Edward
The restaurant was quiet in the way only London money could be quiet. Soft jazz under the clink of crystal. White tablecloths. Waiters who moved like they were afraid to breathe too loud.
Igor and I had just come out of a three-hour meeting in Mayfair. New joint venture for the fitness brand. My lawyers said it was clean. Igor's lawyers said it was profitable. That meant it was done.
We were celebrating with lunch before I flew out to Italy.
Connor.
Just saying his name in my head made the tension in my shoulders drop.
Igor was picking at a steak tartare and complaining about the weather. "This city," he said in that low Russian rumble. "It rains, it doesn't rain, it's grey either way. In Moscow we at least commit to being miserable."
"You love it," I said, cutting into my salmon. "You wouldn't live anywhere else."
"I love you," Igor said, and winked. "The city is tolerable."
My phone vibrated against the table. I glanced down.
Connor.
