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“There a problem here?” Stefan had asked in his deep, rumble of a voice.
“No, sir.”
Only there was a problem because I had forgotten how to speak, too.
But I got my act together and thanked him.
Maybe my mother would scold me for loving a man old enough to be my father. But I’ve never been one attracted to younger, less seasoned men. To be honest? I’ve never been attracted to any other man but the one brooding in front of the fireplace before me.
I want his bed to be prepared for him when he finally turns in tonight, so I creep away as quietly as I can and go to his room. I inhale deeply as I enter his personal space, because it smells like him in here. Strong and masculine and fearless, bold like a wind-swept prairie or snow-capped mountain. My senses come alive with vivid visceral awareness.
I’ll admit, I’ve got it bad. I’ve got it so bad.
I swallow and stand here, inhaling and exhaling, while I look about his room.
Stefan is a moderately tidy man, but I enjoy when he leaves things about, so I have an excuse to clean up after him. There’s a scattered pair of boots by the door, a jacket shrugged off, and coins and bills strewn on his bedside table. Quickly, efficiently, I place the coins in a little basket alongside the bills that I fold, then I straighten his shoes and place them by the door. Next, I go to the bed and smooth out the covers. I fluff his pillows and turn down one corner of the sleek black duvet.
I close my eyes, resting my hand on his bed, indulging in one brief second of fantasy before I leave.
I’d slip into “something a little more comfortable” before he came to bed. Maybe a pale ivory nightie would complement the dark skin I inherited from my mother. I’d sweep my long, thick black hair into a braid, and climb into bed beside him. I sigh. My fantasy only borders the sexual. Just imagining lying beside his strong, strapping body, massaging the tension from his shoulders, and inhaling his scent before bed has me heady with awareness and longing.
I would die if he ever knew what I fantasize about. I would shrivel up and literally die. Change my name and go into witness protection or something.
He would maybe think I were some sort of stalker, but I swear I’m not. There’s a major difference between admirer and stalker, and I know where I stand.
“Taara?”
I jump when I hear Stefan’s rumbling voice from the doorway behind me.
“Oh! I didn’t hear you coming,” I say nervously. I turn to face him. He stands in the doorway, leaning one hip against the frame with his arms crossed on his chest. Piercing blue eyes meet mine, but they’re kind and a little curious, and so tired I want to take his hand and lead him to bed myself.
Was I sniffing his sheets? Stroking them lovingly?
God.
He only smiles at me, those blue eyes crinkling around the edges making my heart flutter in my chest.
“You’re a good girl,” he says gently. “I appreciate that you take the time to prepare my room for me.” His voice is deep and husky with exhaustion, but I feel it right down to my very toes.
“Of course, sir,” I say to him, bowing my head. My cheeks heat as I make my way to the doorway, closer to him, but he grabs my arm when I draw near. I freeze. “Sir?”
Is he angry with me? Did I somehow break a rule?
But when I look at him, he releases my arm.
“There’s no need to run away,” he says, his brow furrowed. I swallow hard, my heart racing so hard and fast I’m dizzy. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, how your mother’s doing?”
“She’s about the same, sir,” I say. My voice sounds so soft and quiet following his. “I saw her yesterday. She misses the food of her homeland, but she gets confused. In one sentence, she’s asking for bolani and the next she’s begging for solyanka.”
He smiles. She hasn’t had bolani, the traditional stuffed bread from her home country, in decades, but the common Russian soup she’s had more recently.
“In any event, she has no use for the chicken pot pie and burgers they serve at the facility.” I smile and feel my cheeks flush deeper, suddenly afraid that I might sound ungrateful. His brotherhood pays for her care, and it’s not cheap. “The food is delicious, though. They feed her well. She just misses some things she’s had for years.”
“I see,” he says. “Do you remember Tomas from Boston?”
I nod, a little confused why he’s bringing him up. “I know who he is, though I don’t believe I’ve met him.”
“He and his wife Caroline will be visiting tomorrow. His wife is a chef and cooks the most delicious traditional Russian food you’ll ever eat. I’ll have her bring your mother some dishes while she’s here.”
