CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ilya hadn’t been this nervous about meeting a woman in a long time, and the fact that it was Theresa Malone meant his anxiety made no sense. Still, he paced. If he’d been a smoker, he’d have gone through a pack already.
She’d said she wanted to go in on the diner with him, but that she had to work out some things first. He knew that meant something with money. She’d been up front about not being able to cosign a mortgage with him, that she’d be a liability, and although it had been obvious there was way more to the story than she was telling him, he wasn’t worried about that. Or about getting a mortgage. With the money he had from selling the quarry, even after paying off his portion of the debts, he had plenty to put down on the diner, and despite years of skating on the edge of losing everything, he and Alicia had always paid their bills on time. He’d get a loan, no problem.
He could do it without any help from Theresa, if he had to. He didn’t want to, and he couldn’t be sure why. All he knew was that it felt right to ask her. Felt right to imagine the two of them revitalizing something, making it new.
Maybe he was simply being an idiot.
Or maybe he was nervous because this felt nothing like a business meeting and everything like a date.
He hadn’t been on an actual date in so long he was hard-pressed to recall exactly whom he’d been on a date with. He’d been more likely to go out and find an FWB for the night than make any kinds of plans in advance. “Once and done.” That had been his motto. Sure, it had made him an asshole. He’d never cared.
She was late. Shit, she’d changed her mind. She wasn’t going to buy the diner with him. Worse, she was going to stand him up.
At the sight of her car pulling into the lot on the far side, Ilya let out a long, slow breath. He stopped pacing. He smoothed his hair and adjusted his shirt. He should’ve worn a tie. Something nicer than these khakis and the button-down Oxford he’d snagged from Niko’s closet.
Even from this distance, he could see that Theresa wore a dress. Low heels, but sexy with a pointed toe. He was a sucker for women in sexy shoes. She’d pulled the masses of her dark, curly hair on top of her head, a few tendrils escaping to fall around her face. She was smiling as she made her way toward him.
“Hey, you,” she said. “Am I late?”
“No, no. I was early. Shall we go in?” His hand naturally fell to the small of her back as he opened the door for her. Inside, the maître d’ took them to the table he’d requested toward the back of the restaurant. Someplace quiet, he’d said, so they could talk business.
This was totally a date.
It couldn’t be, though, for so many reasons that he wasn’t able to list them all on his fingers. Their convoluted family history. This pending business deal. His inability to make things work, romantically, with anyone long term.
“Ilya,” she said, and he realized she’d been speaking to him.
“Huh? Sorry. I was . . . I didn’t hear what you said. Um, yeah,” he said to the server who showed up at the table like a rabbit popping out of a hat. “A glass of the Crane Lake Merlot. No, you know what? Bring the bottle.”
Theresa’s brows rose slightly before her expression settled. “Unsweetened iced tea for me, please. No lemon.”
“So, you were saying?” Ilya reached for the small basket of rolls in the center of the table, offering it first to her before taking one for himself.
“I said I put some things together with a friend who specializes in things like this, so I’m . . .” Again she paused. “Are you all right? What’s going on? You were staring.”
He hadn’t meant to, but he’d been caught trying to figure out if the dress, the shoes, the hair, if it all meant that Theresa had been thinking of this as more than a simple business dinner between friends and potential business partners. He tore the roll into several pieces and made a show of looking for the butter. “Nope, I’m good.”
“So I put it all together, and I brought along all the points she made and an outline of the agreement. We can change things if you want to. It’s a little unorthodox.” Theresa slid a few papers across the table toward him.
Ilya looked at the papers, then at her. “Am I going to need an interpreter to understand this?”
“I don’t think so. It lays out our individual responsibilities, both financial and otherwise. For example”—she leaned a little to point at an item lower down on the page—“it lays out how much I can contribute to the down payment and allows for me to make payments toward co-ownership. It covers what happens if either of us defaults. It has a sample schedule in there for work that might come up, along with a list of things we’d divide between us based on what I think works best with our strengths . . . you’re staring again.”
He’d never thought he’d be turned on by a woman’s organizational skills, but watching her so carefully outline everything, he was definitely impressed. And aroused. He cleared his throat. “You put a lot of work into this.”
“I think it’s important,” she said. “So that we go into this thing with clear heads and make it as easy as possible to keep ourselves on track.”
“So you’re really going to do it? For real?”
“Yes. For real.” She grinned. “We have an appointment with my friend tomorrow afternoon at three in her office. Can you make it?”
He made a show of pulling out his phone to look at his calendar. “Oh, I don’t know, let me check my busy social schedule. I think I can pencil you in between my polo match and that custom tux fitting. Yes, yes, of course I can. Tomorrow.”
Theresa laughed, her head tipping back, and in that moment Ilya thought how he would gladly make a jester of himself every single day, if only to make her laugh.
This was dangerous. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want it. He didn’t know how to stop it, but on the other hand, Ilya was positive he wouldn’t know how to keep it going, either.
Theresa looked up as the waiter brought their drinks. “You know what? Pour two glasses, please.”
“But you don’t—” Ilya began, but cut himself off when Theresa lifted her glass of crimson liquid.
She nodded. “I don’t. But it’s not because I can’t. I usually prefer not to, that’s all.”
He lifted his own glass to clink against hers. “Cheers.”
They both sipped. She grimaced a little. Then laughed.
“I haven’t had a glass of wine since my second year of college,” she said. “I didn’t like it then. This is better.”
Ilya took up the menu to keep his attention on it and not the faint pink blush rising in her cheeks or the way her eyes sparkled or the white glint of her teeth. “So, what looks good? Steak? Shrimp? Lobster?”
“All of the above. I’m starving. But I want to save room for dessert. Hey,” she added quietly, waiting until he looked up at her, “are you changing your mind? Because if you’re having second thoughts, you should tell me now. I can call Rita, cancel the meeting. No problem.”
“No. The diner’s a great opportunity. And I do want you to help me with Babulya’s recipes. I need you . . . for that part.”
He did not want to need her for anything.
This date shouldn’t be a date. The flirting, as lighthearted as it had been, should never have happened. No more kissing. No more midnight swims. They couldn’t do any of that for so many reasons, but mostly because Ilya knew all too well that he would only end up ruining all this, and her, and he simply . . . could . . . not.
“I’m not changing my mind,” he said.
The wine had been a mistake. After the first few sips, a warmth had spread through her. At least that was what Theresa told herself. That it was the wine, and nothing at all to do with the man across the table from her.
The conversation at dinner had started off all right, then had become a little strained, but she’d kept it on track by focusing on their upcoming business partnership. Ilya had been enthusiastic about it, once she’d managed to get him talking. The menu, a liquor license, how they would decorate. So long as she kept the conversation aimed at the decisions they’d have to make for the business, he seemed happy.
Yet even so, it seemed like he had trouble meeting her gaze. The easy familiarity they’d shared the past few times they’d been together wasn’t there. He kept looking over her shoulder or around the room.
“Are you . . . waiting for someone?” she finally asked over dessert, a thick wedge of chocolate cheesecake she hadn’t left room for but was going to try to eat anyway. She dug in her fork and, at the first taste, let out a small noise of appreciation.
Ilya had ordered cherry pie with a side of vanilla ice cream, but he hadn’t so much as picked up his fork. “No.”
“You seem distracted.” Theresa licked the tines of her fork, savoring the dessert.
Ilya grimaced. “Nah. It’s late, that’s all.”
“It’s Friday night. You can sleep in tomorrow,” she began, meaning to tease him since, of course, he could sleep in late any day. At least for now. She watched him look past her to the room beyond, and her smile faded. “Did you have plans?”
Ilya pressed his phone to light the screen, checking the time. There was a text alert. She couldn’t see whom it was from, not that she was trying to be nosy, but at the sight of it, he picked up his phone to swipe away the lock screen and type an answer. “Yeah, maybe. Something might be going on.”
“Oh.” She nodded at the server who’d come over to ask her if she wanted a box for the rest of the cheesecake. She shook her head at the offer of more coffee. “I guess we should get the check and get out of here, then. So you can go and do . . . whatever it is you wanted to do.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded, focused on his phone, but he did give her a glance. “Meeting a . . . friend.”
“I see.” Theresa watched the server set the check on the table, midway between them, but she didn’t reach for it. Picking up the tab or even offering to pay her part of it had been a long-ingrained habit, but she’d also had her share of business meetings in which she’d allowed herself to be treated.
And dates, too.
Ilya hadn’t reached for the check at once, but when he slipped his phone into his pocket, he noticed the small faux-leather binder with the receipt sticking up. His eyes met hers for almost the first time the entire night as he took it and flipped it open to scan the numbers. “I got this.”
Yes, you do, Theresa thought somewhat coldly, forcing a distance she didn’t really feel but wanted to. He must’ve seen something in her expression, because Ilya frowned as he pulled out a wad of cash and tucked it into the binder. His brow furrowed for a moment before he smoothed his face.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow at three?” he asked. “Should we drive together?”
She frowned, thinking about being forced to spend what was now looking like it could be an awkward twenty minutes in the car together. “I have some errands I need to run in the morning, so no. I’ll meet you there.”
She didn’t imagine the look of relief on his face, and it stung. She had time to back out of this, even though it had taken a lot of effort and thought on her part to commit to it in the first place. She could change her mind. Right now. Watching Ilya check his phone again, his smile grim but still a smile for someone other than her, Theresa thought ahead to the time they’d have to spend together. How uncomfortable it could become, if they let it.
She wasn’t going to let it.
She wasn’t going in on the diner with Ilya because she wanted him. She wanted work. Success. A career. She wanted to be part of something she believed in, something that would bring her joy the way cooking had always done.
“This might be a stupid idea,” she said aloud. “It’s going to be a lot of work and frustration. It won’t be easy at all.”
“I know,” Ilya said.
They both got up. He didn’t try to hug her, and she was glad of that. Whatever was going to happen now, she told herself, it was going to be strictly business. She could handle that.
She took a detour to the restroom before leaving, and by the time she got out, Ilya had already settled at the bar next to a tall blonde who was laughing at something he’d said. Watching them, Theresa’s stomach twisted. She lifted her chin.
Next to them both, she paused, aware of how the Styrofoam box of leftover cheesecake was shaking in her hand. “See you tomorrow, Ilya.”
The blonde assessed her with a glance and must’ve found no threat. “Hi, I’m Amber.”
“Theresa. Three o’clock,” she added, looking at him even though he was definitely not looking at her.
She didn’t look back when she left, although the temptation to was strong. Outside the front doors of the restaurant, Theresa dumped the leftover container into the trash. She no longer had an appetite for dessert.