Maybe I wouldn’t mind if they liked him.
He leads us off the dance floor. Of course our booth has been taken, but Maxim lifts a hundred dollar bill held between his knuckles and a cocktail waitress instantly finds us. The same one who took forty-five minutes to make it to our table when we were sitting there before.
“A bottle of Moet and six glasses.”
The waitress creams her panties over him. Or maybe it’s just his money, but either way, she beams brighter than a thousand watt bulb and invites us to a corner of the bar where she uncorks and delivers the champagne in a chiller with ice. She starts to pour, but Maxim smoothly takes over, lifting his chin with his sexy-sauve grin to dismiss her.
She bats her lashes and disappears, telling him to just call her if he needs anything else. He catches her arm, and she leans back in as he asks for something else, and I grit my teeth. Maybe I’m as possessive as Maxim.
“To my beautiful bride,” Maxim says after he pours the champagne into the six glasses and hands them out.
“Congratulations to you both,” Kayla says.
“To you both,” the others agree.
“Na Zdorovie,” I say, reminding my friends of the Russian version of cheers.
“Nostrovia!” they all chant back—even Kimberly. The others must’ve taught it to her, which makes me smile—my presence was honored and remembered.
Maxim catches my eye, and my belly flutters. “Na Zdorovie.” He clinks my glass. He drains his glass and uses it to gesture to us. “Tell me—how do you all know each other? You are all actresses?”
Kayla smiles. “I am.” She tosses an arm around my shoulder. “We were in theatre together all four years. And we met these two doing promotions our junior year.” She indicates Sheri and Ashley. “We all lived together senior year. And this one is our replacement-Sasha.” She lifts her chin at Kimberly. “She’s our new roommate and also works for the promotion company.”
“There’s no replacing Sasha,” I say, spilling a few drops of my champagne as I hold my arms up for them to admire my figure. “No offense, of course.” I wink at Kimberly, even though I’m certain she knows I’m kidding.
“What promotions?” Maxim looks puzzled.
“We dressed up in skimpy costumes to promote new products at launches.” I shrug. “Like for new alcohol or energy drinks or meal replacement bars. It paid cash and was good fun.”
“I’ll bet you had fun.” This time I’m sure I detect indulgence in Maxim’s gaze. “A round of shots?”
Why is he being so nice to me?
It puts me on edge, waiting for the hammer to drop.
“Hell, yes!” my friends shout, and Maxim lifts another hundred dollar bill in the air to get us instant service.
“Six shots of Cazador tequila. With salt and lime.”
“Tequila!” my friends cheer. Their happiness is infectious. It makes me relax and forget my anxieties over Maxim.
It costs more than the hundred dollar bill, and he pulls out his wallet for another. While he’s talking to the cocktail waitress, Ashley mouths the words, he’s hot.
I steal a glance, irrationally proud that my friends think so.
He is hot. He’s in a crisp designer button-down, open at the collar, looking California-perfect. Like he’d known he’d be coming to a posh nightclub. But this is how he always dresses—at least in the week since we’ve been married.
“I like him,” Kayla says out loud, leaning forward over the bar conspiratorially.
“I like him for you,” Sheri concurs, pointing at me. She waggles her brows. “Make him work. I’ll bet he’s good.”
Maxim’s attention returns, and my friends all grin mischievously. He takes it all in with a smirk. “I’ll bet you ladies get into all kinds of trouble.” His gaze slides sideways, and he suddenly tugs my hand. “Come on, a table opened up.”
We launch into action to claim a perfect circular booth like the one we had before. Another group tries to move in at the same time but Maxim turns to face them, blocking them with his body.
“No way, buddy.” One of the guys in their group starts to give him shit. “We’ve been waiting for this table.”
I loop my arm through his and speak to the guy. “Don’t fuck with the Russian,” I say, letting my accent come out thickly. “He will clean the floor with you.”
Maxim doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stares at the guy with an intensity that could cut glass.
“Come on.” The women with the would-be hero tug him away.
I slide into the booth with my friends, and Maxim takes the end seat, our protector.
“You do love drama, don’t you, caxapok?” He appears unruffled.
The criticism hits a little too close to home—it was what my father always accused me of—needing attention. Being a drama queen. “What?”
“Nothing. Just know when you get involved like that, you double the chances of me hurting someone.”