dimples as he nudges his head to the trio awaiting his return. “Then there will be no chance I’ll accidentally stumble to my bed in the middle of the night for a late-night snuggle.” His smile grows. “I’ve been caught out before. Consequences of having only one bed and a marshmallow heart.”

“Offering strangers your bed for the night nothing out of the ordinary for you, Marshmallow Man?”

He bops my nose with his pen, instantly weakening my defenses. “I only do it for the girls I like.” The pen clatters into a stack of twenty when he tosses it into a holder at the side of an ancient cash register. “And you’ve got me fascinated as fuck.” His nose screws up like it’s an effort to deliver his next words without vomit. “But I’m starting to think not all my interests center around me.” He signals to a patron demanding attention that he won’t be a minute before training his eyes on mine. “You good?”

I want to say no. I want to tell him he’s crazy to invite a stranger into his home, but something stops me. I just have no clue what it is, so instead, I nod, preferring to lie without words.