Chapter 15
LIA
Ipull up outside the townhouse, leaving my POS car and walking down the street. I’m stunned by how clean these streets are, no litter, no graffiti, no people playing music loudly or asking me for change. I feel out of place, like I don’t really belong here.
I’ve got butterflies in my stomach as I walk up the stairs. After a hard shift, I’m kind of over feeling guilty about it. Yeah, he watched me when he shouldn’t have. Yeah, this is beyond complicated.
But can’t I just let go for a little while?
I remind myself that nothing is set in stone. We don’t even have plans. I sent a heart emoji and he told me he’s taking that as a yes, but I don’t know exactly what that means.
Then I push the door open and see a path of rose petals leading from the entranceway toward the dining room at the back.
My breath catches. My throat tightens. I’ve always thought of myself as the type of woman who doesn’t care about romantic gestures, but now I wonder if that’s just because I never had a man I’d want that from.
He walks into the corridor, holding a single rose in his hand. His eyes burn with intensity, focused entirely on me, it’s difficult to imagine them being gray and cold.
My instinct is to downplay this, to say something cynical.
But I can’t fight the feeling that bubbles up inside me…
Is this what other women experience while I’ve been on the sidelines?
Not all of it, not the violence, the fear, the danger.
But this feeling, bubbling up within me, that I deserve better than a TV dinner and an exhaustion that never leaves me.
He walks forward slowly, and gently slots the rose into my hair. He kisses me with a tenderness I never would’ve guessed he was capable of. But when I grab onto his arms, he groans and pushes me against the wall.
I want to be swept away with him, but I put my hand on his chest. My body threatens to rebel when I push him away, my hand curling around air. He steps back, a wry smirk on his lips.
“Thanks for that,” he says. “I was getting carried away there…”
“I could tell,” I say, smiling.
“I’ve got news about Daniel.” He takes my hand, and I don’t fight it. A piece of me knows I should, but I bury it deep. I’m thinking about this date and nothing else.
“What?” I ask, heart pounding.
“My associates tell me he wasn’t involved in this life.
He was in a lot of debt from multiple attempts at going to college.
The most likely scenario is he was desperate and hired because he was expendable.
Once he had his hands on the phone, one of Vale’s men ran him off the road.
But there must’ve been a complication before the phone could be collected. Maybe a witness.”
I shake my head. “That poor young man. I don’t know him, but I know he deserved better than that.”
He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “You’ve got a kind soul, Lia. I know he must make you think of Evan.”
“I’m touched you even remember his name.”
He looks at me sideways. “Of course I do.”
He leads me into the dining room, which is also covered in rose petals. Something delicious is cooking in the oven. I breathe it in.
“Lasagna?” I ask.
He smiles, nodding. “I asked my brother what regular people eat, and he said this was a safe bet.”
I gesture at my clothes. I’m wearing a hoodie and scrubs. I’m still sweaty from the hospital. “I should change,” I say.
“If you want, you can,” he replies. “But you don’t need to. You’re more beautiful in sweats than most women are in gowns.”
“Now you’re definitely love bombing me.”
He chuckles. “I think you need to have a heart for that.”
“Ha, ha,” I mutter, shooting a mock glare at him. “We both know you have a heart.”
“Now, I do.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, Mr. Love Bomb.”
“I looked that up online earlier,” he says, pulling my chair out for me. “Apparently, it’s when assholes trick women into falling for them by showering them with fake affection. The thing is, Lia, I can’t fake this. I’d need more practice.”
He walks over to the oven, grabbing some gloves and bending down to take out the lasagna. I watch him, a big smile on my face. It’s so nice to be taken care of for once. He turns, sees me smiling, and winks like he’s just read my mind.
“I’m only kidding,” I say.
“I’m glad you think of things like that,” he replies. “It’s clever, and it’s better than the alternative. Walking through life defenseless.”
“That smells delicious,” I say.
“Nikolai is rarely wrong about food. If he didn’t work out so much, he’d be screwed.”
“Are you close with him?” I ask.
He pauses, leaning against the counter, thinking. “Yes, as close as men like us can be.”
“Were you close growing up?”
He considers again. “I was somewhat of a father figure to him. Our own father had his… issues. Drink, mostly. The belt if he got bored.”
I gasp. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to shock or elicit sympathy. I’m just used to talking to people who already know about it. It was years ago now. Thirsty? We’ve got champagne or OJ or soda.”
“Soda’s fine with me. I have to work tomorrow. But don’t let me stop you.”
He frowns, crossing to the fridge.
“You’re going to get mad I’m not drinking?”
That’s a major red flag.
“No,” he says, sounding confused. “Just—you work so much. I’m worried about you.”
That touches me deeply. “I have to,” I say.
“Because of your mother?”
I nod. “I wouldn’t change anything though,” I add quickly. “She was there for me. Now, I’m going to be there for her.”
“When was she there for you?” he asks.
“When I was a kid.”
He frowns again. “Liora, that’s the job of a parent.”
“Can we please not talk about this?”
“Sure. I didn’t mean to offend.”
I stand. “Actually, do you mind if I take a quick shower? I feel sticky and gross.”
“Sure, it will give time for the lasagna to cool,” he says. “And you don’t have to ask to have a shower in your own home.”
“Ha, ha,” I mutter.
I hurry upstairs, mostly because I don’t want him to see the effect his words have on me. He’s just voiced something I’ve only ever thought in my deepest thoughts.
After a shower, I change into a dress, taking it from a box marked clothes.
I walk downstairs to find he’s already plated the food. He stands when I enter, his eyes fixed on me as if I’m wearing the most beautiful dress he’s ever seen. I haven’t washed my hair, but I’ve let it down and brushed it.
“Beautiful,” he says fiercely.
“Good enough for a first date, at least,” I say.
He walks around the table, pulling my chair out for me.
“A first date,” he repeats, sitting. “That’s something I haven’t done in a long, long time.”
“Why?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I tried for a few years. It would be a good thing, I thought, to have someone to share this life with. But it always felt too awkward. Like I was altered by this life. Like I had to try too hard. I didn’t want to inflict that on a woman. My distance. My coldness.”
“You don’t seem cold, Maksim,” I point out.
He smiles. “Yeah, that’s the point.”
A flush colors my cheeks. I cut a piece of lasagna, blow on it, then take a bite. It’s delicious, and I make sure to make the right noises to let him know. His smile widens. It’s such a handsome sight, his happiness so plainly on display. It feels like a victory, gifting this grim man joy.
“What do you do when you’re not working?” he asks. He must see my face, because he quickly says, “Or is that a stupid question?”
“I used to be in a book club,” I tell him. “And I’d go hiking with my friends. But ever since Evan… I’ve been so busy. It’s too easy for people to drift out of each other’s lives. But I love reading.”
“What sort of books?”
I bite another mouthful, savoring the taste. “Medical thrillers, marriage thrillers, psychological thrillers,” I say. “Medical thrillers are my favorite. Well, right now. I’ve been reading the same book for two months, a few pages a night. Sometimes, just one or two.”
“Why do you love thrillers so much?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I just do.” He gives me that I-see-you look. “What?” I laugh.
“I think you like thrillers because you need chaos, Lia. I know the feeling.”
“You read thrillers too?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve read many, many books in my life, but they’re mostly big, boring non-fiction tomes. I was talking about the chaos.”
“I suppose I do thrive on chaos,” I murmur. “I’m not going to know what hit me the next time I take a day off.”
“Which you should do immediately,” he says, concern in his voice.
I think about his offer of money, about my proud refusal. It’s tempting to take him up on it, to let him take care of me.
“Did you make this, by the way?” I swallow another tasty bite.
He smirks, looking cheeky, boyish, far younger than his forty-five years.
“Maksim!”
“It came from a restaurant with two Michelin stars. I wanted the best for you.”
“Well, I’ve got it.”
“I reheated it, if that helps.”
I laugh so hard I almost shoot lasagna across the room. He chuckles, watching me.
“What about you?” I ask once I’ve calmed down. “What do you do for fun?”
“Sambo,” he says.
“Like dancing?”
“I didn’t say salsa.” He chuckles, and I laugh.
It feels so natural. Effortless. For the first time in a long time, I realize I’m not thinking about my mother or the hospital.
When that thought hits me, I quickly focus on him so I don’t ruin it.
“Sambo,” he goes on. “It’s a Russian martial art.
We were born in the States and our father, though Russian, had no interest in teaching us about our culture. ”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “It is what it is. He was involved in… my life too.”
“Your father was involved in your life?”
Well, duh.
“Oh,” I say a moment later. “You mean your business? Data collection?”
That’s one hell of a euphemism for what he actually does, not that I know the totality of it. Thoughts like that hammer the strangeness of this home far too easily. I try to focus on what’s supposed to be a nice date.
“Yes,” he says.
“So, what is sambo?” I ask. “But, for the record, I’d still like to see you do some salsa.”
He chuckles. I like the sound of his laughter, deep and husky. He sounds relieved, like he never thought he’d get to laugh like this. I know the feeling.
“It’s like mixed martial arts, except you wear a kimono jacket. You can only do certain submissions. It’s great. There’s a whole world of intricacies within each position. It’s one of the only things that allows me to completely forget about…”
“About what?”
“Everything,” he says, looking at me with his penetrating, dark gray eyes, reminding me that this man truly is terrifying.
“It sounds interesting,” I reply. “Being able to lose yourself in something like that.”
He chews his lasagna, making a noise of agreement.
“What about TV?” I ask. “Or are you too busy reading your big, important non-fiction books?”
He swallows, grinning. He loves it when I lightly tease him. I love it too. It makes me feel special, as if I’m the only person in the world who gets to do this.
“Wait, let me guess,” I say quickly. “You like dry documentaries about war and the financial system and stuff like that.”
He shakes his head, still grinning. “Sitcoms. Any kind. I put them on before I fall asleep. I like the background noise. It’s like listening to regular lives.
I know that’s false. I know there’s nothing regular about them.
But it helps me to switch off, reminds me there are people out there watching the same shows, who don’t have to worry about the dark things I do. ”
“But do you have to worry about it?” I ask. “You don’t have to do this job, do you?”
He frowns. “It’s complicated, Lia.”
“Maybe explain it to me then.”
He lowers his gaze. “That’s not what men in my position do.” A pause. “How’s your mother?”
“Talk about whiplash.”
“Oh?” He smiles, but it feels a little forced now. “I thought I was suavely changing the subject.”
As we eat, I talk to him about my mom. I end up telling him how she was obsessed with ballet when I was a teenager.
“She’d never done it before in her life.
And when we were little, she was too busy keeping her head above water for hobbies.
But then I got a part-time job and started helping with expenses.
She’d go once a week, but she’d practice at home too.
It was amazing seeing her light up like that. ”
I get choked up, quickly swallowing a big mouthful of food to calm myself down.
Soon, we’re done. He gives me a look that implies a whole lot. It’s like he wants to bring our texting fantasies into reality. I feel that familiar tingle in my core. I want to let it sweep me up. Throw myself at him. Not worry about anything else.
But I’m tired, and the conversation about his work has reminded me of how confusing this still is.
When I yawn, he stands, inclining his head. “This was great,” he says.
“It was.” I stand quickly. “But wait a sec, don’t you remember I have to walk you out?”
He smirks, offering me his arm. I walk him to the entranceway. He turns, grabs my shoulders, and kisses me gently at first. I’m swept along in the heat of the kiss, my heart thundering, my instincts screaming to just let myself go.
When his hands glide to my hips, I press against his chest. I’m not sure how many times I can do this.
He steps back. Stares down at me. Breathing hard and looking ready to take me.
“Soon, Lia,” he says huskily, pushing past me.
Our bodies brush against each other as he walks to the door.