CHAPTER SIX
Four Days Until Christmas
Barrett
My eyes begin to focus and, a few seconds later, I find myself staring through the crack in the bathroom door, watching Sergei pull his damp hair back into a tight bun at the crown of his head.
Except he's stark naked.
My heart starts pounding, but I don’t dare move.
Oh my god, what are you doing? This is so inappropriate. You're invading the man's privacy.
But I'm just laying here. And he’s the one who left the door open.
Close your eyes. Turn over. Now.
Maybe in a few seconds…
Sergei is tall—like, really tall—but the mirror is still too high above the sink to reflect anything lower than his chiseled abs and hip V that ends where my imagination begins.
I watch him smooth his hair back and inspect his thin beard.
I’ve never been a fan of facial hair. It probably has something to do with how it obscures a man’s face.
But I like Sergei’s because it’s light enough and short enough that I can clearly make out his features.
My eyes move down his neck, to his shoulders, and are soon drawn to his back, covered in grey and black ink from his broad shoulders all the way down to his waist. What’s more, I recognize the image immediately.
It’s a Roman style depiction of Saint Michael the Archangel, standing with wings outstretched, driving a spear through the devil under his feet.
The detail is so intricate that if I was thinking of averting my eyes before, I sure as hell am not now.
But my gawking is brought to a disappointing end when Sergei pulls on a pair of boxer briefs, followed by black pants and a thermal t-shirt. He turns around and I immediately shut my eyes, pretending to still be asleep until I hear the tiny click of the door against the frame as he leaves.
Disappointing, indeed.
I stare at the wall, images of Sergei’s naked body still flashing through my mind.
Between his moonstone blue eyes and mountain range of back muscles that lead straight to his Greek god-level ass, I’ll need a change of underwear by the time I decide to crawl out of this bed.
And based on what I saw last night, he has better hair than I do.
How is that even possible? I mean, what the fuck?
Oops. This trip is not helping my New Year's resolution.
It should be illegal for a man to be this beautiful.
There must be something wrong with him—mentally, emotionally, psychologically…
I don’t know how long I lay there thinking about it, but I suddenly flinch when I feel something move against my foot.
I jerk my head up, eyes wide, to find Edie, the little black cat, kneading the comforter at the end of the bed.
I rise from the pillow, stretching my hand toward her.
Edie cranes her neck to sniff my fingertip and then rubs her chin over my hand.
She’s so soft and the vibration of her purr awakens a feeling that I’ve missed, but not dared entertain since I lost Roux.
Edie rolls onto her back and grabs my arm with her front and back legs, nibbling my fingers.
“Oh, you stop!” I murmur with amusement, retracting my hand before her back claws catch me.
A bittersweet warmth fills my heart. Roux used to do the same thing. He was old, but still a kitten at heart. I reach for Edie again, giving her another scratch under the chin before deciding that I’m probably not going back to sleep.
I take my time getting dressed, the realization setting in that I’m snowed in at an unfamiliar house on a mountain across the country.
At least I have my e-reader, a fact that instantly fills me with excitement.
I’m stuck in a house straight out of IKEA with a thousand books I haven’t had a chance to read.
Oh, darn…
But when I slowly come out of the bedroom, the house is quiet. Dark clouds still hang over the mountain, spitting snow against the windows that stretch across the length of the house. Sergei is nowhere to be found, but I come to a halt when I see the table.
There’s an empty ceramic coffee mug sitting next to a stainless-steel creamer and jar of cane sugar. In front of the mug is a small dish with three hard boiled eggs in it and a plate with two Danishes on it—one cheese and one dark berry of some sort.
Well, shit.
I don’t even chastise myself this time for the poor choice of words.
How perfectly lovely.
From the way he talks, I half expected to find a can of instant coffee and a granola bar, if anything at all. But he did make ramen last night. Good ramen…
And much like dinner, the breakfast is amazing.
Everything is cooked perfectly and the coffee in the carafe is nice and strong without being bitter.
And eating by myself the morning after another airport disaster is surprisingly refreshing.
It feels like I’m simultaneously home and still on vacation.
I’m not sure where Sergei is, especially since it looks like the sky opened up and dropped three feet of snow, but I doubt I should be worried.
Since I’m the only one here besides Edie, I pour another mug of coffee, settle onto the couch, and get lost in a new book for the rest of the morning, relishing the glorious silence.
It must be a few hours until Sergei returns.
However, I wouldn’t know for sure because I fall asleep at some point and wake up to his daunting figure slouched in the chair adjacent to the sofa, reading a paperback that looks comically small compared to him.
I immediately straighten up, acknowledging him with a smile.
He, in turn, glances at my reader laying on the cushion next to me.
“How busy have you been today?”
“I think I made it halfway before falling asleep.” I stretch, pulling my sweater sleeves down over my hands. “Where did you go?”
“Out to check the road conditions and look for downed limbs.”
Sergei sets the book—Ada Blackjack—down on the coffee table next to a glossy wooden box with hinges on the side.
“And?”
“Impassable. But no damage to the lines or buildings.”
“That’s fortunate, I suppose. Unfortunately for you, I guess that means I also can’t leave here quite yet. I can always ask Brett if I can stay with them if the road to their house is better.”
I don’t know if it’ll make a difference, but I understand how valuable solitude is when you need it. And I don’t want to impose on Sergei’s. But he doesn’t answer. He only leans forward and places his fingertips on the wooden box, sliding it toward him.
“Do you play chess?”
●●●
You can tell a lot about someone by how they play chess.
Cautious and methodical or bold and assertive, or biding their time like a thunderstorm rolling across the plains.
I am cautious and methodical, like my dad taught me to be, playing chess or not.
Sergei is like a thunderstorm; distant rumbles with interludes of rain, then a flash of lightning before the wind spins up and takes your house.
It's a good strategy when it works, but it’s also the reason I won the last game.
I wonder if Sergei’s like this in real life, too, and not just chess.
This, of course, is not something I can ask outright and expect to get an accurate response.
Case in point—we’re about to start our third game and neither of us has uttered a word except “checkmate.”
“Are you a secret Russian chess champion?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.
“I have never played chess competitively.”
“Don’t lie, that’s why you moved to Canada, isn’t it? You got too good and they ran you out of the country and the world chess league or whatever it is.”
The corner of his mouth curls slightly. “I like your story better.”
“What’s the real one? If you’re not a chess master on the run, that is.”
“Who taught you how to play chess?” he asks.
“My dad,” I sigh. “He’s an electrical lineman, like my brother is now, and this is what he did when he came home from work, especially after traveling. He said it helped him relax while still keeping his mind sharp.”
“My mother taught me how to play chess,” Sergei replies after a long silence. “She likes the silence, too,” he adds with a glint in his eye.
I arch one eyebrow. “Oh, is that where you get it? Well, please let her know that her efforts were a great success. Is your dad the same?”
“One might assume so, because he spent so much time in remote forests. My father is very serious, but much more gregarious,” Sergei replies.
“He worked for the government as an ecologist, but we lived in a small town, far away from the cities. I had never been more than 100 kilometers from my house until moving to Canada.”
“Why did your parents decide to leave Russia?”
Sergei eyes the pieces and, after a few seconds, makes his move.
“I was sixteen when the war began. But my friends and I didn't know what was going on and we didn't care because we were just kids. Until, one day, my father came home and told my mother and I that we had 90 minutes to pack a bag because we had to be on an airplane and out of the country in 24 hours.”
“Out of the country?” I echo with eyes wide.
“I didn't argue because when my father says to do something, you do it. He told us to leave our phones, laptops, even our watches—all electronics that could be tracked except for his phone. Then we got in the car and drove for hours, through the night, to the airport. I asked where we were going and all he said was vacation and to the mountains. But I’d never been on a vacation in my life.”
“But you were leaving Russia?” I study the board, looking for a clear path. “Why wouldn’t he tell you where you were going?”
“He didn't want to tell me in case we got stopped and I'd have to lie. On the plane, my mother stared straight ahead while it took off. And then as soon as the seatbelt sign turned off, it was like a switch flipped. She blinked, looked out the window, and then closed her eyes and began to cry. It was very shocking because she does not cry about anything. You solve your problems and don’t complain.”
“That would be very jarring to see your mom like that.”
“Yes. Then I had to sit for hours on a flight to Dubai, freaked the fuck out because my parents weren't acting like my parents.” But then Sergei cracks a smile. “And I didn't even have my phone to listen to music or watch a movie.”
“Oh, no!” I laugh.
That's the universal struggle of being a teenager, isn’t it? Fleeing your homeland and leaving your phone behind. A total travesty.
“But even then, my parents didn't tell me what was going on because we didn't stop, not until I set foot in Vancouver. They wouldn't even let me stop for a goddamn cheeseburger at the airport McDonald's. No. No time. We have to go.”
Finally, I move a pawn. “So, what did you do after you landed?”
“We stayed at a rental for a month. My father was on his phone all day. My mother finished her emotional outburst and was back to normal by the time we landed. Then she wanted to take me to the national park to go hiking.”
“Hiking?” I can barely stifle my smile. It’s not funny…but it kind of is.
“Hiking.” Sergei smiles back. “But I refused.
I demanded to know why we were in a different country.
I wasn't going to do anything until they told me. My father said, there's a war going on. To which I replied, who cares? We didn't live anywhere near the fighting. Who was going to come to our town? My tiny little life was in shambles and they wouldn’t even tell me why. I couldn’t even call my best friend, Anatoly, to tell him about it.”
“Did your dad finally tell you why?”
“You must understand, I never dared raise my voice to my father. And the way he looked at me…” Sergei glances up with a pointed look.
“Uh, oh.” I return the dubious look. “Was he angry?”
“My father is not a sentimental man. He lives by the laws of the forest. But, that day, he said, Sergei, my precious son, which he’s never called me in my life.
Then he told me that the morning after we left, soldiers came to our town and took all the boys and men over the age of 15 to go to the front line. ”
Sergei moves his knight.
“I never spoke to Anatoly again. All my friends were gone. And they’re all probably dead.”