Monarch

5. Elena

5

ELENA

B efore I even open my eyes, I know I’m not at home.

It’s the silence that tips me off. My uncle’s place was never quiet. If the three small children who lived in the apartment above weren’t thundering overhead, then I’d be woken by my cousin Ivan singing in the shower, my aunt Sofya banging the frying pan against the stove, or Mina yakking away while she got ready for work, oblivious as to whether I was awake or interested.

The size of the bed is another clue. I stretch beneath the blankets, my feet extending all the way outward without hanging off the end of the mattress, my arms spreading wide without touching a wall on either side.

When I sit up, the room is full of daylight, the soft gray kind filtered through clouds. The drapes are still wide open; I forgot to close them last night. The clock on the mantle tells me I still managed to sleep in until 10:28.

I can’t believe I’m in America.

I’ve never even visited. Now I live here.

Or I will very soon. It doesn’t feel quite like “living here” when I’m still staying in a hotel.

Not that I’m complaining—I don’t think I’ve ever slept in a room this nice. It’s an entire suite, with a pretty, jade-colored sofa sitting before an actual working fireplace and a reading chair next to the window. The bathroom has a whole entire clawfoot tub, as well as a shower, and two sinks to choose between when I brushed my teeth last night.

I’ve never had one sink of my own to use. Now I have two!

Most of the white blooms have fallen away from the rose garden outside the huge picture window, only a few bruised petals still clinging to the thorny bushes. It’s still a stunning view, especially with the flat expanse of slate-gray ocean beyond.

This room looks like it belongs to a princess.

I feel like a princess.

Which, I suppose, makes Lorne my Prince Charming.

He’s definitely charming. When I pick up my phone, he’s already sent me a text message:

Good morning, sleepyhead! I came by earlier, but you were still out cold. The breakfast buffet finishes at ten, but you can have food sent up from the kitchen anytime. Charge everything to your room. I want to get some work done this morning—let’s meet at 3 to go see the house!

Lorne uses a lot of exclamation points in his text messages. I wonder if he uses that many in his books. Probably not. That wouldn’t really work in a thriller.

I need to read his books; I’m embarrassed that I haven’t. I tried to order them through my store’s system, but I needed manager approval. And by then…well, I couldn’t exactly ask Boyka to do it.

Ugh. Don’t think about that.

It doesn’t matter. I’m here now. Any American store should have Lorne’s books. Especially in Grimstone—they probably carry his whole catalog, since he’s local.

I’ll have plenty of time to check if I’m not meeting Lorne until the afternoon.

I text back:

That sounds perfect

I try adding an exclamation point: That sounds perfect! But that makes me feel false and annoying, like a little kid jumping up and down, so I delete it and simply add:

See you at 3:00

As I tuck my phone away, I wonder if I should have added the exclamation point after all.

Mina would probably tell me that I should. “ You’re too cold, too closed off. That’s why nobody flirts with you. Men want to know you’re interested. They want fun and excitement!”

I don’t feel cold and closed off.

What I really feel is like the rest of the world moves at a faster pace. Like everybody else is a dolphin, flipping and zipping through the waves, and I’m just a slow-moving ray.

I don’t know how people come up with witty jokes so quickly, or clever comebacks when someone insults them. Sometimes it takes me a minute just to know how to answer a question.

I’m not stupid, but I like to process.

That’s why I love books so much—they’re a whole entire world I can absorb at my own pace, sinking into them like a warm bath and soaking.

Photography is the same. I go out with my camera and walk around as slowly as can be, taking in everything I see. When I finally snap an image, I’ve captured it forever, to take home and examine as long as I like, as often as I like.

The bookshop was the perfect job for me. The only question anybody ever asked was, “Where’s this book?” which I could answer easily because I knew the store so well.

I loved it there. Until it stopped being the perfect job.

And anyway, it paid peanuts.

When I had to get out of Lviv, I found myself in a real dilemma—I was broke as a joke, without the cash for a plane ticket, let alone to set up a whole new life.

The romance tour was a silly, desperate plan, doomed to failure.

But then Lorne appeared, an actual real-life white knight, and swept me off my feet.

The whole time it was happening, I couldn’t believe it. I kept thinking, He’ll get tired of me, he’ll pick someone else, he can’t be serious, he must be exaggerating, he’ll change his mind, something will happen, something will go wrong…

But it didn’t.

Every email, every phone call, there he was, warm and charming. Even more inexplicable: he seemed to find me just as amusing, just as interesting. He never missed one of our planned times, like they were scheduled in stone. And everything he told me seemed to check out.

He made it all so easy. Before I knew it, he was proposing.

It was crazy, after just a month of talking. Lorne said, why wait ? He explained that he couldn’t travel back and forth to see me, not with his daughter in the mix.

“And besides…I already know. Don’t you?”

There was no reason to refuse. It was exactly what I wanted. I just didn’t expect it to happen so fast.

We exchanged documents, filed forms. Lorne had an excellent lawyer who greased the skids. A little more than three months from the day we met, I flew into Grimstone to meet my newly minted fiancé, my K-1 visa tucked in my purse.

Just in time.

It actually happened, the fantasy that every little girl imagines. It happened to me ! My Prince Charming came along, and he’s sweeter and more handsome than I would have dared dream.

That’s got to be why I feel so weird right now, standing in this luxurious hotel room in the country where I always wanted to live.

I must be feeling too lucky, too undeserving…

Because that’s the only thing that could explain the sick, sinking feeling in my gut.

As I walk in the direction of the Reinstoff, I can’t help thinking of Atlas. I’ve been looking for him without meaning to since the moment I stepped out of my room.

He’s probably still sleeping if he worked all night.

But then there he is, as soon as I enter the restaurant, standing back by the kitchen, his thick arms crossed over his chest and his scowl firmly in place. I spot him easily because he’s enormous, the top of his head almost brushing the ceiling where it’s low.

And he, with the same eerie speed, spots me.

His dark eyes fix on mine. He goes completely still, and that’s exactly what happens inside of me: my heart stopping dead in my chest, no breath in my lungs. It’s like time can’t move on if neither of us blinks.

When the hostess touches my arm, I flinch.

“Would you like a table?”

She must have asked at least once before. She’s got that look on her face, that strained patience.

“Yes,” I mutter, ducking my head. “Sorry.”

When I fuck up, I feel especially tall. I lumber to my table, an awkward giant.

The hostess tosses down my menu and stalks away.

“Don’t take it personally,” says the pretty, black-haired waitress. “She got dumped this morning.”

I blink up at her, feeling the oddest sense of familiarity. Then I see those laughing dark eyes and I remember that this is the receptionist.

“They make you wait tables as well?”

“Not usually.” She tucks back a slightly sweaty strand of hair that’s come loose from her ponytail. “But two girls called in sick, and as you can see, we’re slammed.”

Nearly every table is occupied, the emptiest belonging toa little blond girl sitting alone by the window.

“Oh, that’s Ivy.” I stammer a little trying to explain. “M-my fiancé’s daughter. Could I join her?”

“Of course,” the receptionist/waitress says, already scooping up my menu. I check the classy brass name tag pinned to her breast and learn that her name is Amy.

I approach Ivy from the direction she’s already looking, so I cross into her sight line before I come too close. Her gaze fixes on my face without any sign of recognition.

“Ivy, I’m Elena, your father’s friend. Do you remember me? Could I sit with you?”

The pause drags on before she slowly nods. Her movements don’t seem reluctant—more like sleepy. Like she hasn’t quite woken up for the day, even though it’s getting close to noon.

I slip into the chair across from hers.

“Pancakes?” I smile at what she ordered. “That’s my favorite, too.”

I’m proud of myself for remembering the correct word to use. At home we call them Oladushki, and we make them with kefir yogurt. Keen to try the American version, I catch Amy’s eye.

“Can I have the same thing?” I pass her back the menu.

Amy grins, showing her small and pretty teeth. “Excellent choice.”

As Amy punches in our order, I say, “She seems nice,” to Ivy, aiming for something friendly. I’m feeling nervous all of a sudden. I really want Lorne’s daughter to like me.

I wish I knew what happened to Ivy’s mom. Or how long ago she died. Was it recent? Ivy looks pretty melancholy. But Lorne doesn’t seem recently bereaved. He talks about Linda like it was all in the distant past. Not that he talks about her much.

“Do you like staying at the hotel?” I ask Ivy. “Or are you looking forward to your new house?”

Asinine questions. They don’t deserve any better than the slight lift of her shoulders. Shrug.

I realize, too, if Ivy’s going to answer silently, I should only ask one question at a time. Or maybe ask less in general. Ivy flinched the last time I talked with too much brightness injected in my tone.

Speaking more softly, I say, “I was glad to meet you yesterday. I hope we can be friends. Would you like that?”

Ivy’s pale green eyes rest steadily on my face while I’m talking. But when I ask that last question, they slide away and she sighs, looking distinctly unhappy.

Poor kid. She probably knows I’m dating her dad. Maybe she even suspects what’s about to happen. I really wish I knew how long ago she lost her mom.

Before I can do anything else to fuck this up, Mrs. Cross comes speed walking between the tables and seizes Ivy by the upper arm. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere! I told you to stay in the room. Now we’re going to be late for the contractor?—”

“Excuse me,” I say, my pulse jolting. “Please let go.”

Mrs. Cross freezes, her whole body going rigid. When she turns her neck to look at me, I almost expect to hear a creaking sound.

“I know you aren’t familiar with Miss Ivy’s needs, but let me assure you, I am. ”

If words could cut, I’d be lying here in sixteen pieces.

Also, I really don’t want to make an enemy of Lorne’s housekeeper.

But her bony fingers are digging into Ivy’s arm hard enough to dent, and I see several faint blue bruises already dotting the same area of flesh.

“I said let go of her.” It snaps out of me, no need to think this time.

Mrs. Cross twitches away her hand.

“Of course,” she says, stepping away from Ivy, drawing herself up to her full height. “ You know best .”

That might have been intimidating. Except, when I stand up, I’m a good four inches taller than Mrs. Cross. In my sneakers.

“Let’s not fight,” I say, low and soft. But not exactly friendly…more like a warning. “Didn’t you say you’re already late?”

The woman’s mouth makes a puckered shape. She spits out, “We were supposed to meet the contractor at the house an hour ago, but Little Miss has been hiding. So, let’s go !”

She points dagger eyes at Ivy, though she’s not quite brave enough to grab her again.

Ivy doesn’t make any move to rise. I put my hand on her shoulder anyway, holding her in place.

“Why don’t you leave her with me? Then you can be more…efficient.”

Mrs. Cross narrows her eyes to slits. I think the offer appeals to her, but also, it’s my idea. She’d prefer it if it were hers.

“I’ll be gone a long time.”

“I can stay with her until three. Lorne’s taking me to see the house—if you’re still there, we could bring Ivy along with us.”

“No.” Mrs. Cross shakes her head sharply. “He won’t like that.”

Something flickered into her expression when I said Lorne’s name, disappearing too fast for me to catch. I’ve noticed that Mrs. Cross doesn’t use his name. She calls him Mr. Ronson or, more often, doesn’t speak a name at all, like it’s too sacred to speak aloud.

She doesn’t explain why my fiancé wouldn’t like driving out to the house with his daughter in the car.

I wait her out, my hand on Ivy’s shoulder.

One thing you learn when you don’t like to talk that much is that other people are compelled to do it. They have to fill the emptiness. Which makes silence a powerful tool.

Mrs. Cross only lasts twelve seconds.

Grudgingly, as if she’s doing me the favor, she grunts, “Fine. I’ll be back before three.”

Ivy’s shoulder loosens under my hand.

“Great,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic.

Taking my seat across from Ivy once more, I ask, “Is that okay? If you stay with me today?”

This time the nod comes faster.

The urge to shit-talk Mrs. Cross as soon as she’s gone is almost irresistible. I rein it in by saying, with the same hateful false brightness, “What should we do today?”

Ivy winces, raising her hands and plugging her ears. She slumps down in her chair, staring at her half-eaten pancakes, fingers firmly blocking out the world.

Well, shit.

Not off to a great start.

Atlas saves me by appearing beside her. “It’s because the restaurant’s noisy. It’s busy today. She likes it when it’s quieter.”

I notice how softly he speaks when he stands close to Ivy. He can’t completely smooth away all the gravel in his voice, but he’s done his best.

The result is…extremely dangerous. Like fingertips dragging down my spine.

I take a hasty gulp of my orange juice.

Don’t think about how good he smells…

Too late. I already inhaled a breath laced with Atlas’ smoky, woodsy scent. It reminds me of the pure oud oil I smelled in a department store once that cost a month’s salary. He smells as expensive as the old-world velvet dinner jacket he’s wearing to the breakfast shift. This guy really takes showmanship to another level. Only it doesn’t feel like a show. It feels like this is who he is, and nothing could be more natural.

Atlas bends at the waist, saying to Ivy with extreme gentleness, “Nobody’s out in the garden this morning.”

I melt a little in my chair. I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for a really good voice. And the image of the enormous Atlas bending over the tiny, pale Ivy is pretty adorable.

Ivy takes her fingers out of her ears half an inch.

I lean forward and ask her softly, “Would you like to go out to the garden?”

Her nod is immediate, her eyes fixed on mine.

It’s not much, but it feels like success. I sit back in my chair, smiling.

“Thanks,” I say to Atlas, turning my smile on the person who deserves it most.

He gives me that nod that somehow allows him to serve his guests without ever seeming subservient. It demands respect even as it gives it.

But as he turns away, he says, low enough for only me to hear, “I don’t like that Cross woman.”