my bare arm. “You cannot run off like that, Mila.” A Russian accent and exertion roughened the edge of his voice. The smallest amount of humor arose at the visual of Ivan chasing me through Miami’s streets in a suit and a grumpy disposition, but the amusement faded with the next wave that washed up on the rocks. “If you keep following me like a stalker, I’m gonna end up catching feelings,” I said drily. He gave me a look. “You know it is my job.” Ivan had come home with my papa after one of his business trips to Moscow years ago. Having been only thirteen at the time, and him eight years my senior, I’d thought he was the most handsome boy I’d ever seen. Pd fallen in love with his accent and endearingly limited knowledge of English, and I couldn’t have embarrassed myself more by following him around our spacious Spanish Colonial home. Now, he followed me. One hand rested in his pants pocket, and the other held out a small red velvet box. “From your papa.” I stared at the box for a long second before taking it from him and opening it. Blue heart-shaped earrings. Papa always said I wore my heart on my sleeve. The stones were fake. He knew I never wore the real thing, not after watching Blood Diamond when I was a preteen. This wasn’t the first time he had a gift delivered after missing something important to me. The difference was, this time, I couldn’t push this feeling, this budding suspicion, away any longer. “I hope you didn’t sprain anything,” I said. Ivan cast me a questioning look. “Tt’s a strenuous job digging through Papa’s backup gift drawer.” With a sigh, he ran a hand through his blond hair. “He cares, Mila.” “He sure has an interesting way of showing it lately.” “He is very busy,” Ivan remarked. “You know this.” I made a noncommittal noise. My papa must be busier than the president to explain why he hadn’t shown his face for the past three months. He’d missed the last two holidays, and now, my twentieth birthday. We celebrated my birthday at the same table in the same five-star restaurant without fail every year. Papa would order a steak. I’d smile at Enrique, the owner and chef who’d taken our orders personally since I was