CHAPTER EIGHT
Four Days Until Christmas
Barrett
I don't want to tell him.
I don't even want to admit it, this ridiculous thought that's been creeping around in the back of my mind since Sergei Mikhailov sat down next to me on Brett and Colson's sofa. And it only intensified when I met his black cat after taking refuge from the snowstorm in his house.
What do I say? That I'd rather stay here on this mountain than go back home? That being trapped in his house is like a breath of air after almost drowning? For the first time, I know what I want to say, but it goes against all logic.
Words are scarce the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. However, the silence is anything but awkward. It’s as though Sergei is enjoying it. I would probably be annoyed by this, but for the first time, the entire situation has me at a loss for words. And I hate this feeling.
Again, I find myself sitting adjacent to him at the table, this time eating some spicy, sour soup that’s so good that I want to mainline it through an IV.
Maybe if we’re friends by the end of this venture, he’ll come visit and make an entire freezer full for me.
And even if he ends up hating me, maybe I can convince him to just ship me some on dry ice.
Just like last night, Sergei clears away the dishes and goes on with the evening like this is nothing but routine—like my presence is nothing but routine. It’s bothering me that I can’t read him as well as I can other people. I need more information.
So, of course, I text Brett.
ME (8:19PM): OK so what’s Sergei’s story? What kind of women does he date?
brETT (8:24PM): Are you trying to date Sergei???? I love this for you.
ME (8:25PM): Just gathering intel.
brETT (8:26PM): Honestly, I don’t know.
ME (8:26PM): Wdym you don’t know????
brETT (8:27PM): He’s never mentioned any girlfriends.
ME (8:28PM): Anyone?? Ask Colson. Now.
brETT (8:33PM): Colson said Serg doesn’t do relationships.
ME (8:34PM): So like…just casual flings?
brETT (8:35PM): Colson said he won’t divulge Serg’s secrets.
ME (8:35PM): Omggggggggggg
What else is new? It doesn’t surprise me in the least that Colson is being so cryptic and unhelpful.
Freaking men.
I toss my phone onto the side table in the bedroom and head for the bathroom to get ready for bed.
When I emerge later in pajamas with freshly brushed teeth, Sergei is leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, looking at his phone.
I assume he’s just waiting on me to finish in the bathroom.
“Do you need anything?” he asks as he slips his phone back in his pocket and heads for the dresser.
“No, thank you,” I reply softly, still unsure of what to do now that he’s gotten under my skin and I definitely let it show.
“I’m going into work early tomorrow. I need to check the building and the grounds. It may take longer if there are repairs to be dealt with.”
“Oh, are the roads clear?”
“Unlikely. The safest way is by snowmobile.” He shuts the drawer and heads for the bathroom. “I’ll make sure to leave breakfast before I go.”
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Everything was really good, by the way.”
Sergei gives a polite nod and disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Again, I’m left alone—in his room, in his bed.
I try to continue reading, but I can’t concentrate, glossing over the same paragraph at least three times.
It’s not long before he reemerges, dressed in the same cream sweatpants as last night; the ones that made him look like even more of an Arctic god than he already does.
I don’t know if there is such a thing, but if there was, he would be it.
He strolls across the room, tossing his clothes into a basket on the floor, and opens the door to leave.
“Sergei,” I call to him before even realizing it.
He stops in the doorway and glances over his shoulder.
“Um, you don’t have to sleep on the sofa tonight.”
Slowly, he turns around, his expression unchanging.
Well, I can’t stop now…
“I mean, this is your bed. And I know you a little better now, so I don’t mind sharing.
Strictly platonic, of course. That way, I’m not totally inconveniencing you.
Unless you’d prefer that I sleep on the sofa tonight, which I really don’t mind doing.
” There, that’s as professional as I can make it sound.
Sergei studies me from across the room, not moving or making a sound. Finally, he shuts the door again and meanders back across the room to the opposite side of the bed. He tosses the covers back and climbs in, holding my eyes before reclining on the mattress.
“Just don’t knife me in my sleep,” he says with nonchalance.
My eyes dart up in surprise. He stares back as he adjusts his pillow, but I see something different this time. A shred of what appears to be humor hides behind his icy blue irises. But he doesn’t laugh, only holds my gaze in the corner of his eye until he sinks onto the pillow and closes his eyes.
“Stay on your side and I won’t have to,” I mumble back, settling into my side of the bed.
But I don’t know why I’m surprised. I would offer to share a bed with a man who cracks jokes about his mother murdering a pedophile.
That just figures.
●●●
It takes me forever to fall asleep. My mind is racing and I can’t calm myself, pouring over every random thought and worst-case scenario that enters my mind.
I’m still bummed about having to leave Brett and her family.
I know I’m not at her house, but somehow just being in the same town makes it feel like I still haven’t left her.
I’m stressed out about my job, wondering if I’ll even have one by the time I get home, all because of my shitty boss.
And then there’s still the odd incident with my house, where Clay said it felt like someone broke in.
But he, Declan, and Bailey are there now, so maybe I can rest assured my house isn’t being pillaged.
Scratch that—my refrigerator and pantry are another story.
But, still, there’s something else. And the more I think about it, the more I hate what it is.
Sergei lays a safe distance away on the opposite side of the king size bed, his broad shoulders gently rising and falling as he slumbers.
I never could've anticipated the intense disappointment of him climbing into the same bed and actually staying on his side. It’s like steeling myself for the potential assholery has given way to some bizarre attraction.
I guess it’s not so bizarre. He does look like some kind of mythical Norse god.
More Thor than Sasquatch. But mythology be damned, I’m firmly anti-man right now.
No boys allowed. Do not touch. Social distancing without the social.
I don’t care if we shared personal stories over an afternoon of chess.
The universe, however, continues to laugh in my face.
I don’t know what time it is, but it’s still dark when I open my eyes.
I start to roll over, but in my foggy state, something is quite literally holding me back.
Sergei’s arm is laying across the empty space in the middle of the bed, his hand flung haphazardly over my hips.
I let out an exasperated breath as I start to figure out how to free myself.
Can I even lift it? It’s the diameter of a small tree trunk.
But when I sink back down onto the mattress, his wrist settles low on my belly and the rest of his hand even lower.
A ripple runs through my gut as his fingers brush the top of my thigh and I freeze.
I need to get his arm off me. Granted, I don’t know why I care.
I should just hurl it off me and let him deal with getting back to sleep.
But, instead, I still for a moment, my fingers resting on his.
Then they slowly begin to move up his wrist and over his arm, taking in the texture of his skin and fine hair over the contours of his muscles.
I could wake him up. I wonder what he'd do. But if I don’t, I won’t have to deal with any uncomfortable responses.
The fact remains that I need to get his arm off of me.
I place my hand on his forearm, trying to figure out the best grip without waking him up.
But, as soon as I do, I freeze again. Gently, I start to move my hand down, over the top of Sergei’s.
When I do, his fingers softly press into the most sensitive part between my thighs.
He’s dead to the world, but the weight of his arm only amplifies the sensation on my pelvis, and I feel my abs curl to the feel of him against me.
With a feather touch, I do it again…and again.
It’s like a pulse, electrifying my nerve endings and slowly building like waves lapping at a beach.
And it’s wholly inappropriate.
I glance to the side, at the edge of his face, turned away while his hair splays out across the pillow and his broad chest rises and falls in even breaths. My fingers start to move, slowly and gently, the longer I look at him.
Just wake him up. Just to see what he’ll do…
No. For some reason, Sergei seems different.
I could wake up someone like Harrison, who would probably jump in his car at the sight of an unsolicited tit pic.
But I don’t think Sergei would. I think he’d look at it and then study the photo arrogantly while deciding whether it’s worth his time.
A tremor runs down my thighs at the thought of it—of him debating whether to make a move.
Because if he did, I bet it would be mind-blowing.