“Oh,pchelka,I can guarantee we are.”
I can feel the heat in my cheeks. “I hope you’re not all talk, Maxim. I’d be very disappointed if the action didn’t live up to the promise.”
A smile dances on his lips and I know, I justknow,how much rope he gives me to hang myself.
Honestly, it’s the best part about him.
I love that he indulges me without making me feel less than. That he goes out of his way, in fact, to do the opposite.
My mom and dad’s relationship was the dictionary definition of toxic—hello, he arranged her freakin’murder.
But my sisters’ marriages? My aunts’? The literal best examples.
Hope dances through my veins like someone dosed my blood with glitter.
I want that for myself, and it seems as if it’s within touching distance.
The thought’s a reminder of what happened earlier.
Touch.
If I take what I want, he gives it to me.
Bracing myself for future impact, I request, “Show me the bedrooms that aren’t east-facing.”
Straightening, he holds out his hand for mine.
I slide my fingers against his, forcing the urge to shiver down before he thinks I’m running a fever. Those calluses… Yeah, they’re going to star in my fantasies at some point.
There are two neighboring bedrooms at the end of the hall.
One’s painted in a sharp red that I instantly hate. There’s a four-poster bed in there, the brass type that no one in their right mind would find comfortable.
Not even the wingback chair in front of the stove fireplace inspires me enough to want to fall asleep in here.
He chuckles at my moue of distaste then guides me to the other one, the room with honey-colored walls from an antique type of wallpaper. If he didn’t mention that the walls were reinforced, I’d think it was original. It certainly looks faded enough in parts. Not in a bad way—nothing’s peeling. Just old. Really old.
There’s a four-poster in here as well, Shaker-style, but the posts pierce the air and don’t form an overhead canopy. They’re tipped with beautifully engraved acorns that have me releasing a delighted giggle.
“Are they fairies?”
“Where?” When I point at the acorns, he shakes his head. “I think they’re…” He mutters the word in Russian.
“Ladybugs?”
“I think so.”
“Korovka, korovka, uleti na nebo, prinesi nam khleba.” When his brows lift, I smile. “‘Little cow, little cow, fly to heaven, bring us bread.’ Didn’t think I’d know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“I love ladybugs. Have ever since my mother told me the Russian word translated to ‘God’s little cow.’ Then they made me love them even more because they always sit on my hand if ever I’m near one.”
“Maybe it’s because you sing that song to them.”
“Maybe. Shay says in England, they call them lady birds. I always preferred that name.” With a dreamy smile, I continue my perusal, though the ladybugs go a long way to making me love it.
Cozy—that sums up the bedroom. This one has a dresser that matches the bed and a vanity, with a large mirror, complete with little age spots, in one corner.
