Obsessive Boss (Bratva Brothers 4)

"Well, I am," she stammers, pulling the seatbelt low and tight across her lap, "b-but I don't want to put you out."

"I could use a bite," I say. No one will care if I arrive back at the compound early in the morning. I'm used to late nights.

I pull out of the parking lot. Traffic is light, and there's hardly anyone on the road at this hour, making it easy to navigate across town to one of the best cafés open 24/7.

"How long have you managed the club?" Savannah asks.

"Since practically forever," I say. I don't go into specifics with her. It's none of her damn business when I began helping with the club; technically, Nikita is management. I'm beneath him but handle the dancers and all the new hires.

"What about you? What'd you do before dancing?" I ask. I wince, realizing the giveaway that I didn't, in fact, read her resume. But what would a piece of paper tell me that I couldn't get from the interviewee?

"I went to college for accounting," Savannah says. She stares ahead at the road before briefly glancing in my direction.

"Did you finish?" I can't imagine that she did and decided to apply as a dancer unless she's in debt and strictly looking to make a lot of money fast.

"Freshman year, I bombed out for too much partying." Savannah chuckles and glances down. Her left-hand plays with her hair, curling a strand around her finger. Is that a nervous habit that she's picked up?

"I'll bet your parents weren't too happy."

"They were not pleased and cut me off. They told me to get a job and support myself. Which is what I did." She quirks an awkward smile and glances in my direction.

I understand there's more to the story she's not sharing, but I don't push. It's none of my business, as long as she doesn’t get in trouble.

"How long have you been out of college?" I ask and clear my throat. The girl is over twenty-one. I had made a copy of her driver's license with her new hire paperwork, but I can't quite remember her date of birth. I skimmed over the information at the time.

"Quite a few years," Savannah says. "I've dabbled with jobs but haven't found my footing. I guess you can say I'm a bit of a free spirit. Which is what led me to dance."

"A free spirit that wanted to get a degree in accounting?"

She chuckles and glances down at her lap. I pull into the parking lot of the café and shut off the engine. "I never said the accounting degree was my idea. But I do have a knack for numbers."

"Let me guess. You're a bit of a rebel, and your parents were the ones who wanted you to go to college for accounting?"

"My father," Savannah says and crinkles her nose. "Enough about him." She opens the vehicle door, and I do the same, climbing out.

The morning air is fresh and cool, clean. The moon is nearly full, and even though the city lights detract from the starry night sky, the darkness is welcoming.

I open the door to the café, escorting her inside and to a table at the back. On my way to the booth, I grab two menus, making myself right at home. We own the café, not that I intend to tell Savannah about our business dealings.

"We don’t have to wait for the hostess?" Savannah asks as she glances behind her. Eventually, she follows me to the table and sits across from me.

"Not at this hour," I say, handing her a menu. My back is to the wall, and my gaze is on the front entrance. I never like to keep my back at any door. I need to be always alert and aware of my surroundings.

She slumps down into the booth, grabs her menu, and gives it a cursory glance. "What do you recommend?" she asks. Unlike at the club, where she was wearing practically nothing, her blue jeans and baggy sweatshirt make her adorable.

Her roughness makes her a million times more charming than the fancy rich girl persona I've seen the dancers portray. Although I doubt any girls were wealthy before dancing, they like to act as though they live a lavish lifestyle. Maybe some of them do. I don't keep tabs on them at home.

"Any suggestions?" she asks again.

"Everything is delicious." I can't speak an ill word about this place. Even if we didn't own it, the food is fantastic.

"That helps to narrow it down." There's a smile on the blonde's face; it's genuine, and her shoulders relax, like she's finally able to wind down.

"Did you enjoy your first night?" I ask.

I put the menu down. I don't need to look at it. I've memorized it in its entirety. But it was a nice, welcoming distraction when I needed a break from making conversation. For some reason, I don't feel the least bit awkward with Savannah.

Maybe a mix of passion and chemistry is swirling in the air, making it impossible to stop staring at her.

She twirls her hair again around her finger, and this time her bottom lip tugs between her teeth as she stares down at the menu, examining it. "Will you order for me? I need to use the ladies' room."

"Any allergies?" I ask. I don't know what she likes, but I know what I want, and it's not solely the food I'm after.

I clear my throat, needing to rid my thoughts of Savannah dancing.

"Nope," she says. She grabs her clutch and carries it to the bathroom, wandering around for a moment, precariously lost, before finding the right way to the ladies' room.

Pulling my phone from my jacket pocket, I glance at the screen. Nothing urgent. Most of Mikhail's men are asleep at this hour, minus a handful of guards and security keeping the compound safe.

The waitress comes over while Savannah is in the bathroom, and I order for both of us. I'm tempted to have the waitress bring us a bottle of wine. Liquor isn't served here, but we always have a half dozen bottles in the back for when we bring guests in on business.

Not that this is business.

It's Savannah.

She's a dancer. Does this make the engagement pleasure? I shift uncomfortably with the mere suggestion. The girl does have a rocking body, and after seeing her performance in my office, it's hard not to imagine her legs wrapped around a pole.

I did everything in my power not to watch her dance tonight, practically locking myself in my office.

Maybe I should fire her. At least if she's not working at the club, she's not a distraction. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I can't fire her because she's hot. She's a dancer, for fuck's sake! She's supposed to be gorgeous.

Savannah struts back to the booth, her clutch at her side. Her fingernails are painted a dark red. I swear the color is Sinful Seduction or some other type of name that describes Savannah as much as the luscious red color.

She slides back into the booth across from me. The waitress brings us both a glass of water. I'd prefer something stronger, but I'm trying to remain in control and not let my dick make all the moves.

"Have you seen the bathrooms in this place?" Savannah asks.