Free Roulette by Megan Mulry Page A

term. I think of my parents. All that roiling passion one minute, and then . . . kaput. Nothing. Or worse than nothing. I suspect they’d actually come to hate each other and how badly they screwed up. How badly having me screwed up their wild, crazy love affair.
    In this moment, I convince myself that a perfect day and night is a million times better than a long, drawn-out two years—or even two decades—of trying to recapture some magical moment on a bridge.
    “Rome?”
    He turns back to face me, but he doesn’t say anything. I stare into his eyes, and he waits for me to say whatever it is I’m trying to say, which is impossible, because I certainly don’t want to say any of that craziness about ripping me out of my life. A sexy night is one thing. Changing my entire future is something else entirely.
    I take a deep breath. “It’s taken a long time for me to build my life the way I want it. I don’t want to do anything to ruin that. It may not be perfect—”
    “You deserve perfect, Miki.” The way he looks at me, like he believes such a thing is even possible . . . it’s too much. I can take all the crazy-parent stories he can throw at me: water off a duck’s back. But a look like that? That asks me to believe I deserve perfect? I can’t do it.
    “I . . . I don’t know what to say, Rome. I guess I’m a realist at heart. Landon is real.”
    He pulls his lips into a tight line. “Well. I won’t interfere. If you want to talk . . .” He takes my cell phone out of my hand and punches in his number. “That’s my private line. Call anytime. For any reason.”
    I get the feeling when he says “private line,” it means really super-duper private. Like maybe I’m the only person—other than his assistant—who has the number.
    When we pull up in front of the office building, the driver hops out and opens my door for me.
    I turn to say good-bye to Rome one last time, and he leans across the backseat and kisses me quickly on each cheek. Very French. Very nothing.
    “Au revoir, Mikhaila. It was a wonderful night.” His eyes shimmer, or maybe they don’t, but for that brief second I think he is about to tell me he loves me. That I should run away with him. But he doesn’t.
    God, of course he doesn’t. It was a one-night stand with a playboy, Miki. Get ahold of yourself.
    Still, my heart breaks a little for our tiny, isolated romance, and then I take a deep breath and reach out my hand to shake his.
    He smiles and takes it, respecting my need to call it over.
    “It was wonderful to meet you, Rome,” I say as I shake his hand. I might sound overly formal, but I am being completely honest. It is wonderful to have met him. I am very much in a state of wonder.
    “You, too,” he whispers. Then he releases my hand and I slip out of the car. I watch as the limo pulls away, until I can no longer spot it in the sea of traffic, and I make absolutely sure he never looks back.
    I take a deep breath—at this rate of constant deep breathing, I am going to start hyperventilating—and walk slowly across Nevsky Prospect to the new Starbucks. I need a taste of home.

    For the next few days, I reluctantly bond with the management team at Voyanovski Industries. At the board meeting on Friday afternoon, my last work day in Russia, I agree to be named temporary CEO, only after assuring them that it will be in name only, to keep things running smoothly until they find a proper replacement. My resistance is starting to sound hollow even to my own ears, but I hope that once I get back to USC, this burgeoning tug of filial allegiance will evaporate.
    I spend Saturday going through all the leftover paperwork in my father’s office. Uncle Alexei and I spend hours shredding everything from old passports to faded ticket stubs. It feels so final, but Alexei and I both agree it’s better to clear everything out than to leave it for another time. He goes through the old business documents, setting a few aside to make