Chapter Twenty-One
Matvei’s house was darker than Tessa expected.
Not gloomy. Not cold. Just quieter from the street than the homes surrounding it, with only the porch light and the warm square of a kitchen window visible behind a row of bare trees. Snow covered the lawn in an undisturbed layer except for the narrow path between the driveway and front steps.
The neighborhood sat far enough outside downtown that the houses had space between them. No restaurants, hotels or arena traffic. No reason for anyone to notice a car parked in a driveway after eight on a winter night.
Tessa remained behind the wheel for several seconds after shutting off the engine.
She had spent most of the drive imagining what Matvei’s house might reveal about him.
Modern and empty, perhaps, filled with expensive furniture chosen by someone else.
Or aggressively masculine in the way some professional athletes’ homes appeared in team-produced videos, all black leather, enormous televisions and framed jerseys belonging to people they admired.
She had not considered that she might be more nervous entering his house than she had been entering his hotel room.
Helsinki had been temporary. Neither of them belonged there. Every room, street and decision existed inside a trip with a known ending.
This was where Matvei lived.
His routines were here. His mornings before practice. His nights after losses. The kitchen where he fed himself, the couch where he watched games and the bed where he slept when nobody was beside him.
Tessa looked down at the watch hanging loose around her wrist beneath the sleeve of her coat.
She had worn it partly as a joke.
Now the gesture felt intimate enough that she almost removed it before leaving the car.
The front door opened.
Matvei stood beneath the porch light wearing dark trousers and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He had followed through on the shirt.
Tessa smiled.
He crossed his arms against the cold and waited.
She gathered her purse and stepped out.
“You were watching for me,” she said as she approached.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Not long.”
“That means long.”
Matvei looked toward her coat.
His expression changed exactly as she expected.
“No.”
Tessa continued up the steps. “Hello to you too.”
“You wear again.”
“It remains the coat I own.”
“It is bad.”
“You invited me to dinner and immediately insulted my clothing.”
“It is not insult if true.”
She reached the porch.
Matvei’s gaze dropped toward the metal band visible near her hand.
He became still.
Tessa lifted her wrist.
“I brought your watch.”
His eyes moved from it to her face.
“You wear.”
“It seemed safer than putting it in my purse.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I like.”
The answer warmed her more effectively than the coat ever had.
Matvei stepped closer and touched the watch where it rested against her skin. His thumb passed once over the loose band.
“Too big,” he said.
“Obviously.”
He turned her wrist gently and examined the clasp.
“I fix.”
“It is your watch.”
“Maybe.”
Tessa looked at him.
Matvei’s mouth shifted.
Then he bent and kissed her.
The porch light, neighboring houses and possibility of someone passing on the street flashed through Tessa’s awareness. The kiss remained brief, only enough for his mouth to warm hers before he stepped back.
“You’re standing with the door open,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Your house is becoming part of the outdoors.”
Matvei looked behind him as though he had forgotten the problem.
“Come.”
Tessa followed him inside.
The first thing she smelled was garlic.
The second was something richer, roasted and warm, carrying from the kitchen through the entryway. Music played quietly from another room, an acoustic song she did not recognize.
Matvei closed and locked the door.
Tessa removed her boots while trying not to appear as though she were studying everything at once.
The entryway opened into a wide living space with the kitchen beyond it. The walls were warm white rather than gray, the floors dark wood. A long bench sat beneath hooks near the door, holding two winter hats, gloves and a stack of unopened mail. One pair of shoes had been left crooked beneath it.
The house did not look staged.
That surprised her.
A large framed photograph of a frozen lake hung near the stairs. Tessa could not tell whether it was Russia or somewhere in Canada. A smaller picture beside it showed Matvei, younger and thinner, standing with his mother and sister outside an arena.
He followed her gaze.
“Russia,” he said.
“The lake?”
“Yes. Near home.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Cold.”
“I assumed.”
Matvei took her coat.
He held it between two fingers as though the fabric had personally offended him.
“You have somewhere appropriately warm to put that?” Tessa asked.
“Garbage.”
“Do not throw away my coat.”
He hung it on a hook.
The dark green sweater beneath it drew his attention.
His gaze moved slowly over her.
Tessa became aware of how closely the material fit.
“You like this better?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“At least you’re consistent.”
Matvei touched her waist, fingers settling briefly against the sweater before he leaned down to kiss her again.
This kiss lasted longer.
Tessa placed one hand against his chest and felt the warmth beneath the shirt, the steady pressure of his body moving closer. He tasted faintly of citrus and something sweet.
A timer sounded from the kitchen.
Matvei stopped.
Tessa smiled against his mouth.
“You’re cooking.”
“Yes.”
“Should you be doing something?”
The timer continued.
Matvei looked toward the kitchen with visible annoyance.
“That sounds urgent.”
“It is not.”
The beeping persisted.
Tessa laughed and pushed lightly against his chest.
“Go.”
He kissed her once more, quickly, before walking away.
Tessa followed.
The kitchen was larger than hers, with dark blue cabinets, pale counters and a wide island occupying the center. Several pans covered the stove. A cutting board near the sink held herbs, lemon halves and a knife large enough to intimidate her.
Matvei opened the oven and removed a roasting pan.
Steam rose around him.
“What are you making?” Tessa asked.
“Chicken. Potatoes. Vegetables.”
She looked at the amount of food.
“Are your teammates coming?”
“No.”
“You made enough for the entire Russian team.”
“You do not eat.”
“I eat.”
“Toast.”
“That happened once.”
“Hotel breakfast.”
“I ate the eggs.”
“You ate half.”
Tessa placed her purse on an empty stool.
“Do you need help?”
“No.”
She watched him move the chicken toward the counter, then return to the stove to stir something in a saucepan.
“Is that your polite way of telling me to sit down?”
“I cook.”
“I understand the division of labor you have proposed.”
Matvei pointed toward one of the stools.
Tessa remained standing.
“You invited me for dinner. Let me help.”
“You are guest.”
“I know how to cut vegetables.”
He glanced toward the cutting board.
“Vegetables are cut.”
“Then give me something else.”
Matvei studied her as though unsure whether her insistence was a criticism of his cooking.
Tessa stepped closer to the sink.
“Are those dishes clean?”
“Yes.”
“I can set the table.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded toward a cabinet.
“Plates.”
The permission felt strangely significant.
Tessa found two plates, then silverware in the wrong drawer before Matvei corrected her. The dining table stood near the windows overlooking the backyard, large enough for six people but holding only a wooden bowl.
She set places across from one another.
Then reconsidered and moved them to adjacent sides.
Matvei noticed when he carried the roasting pan over.
His eyes went from the plates to her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is clearly something.”
“You sit close.”
“I thought it would be easier to talk.”
“Yes.”
The single word contained enough satisfaction that Tessa looked down to hide her smile.
She returned to the kitchen and found him pouring pale pink liquid from a glass bottle into two short glasses.
“What’s that?”
Matvei turned one toward her.
“I make.”
“That did not answer the question.”
“Long drink. Like Finland.”
Tessa stared.
The color resembled the Finnish drink, though slightly cloudier. A grapefruit peel floated near the top beneath several ice cubes.
“You made long drink?”
“I look up.”
“Finnish long drink is sold in cans.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot exactly make it.”
“I did.”
Tessa lifted the glass and smelled grapefruit, gin and something sweeter.
“What did you put in this?”
“Gin. Grapefruit. Soda. Lime. Small syrup.”
“So you made a cocktail inspired by long drink.”
“No. Long drink.”
She took a sip.
It was not the same.
It was also very good.
Tessa looked at him.
Matvei waited.
“This might be better.”
The tension left his face.
“Yes.”
“You already knew that?”
“Yes.”
She laughed.
He lifted his own glass.
“To date.”
The bluntness of the toast made her chest tighten.
“To date,” she agreed.
Their glasses touched.
For a moment, the sound returned her to the old bar. Matvei in the opposite chair, his knee pressing against hers while both attempted to pretend the evening had occurred by accident.
Nothing about this was accidental.
He had looked up a drink she liked.
He had cooked enough food to feed six people.
Tessa took another sip.
The house suddenly felt warmer.
Dinner was better than Tessa expected.
Not because she doubted Matvei could cook, though she realized she had never actually considered whether he did.
The food was simple but carefully prepared, the chicken seasoned with garlic and herbs, the potatoes crisp at the edges and soft inside.
He had made a sauce she could not identify and refused to explain beyond saying it contained mustard.
“This is really good,” she said.
Matvei nodded.
“You could at least pretend to be surprised by the compliment.”
“I cook good.”
“Well.”
“What?”
“I cook well.”
He looked at her.
“You come to my house and correct English?”
“You like when I’m honest.”
“Not always.”
Tessa smiled and cut another piece of chicken.