Maggie #3
The table is set with pale candles, crystal glasses, white plates, and dark flowers in a low arrangement across the center, so no one has to look around them. It’s elegant in that effortless way money can buy, where everything feels perfect without trying too hard.
Ivy takes her seat with Winston curled in a plush dog bed near her chair and Daisy lying faithfully at her feet. I sit beside her, and Alexei takes the seat across from me, which feels like poor planning on my part.
Servants move quietly in and out, one pouring wine into my glass and Alexei’s, another setting down a Shirley Temple with extra cherries in front of Ivy.
“Thank you,” Ivy says, lifting it with both hands before taking a sip and immediately launching into a full update on the dogs.
Winston sleeps in her room but not in her bed, which she says with a pointed look toward her father.
Daisy sleeps on the floor beside her, though, which she says makes the whole room feel safer somehow.
At school today, she told her best friend, Ava, that she had two dogs now, and Ava got jealous, which she loved.
Winston also chewed one shoe, chased his own tail, and barked at his reflection in a glass door like he found an enemy.
I laugh into my wine more than once, and every time I look up, Alexei is watching either Ivy or me, his expression quieter than most men’s but never empty.
He doesn’t interrupt her. He doesn’t hush her unless she gets too close to talking with food in her mouth.
He listens, asks questions here and there, and corrects her only when she starts getting wildly dramatic about Winston being “basically a guard dog now.”
“He’s six pounds,” he says dryly.
“He’s brave,” she counters.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It could be,” she says, lifting her chin. “Size doesn’t matter if he has instincts.”
I have to set my glass down before I spill it from laughing.
Dinner is wonderful. Tender meat, roasted vegetables, warm bread with butter so soft it nearly melts under the knife, and a pasta dish Ivy talks through almost the whole time because she hasn’t learned to pick between eating and telling stories.
Not that anybody seems to mind. Certainly not Alexei, who watches her with that same patience I’ve noticed from the beginning, one that never looks gentle exactly, but still says more than most people’s overt affection ever could.
And me? I’m actually having a good time. A real one.
That realization hits me halfway through the meal and stays with me as I sip my wine and answer Ivy’s questions about the shelter. I tell her yes, Winston can visit again once he learns not to terrorize mop heads.
I catch Alexei looking at me more than once, and every single time it feels like a slow press low in my stomach.
Dessert is lemon cake with berries and whipped cream. Ivy eats three bites before she starts to get tired. Her nanny appears quietly beside her chair.
“It’s time,” she says gently.
Ivy turns at once to her father. “Can I stay five more minutes?”
“No, solnyshko. It’s time for bed.”
She lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alright.”
Then she turns to me and throws herself into another hug, this one tighter than the first.
“I’ll come help again as soon as I can,” she promises. “And Winston too. Daisy already knows how.”
I smile and hug her back. “I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart.” I give her a small kiss on her cheek.
She pulls away and points one finger at me like she means business. “You should.”
Then she hugs Daisy around the neck, scoops up Winston, and starts toward the door with her nanny before spinning back around one last time.
“Goodnight, Maggie.”
“Goodnight, sugar.”
After she leaves, the room grows quieter in a way I feel deep down. When I look across the table, Alexei is watching me.
“Well,” I say, folding my napkin in my lap nervously. “That was… really nice.”
“It was.”
There’s a pause that feels full rather than uncomfortable, and then he speaks again.
“Stay.”
My pulse skips.
He leans back in his chair, with one hand around the stem of his wine glass. “Have a drink with me.”
A thousand sensible reasons to leave rush up all at once, but they all fade when I see how he’s looking at me, like he already knows I want to stay.
I should go home. I should remember that I’m at a private estate with a man who makes me nervous in ways that have very little to do with fear. I should do a whole lot of things.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Okay.”
His eyes hold mine for another second, and then he rises from his chair.
He comes around the table and offers me his hand, and I stare at it for half a heartbeat before placing mine in it.
He doesn’t grip too tightly and doesn’t tug.
He simply helps me to my feet, and the second I’m standing close to him again, all that dangerous heat I’ve been trying to manage since I got here comes right back to life.
“She likes you.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “I’ve gotten attached to her faster than I meant to.”
“She trusts you.”
And mercy, there’s a whole lot in those three words.