11. Chapter Eleven #2
Sergei stands at the entrance to my tiny bedroom, his large frame making the space feel even smaller.
He could’ve been a bodybuilder in another life with his broad shoulders and an upper body almost triangular in shape.
He insisted on coming in to oversee the process, and I had to turn my face away to hide my eyeroll.
“How do you know them?” he asks.
I drag the empty suitcase from under my bed and flop it onto the mattress, unzipping it. “They run a coffee shop on campus.”
“How often did you visit, if you got friendly enough for them to offer you a room in their house?”
“Most days.” I approach the medium-sized dresser in the corner and open the bottom drawer.
“They’re super nice people. Jonah had surgery, and their medical bills have been piling up, so they decided to rent out this room.
I was getting to a point where I couldn’t afford my apartment anymore, so it was a win-win.
” In one swift motion, I gather my clothes from the drawer and toss them into the suitcase.
Sergei mumbles something in Russian, annoyance lacing his words. He strides quickly to the suitcase. “You can’t throw everything in like that. Aren’t you going to fold them?”
“I wasn’t planning to…” I say slowly, touching the back of my neck.
Sergei shakes his head, pulling the clothes from the suitcase and dumping them onto my bed. He picks up the first pair of pants and begins to fold them neatly before placing them back into the suitcase.
I blink a few times. “What are you doing?”
“You start with the light, thin items first, then lay the heavier ones on top,” he explains, smoothing the pants further to ensure there are no creases.
“They just need to be inside for the drive to the apartment. It’s not a big deal…” I start to say, but Sergei’s intense stare silences me. The determination in his eyes forces me to reluctantly raise my arms in surrender.
“You’ll fit more things like this,” he explains, methodically folding the next piece of clothing. “Bring me the next drawer’s contents. Most of these are heavy and should go on top.”
I do as he says, but it feels surreal to have Sergei Chernov packing my clothes.
“There,” he says, tossing me a pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt. I fumble but manage to catch both. “You should change.”
“Right.” Only now do I realize I’m still in the skimpy clothes from the bar underneath Sergei’s jacket, which I quickly take off and hand back to him. “Here.”
He pauses, turning to accept it, when his gaze drops to my collarbone.
“Thanks,” I mutter as a wave of warmth spreads across my skin.
His stare lingers another moment before he clears his throat and turns back to the suitcase. “I’m pleased to see you have some more suitable options to wear.”
I choose to ignore his comment, fearing any response might come out as anything but professional. “You don’t have much of an accent,” I note as I bring the contents of the third drawer to the bed.
“Not usually,” Sergei replies. “My parents immigrated to the States when I was a kid. I worked hard to make sure my accent isn’t noticeable.”
“Why?” I ask, folding a shirt and placing it in the suitcase.
“People tend to associate my accent with one of two things: being the villain in a movie or a mafioso. I find it easier to do my business if I sound more like an American.”
Diana clears her throat as she walks into the room, carrying a large food container. “Aurora, dear,” she says, “I packed you some food for the road.”
“It’s a thirty-minute drive,” Sergei says dryly, having finished packing the last clothes into the suitcase. He then walks to the dresser and opens the top drawer.
Diana shoots him a look that I doubt he has ever received from someone who didn’t birth him. I’m relieved that he doesn’t notice, given that his back is turned to us.
“I don’t know what type of food you have at your fancy apartment,” she mutters.
“Thank you, Diana,” I say, stepping forward to take the container and giving her a quick hug. “That’s sweet of you.”
“Of course, my dear.” She smiles and leaves the room.
“You didn’t have to be rude,” I say to Sergei, who stands frozen in front of the dresser. “What’s wrong?”
Sergei turns on his heel, facing away from the dresser. “I think you can handle packing the last drawer yourself.” Avoiding my gaze, he walks past me and out of the room.
It only takes me a moment to remember that the top drawer contains my panties and bras. I rush to the dresser and slam it shut with a loud bang, as if that could somehow erase the embarrassment of Sergei Chernov, of all people, seeing them.
I finish packing much faster without Sergei’s constant hovering and consider not changing to show him that he can’t dictate what I wear.
But I feel absolutely ridiculous in this outfit and remember the temperature outside, so I decide otherwise.
Then I proceed to dump the contents of the closet into the second suitcase.
It takes me a few attempts, but eventually, I manage to zip it, grateful Sergei isn’t around to witness my struggle.
Next, I grab a few small cardboard boxes from the bottom of the closet, ones I’ve kept from my move, since I hoped my stay would be short-term.
When I imagined leaving Diana and Jonah’s house, I never envisioned it would be for a penthouse apartment in downtown Las Vegas.
I pack some books and photo frames into the boxes, deciding to return for the rest of my things over the weekend.
I wheel the first suitcase outside, the wheels thumping rhythmically against the concrete pavement with each pull. Pavel immediately steps out of the car to help, while Sergei remains inside, noticeably absent. After Pavel assists with the suitcase, he heads back in to get the rest of my things.
“Thank you,” I say to him as I grab the top box and place it in the trunk.
He doesn’t say much, only gives me a short nod.
Dressed in black jeans, a turtleneck sweater, and a knee-length raincoat, his overall demeanor reminds me of Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Like his fashion inspiration, Pavel is a man of few words.
The only time I’ve heard him speak, he had a heavy Slavic accent.
His sentences were short and to the point, as if each word cost him a fortune, and he’s a frugal man.
As a light drizzle begins, I hurry to give Diana and Jonah a final hug.
“I’ll pick up the rest of my things this weekend, so you can rent out the room,” I say, my words muffled as I bury my face in her neck.
Diana’s hugs are always warm, comforting, and reminiscent of home.
Not my own home, but the kind of welcoming feeling that could belong anywhere.
If I could bottle this hug and keep it forever, I would.
“We’ll kick any new renter out within a day if you need your room back. Just let me know,” Diana promises, and my heart pinches at the sight of tears gathering in her eyes. Jonah, steadying himself with a cane, pats her back reassuringly and kisses the top of her head.
When I return to the car, Sergei remains absorbed in his phone, his silence punctuated only by the rapid tapping of keys.
I decide not to disturb him and text Layla to update her on the unexpected turn of events.
Her snarky message about “playing house” makes me snort, earning a puzzled glance from Sergei.
When we arrive at the apartment, Sergei takes a more hands-on approach, helping me with my suitcases.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” he says, opening the door to the guest room.
The space is minimalist, featuring a bed, a corner desk, and black sheer curtains that drape high to the ceiling, giving the room a sleek, elongated feel.
“Thank you,” I say, still feeling the lingering awkwardness from earlier. I make a conscious effort to diffuse it before it intensifies, adding, “Do you also offer unpacking services?”
Sergei’s eyes briefly light up, and I catch a hint of a smile before he composes himself. “I’m sure it will only take you minutes to unpack if you employ your packing technique,” he responds, then steps out of the room.
I stand there, caught off guard, holding onto the faint hope that there might be a real human being beneath that steel exterior after all.
The following morning, Misha turns the hallway into an obstacle course, running through it while pretending to be a pirate, dodging and weaving around my unpacked boxes.
“Mish, watch out!” I call as he collides with one of them, knocking my purse to the floor. The contents spill out, and without a second glance, Misha keeps running.
I let out a heavy sigh, but my smile can’t be contained—he’s too adorable. Crouching down, I begin to gather the scattered items from my purse: my wallet, a small toiletry bag, a handful of pens, hand lotion, my planner, and...
I pick up a small electronic device, not much bigger than my palm. It looks like a medium-sized hard drive, but it isn’t. Flipping it over, I notice an orange light blinking sporadically on top.
What the hell is this?