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It really does help that she agreed.
Taking a deep breath, I climb into bed next to her and turn off the light, then curve my body around her from the back, holding her tight as she mumbles something in her sleep.
My ptichka.
She’s not a fantasy anymore.
This is as real as it gets, and when I wake up, she’ll still be here.
She better fucking be.
46
Sara
I wake up to the mouthwatering smell of eggs and bacon, mixed with some kind of baked goods. Pancakes? Biscuits, maybe?
Did I fall asleep at my parents’ house again?
Prying open my heavy eyelids, I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
My apartment’s plain white ceiling.
Instantly, the memories rush in, and I sit up with a gasp, throwing off my blanket.
Was last night real? Is Peter here?
A flash of something bright catches my attention, and I glance down at my left hand, where a giant diamond is sparkling in the barely-there sunlight seeping through the lowered blinds.
Holy shit. It is real.
Peter is here.
I’m officially engaged to him.
Throwing on a robe, I run to the kitchen, where I not only smell but hear the sizzle of frying bacon.
The sight that greets me stops me in my tracks.
Dressed in nothing but a pair of dark jeans, Peter is standing over the stove, expertly flipping over an omelet. On another frying pan are bacon strips, and on a plate by the oven is a stack of pancakes. The muscles in his broad back ripple as he moves, the jeans riding low on his narrow hips, and I literally have to swallow my saliva as he turns around to face me, revealing a solid eight-pack and a powerfully built chest dusted with dark hair.
The few pounds he lost only refined his incredible physique, made him even harder, more dangerous.
“Good morning, ptichka.” His deep voice is like a tiger’s purr as he looks me over, his gaze traveling from the tips of my bare toes to the top of my sleep-mussed hair. The tattoos on his left arm flex as he sets the spatula down on the counter and starts toward me.
“Oh, um… good morning.” I back away, realizing I rushed in without so much as splashing water on my face. “I’ll be right back.”
I beeline for the bathroom before he can stop me. Swiftly, I brush my teeth, then jump into the shower for a quick rinse. My heart is galloping in my chest, and my breathing is fast and shallow.
Peter is here.
In my kitchen, cooking up a storm.
I should probably take a moment to calm myself, but I don’t want all that delicious food to get cold.
After all, my fiancé made it for me.
My stomach flips, my heart rate accelerating further, and I force myself to take deep breaths as I towel off and put the robe back on.
Then, squaring my shoulders, I head back into the kitchen.
47
Sara
“What time do you have to be at work?” Peter asks, serving me an artfully arranged plate of vegetable omelet with strips of bacon and a side of pancakes.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. “In about forty minutes.” I’m lucky I woke up when I did, because I completely spaced out on the alarm last night.
I’m probably spacing out on something right now, because even though I’m outwardly calm, on the inside, I’m a hyperventilating mess.
Peter is here.
He’s here, and we’re engaged.
“I’ll walk you to your office,” he says, sitting down across from me with his own plate. “Unless you’re taking the car?”
I cautiously spear a piece of pancake with my fork. “I was planning to go from there straight to the clinic, so yeah…”
He doesn’t blink. “Okay. I’ll ride with you and then go grocery shopping. Your fridge is nearly empty. How late are you going to be at the clinic?” He begins consuming his omelet with obvious hunger.
“I’m scheduled to be there until ten, but if there’s any kind of an emergency, I might end up staying later,” I say, watching him warily. Is he going to object? Try to control this portion of my life? George was understanding about my long hours, as he often worked late himself and had to travel a lot for work, but I don’t know how Peter feels about it. He didn’t stop me from working a lot before, but that was different.
Back then, he was just biding his time before stealing me away.
“Okay. I’ll pick you up there.” He gets up and walks over to the counter, where my handbag is sitting. Reaching in, he fishes out my phone and starts typing on it.
“What are you doing?” I ask, puzzled.
“Giving you my number.” Finishing his task, he slips my phone back into my bag and returns to the table. “So you can call me when you’re close to being done at the clinic. I don’t want you in that area alone at night.”
