The children are with her, and for half a second that’s all I notice. Sofia in a red coat, climbing half in and half out of her chair because stillness is apparently against her religion. Nikolai beside Katerina, smaller and quieter, his attention fixed on the bread basket with the kind of seriousness other boys reserve for weapons or trains.
Then I see Katerina.
And my body reacts before thought can catch up.
She’s wearing cream today.
Cream wool fitted through the waist, her hair down, dark glasses pushed up into it like she came here intending to be left alone and was punished for the hope. She turns slightly to say something to Sofia, and the movement draws the coat close over her body in a way that hits me straight in the groin.
Jesus Christ.I adjust my jacket as I walk.
Not subtle enough, probably. But there is no dignified way to discover that one look at a woman you last kissed in a corridor can still make you hard in broad daylight.
Elena notices. Of course she notices. She says nothing because she values her continued employment and my patience.
Vika sees us first.
She rises so quickly she nearly knocks over her glass. “Roman.”
Her face lights up with a pleasure so immediate I almost admire the lack of self-respect.
She comes around the table before anyone else can stop her and throws her arms around me as if we are old lovers reunited instead of two people who exchanged a dance and several bad instincts.
I catch her by the elbows before she can press herself properly against me.
It still isn’t enough to keep me from smelling her perfume.
Too sweet. Too eager. Unfortunate.
“Viktoria,” I say.
She either doesn’t hear the warning or chooses not to. “You came.”
“Yes.”
“I was beginning to think you only existed in very expensive rooms.”
“That would certainly save time,” I say drily.
Behind me, Elena is taking in the table with the expression of a woman cataloguing contaminants.
Good. I’m not the only one who dislikes Vika on sight.
Katerina has gone completely still.
Not surprised. Not exactly. More like a woman whose day has just taken a turn for the worse and who is deciding whether to show it or not.
Then her gaze drops briefly to my jacket.
To the place beneath it I had to adjust two seconds earlier like a schoolboy with no discipline.
Her mouth curls. In disgust.
I almost laugh.
There is something so specifically Katerina about that reaction. Not embarrassment. Not fluster. Just pure judgment.
As if my body having a response to seeing her is somehow vulgar and inconvenient of me.
