Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“They’re more trouble than they’re worth.” He chuckles. “When he was first born, I kept telling my parents to take him back to whatever store they bought him from.”
I can’t help but giggle. “You seem close now, though.”
“You get to this age and realize that you can’t take anyone for granted, even annoying little brothers. After our father died, we became especially close.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I tell him earnestly. “How long has it been?”
“A few years,” he murmurs, sadness dulling his eyes. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday and sometimes it feels like he’s been gone forever. The grief doesn’t ever really go away, but it’s gotten easier to work around. There’s so much I wish I could tell him.”
I look down at my plate again, guilt pressing down on my shoulders. Now would be a great time to say something. Or it could be the worst possible time. In the end, I’m not given a chance, because he quickly moves on.
Eventually we finish our meal, the conversation slowing so we can actually eat. When we eventually finish, after the staff has brought us a light dessert course, Sergei stands and offers me his hand.
“Come on,” he says. “I always like to go on a little walk through the garden after dinner. Will you join me?”
I let him lead me down the hallway, past the grand staircase and into the back of the house where the doors lead out to the garden. Somehow it’s even more spectacular at night than in daylight. Fairy lights are strung everywhere, lending the space an ethereal glow.
The air is cooler now, and a light breeze washes over us as we walk. It’s the perfect night for a stroll, worlds away from my usual trek from the subway to my apartment. I glance sideways at Sergei as he walks beside me, his hands tucked into his pockets. He’s completely at ease here, as though the outside world can’t touch him.
I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to grow up here. Absent-mindedly, my hand drifts to my stomach, and I drop it immediately, as though I’ve been burned. I don’t want to call any extra attention to it. I’m not ready. The pounding in my chest and the clamminess of my hands make that painfully clear. I can’t tell him tonight.
“You’re quiet,” Sergei observes, sharpening my worry that he reads every tell.
“I’m just enjoying the night,” I lie, offering a small smile.
“Do I make you nervous, Nicole?” he asks, point-blank.
I glance up at him, heart beating even faster. “I’m not nervous,” I tell another lie.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then slowly drifts back up. “You’re not?”
“No,” I repeat, but it comes out breathy, a little desperate.
We come to a stop beneath a trellis covered in white roses. Their petals glow in the moonlight, giving the whole garden the feeling of a painting. I’m so aware of Sergei that he feels like an extension of me—another limb.
“It’s beautiful out here,” I murmur, pretending to turn all my attention to the roses.
“I thought you’d like it,” he says, his voice low, intimate. “This is Mom’s favorite part of the garden too. She used to tell me the roses bloomed brighter under a full moon.”
“Is that true?”
He shrugs, that one-shouldered, elegant way of his. “I’ve never thought to check. I always just believed whatever she told me.”
That makes me smile, and I imagine Sergei as a little boy, following his mother around and hanging on her every word. Will my baby be the same? Will he or she believe everything I say, or will they be stubborn and defiant? Another breeze passes and I shiver, though it’s more to do with my wandering thoughts than the breeze.
Sergei slips off his suit jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, a gesture that would feel outdated anywhere but this fairy-tale garden. His scent envelops me, heady and almost suffocating. He shifts closer, just enough to make my breath hitch. His fingers brush mine with no real hold, but just a whisper of contact. Testing.
I glance up at him and our eyes lock. The space between us feels fragile and sacred, that one careless breeze could shatter it.
“Nicole,” he whispers. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night.”
My pulse skips and I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly drier than a desert.
“Neither have I,” I admit.
His hand closes around mine gently. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but when I did it kind of felt like fate. Is that silly?”
“I don’t think it’s silly,” I breathe, suddenly light-headed. “I felt it too.”
He leans in, his face just inches from mine. His eyes darken as his hands slide to my hips.
I tilt my head, eyes fluttering shut, waiting for the moment our mouths meet. It’s unexpected and hardly how I pictured tonight unfolding. Every fiber of me wants this.