Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            Colton drove faster than normal for him, which was saying a lot, because he tackled every road in his life like the cops were on his tail. The SUV was in the driveway when they got there. It was pulled up in front of the door, crooked, as if she’d raced home so quickly that she couldn’t be bothered with the garage.

            Colton followed him inside. Vlad called her name from the entryway. When she didn’t respond, Colton said he’d check the backyard while Vlad went upstairs. He called her name again. At the top of the stairs, he heard her voice, muffled and frantic, coming from the guest room. The door was closed.

            “Elena?”

            He knocked on the door and nearly fell backward when she pulled it open. She immediately returned to pacing, phone pressed to her ear.

            “I don’t understand,” she was saying. “Why are you telling me this if you won’t give me the report yourself?”

            “Who is it, Elena?”

            She gave him a fierce headshake. His eyes took in the rest of the scene. Papers were strewn across the bed—folders and scraps of notes and printouts from websites. He crutched closer. There was no rhyme or reason to the chaos. He picked up a folder, flipped it open, and skimmed the top page. None of it made sense. There were notes in her handwriting of what looked like an interview, but about what, he couldn’t decipher.

            “Elena—”

            She held up her hand to silence him again. Then into the phone, she said, “Just wait. You can’t drop this on me and then refuse to help. Why the hell did you even call me?” She paused again, and her eyes bugged out. “You know I can’t do that!”

            Whoever was on the other line ended the call. Elena folded her phone into her hand and began to shake.

            “Elena, what the hell is going on? What is all this? Who was that?”

            Elena sank onto the mattress. Her pupils were dilated like someone high on Adderall or adrenaline. Her hands shook. Her knees bounced. And when she finally looked up at him, her gaze scared the shit out of him.

            Colton’s voice called up the stairs then. “Hey, I’m coming up. Is everything okay up here?”

            Vlad swiveled on his crutches and hobbled back to the hallway just as Colton appeared at the top of the stairs. “I found her.”

            “Everything okay?”

            He had no idea. “I will be down soon.”

            Colton looked unconvinced but turned around and headed back down the stairs. Vlad returned to the guest room to now find Elena standing and frantically sorting through the mess on the bed. Frustrated with his inability to move, Vlad tossed his crutches and tested the weight on his foot. He hobbled to her. “Elena, you have to talk to me. What is all this?”

            “I have to go back.”

            “Go back where? Chicago?”

            Her hands stalled. “No.”

            His stomach plummeted. “Russia?”

            “Just for a few days,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Maybe a week.”

            “Why?”

            She turned to face him, a mixture of regret and entreaty tightening her features. “I should have told you about this. I was going to, but there hasn’t been time, and—”

            “Told me about what?” Jesus, it was like they were having two different conversations. He asked her what color the sky was, and she gave him the recipe for borscht.

            “This,” she said, gesturing toward the mess on the bed. “What I’ve been working on.”

            Vlad gripped her shoulders. “Look at me,” he said, trying to calm his voice. “Just start at the beginning.”

            Elena sucked in a breath and let it out. “Okay. But you have to promise not to freak out.”

            “I’ll do my best.”

            “I’ve been trying to finish my father’s story.”

            He freaked out. His knees grew weak, so he sank to the edge of the bed and tried to keep up as words spilled from her mouth, but they were gibberish, meaningless. Or maybe it was just his brain refusing to listen, to process.