His mouth curves faintly. “You say that like you disapprove.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” I study him over my spoon. “You do not sound entirely Russian.”
He leans back against the pillows, one arm resting along the edge of the bed. “I grew up in the US.”
That surprises me. “Really?”
“For part of my life.”
“Where?”
“New York first. Then Boston. A few years in Chicago.”
“You say that as if you were being moved around like luggage.”
His eyes shift toward the window. Outside, the darkness presses against the glass, endless and soft. “At times, I was.”
There’s something in his voice that warns me not to push, which naturally makes me want to push.
For once in my life, I practice restraint.
“Did you like it?” I ask instead.
“The US?”
“Yes.”
He considers the question with more seriousness than I expect. “I liked the anonymity.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was useful.”
I lick chocolate from my finger and see his gaze drop before he can stop it.
The air changes again.
I pretend not to notice because if I do, neither of us will survive this conversation clothed.
“So,” I say, reaching for a fruit tart with far too much interest, “are you going to Moscow to visit family?”
His expression closes by a fraction.
It’s subtle. If I had not spent the last several hours studying him like a forbidden painting, I might have missed it.
“Something like that.”
I wait. He does not elaborate.
“You’re very generous with details.”
“You’re very hungry for them.”
“I’m curious.”
“Curiosity can be dangerous.”
“So can strange men who buy first-class tickets.”
