MISBEHAVE
“Is this seat taken?”
“Yes.”
A lowscreech—chair legs scraping against hardwood—contributes to my body’s rising temperature. Awareness mixes with the heady dose of anticipation swimming through my veins.
“Your manners haven’t improved,” I state.
“I have no manners.”
“Something we can agree on.”
A lie—one of many I’ve told him. He reacts how I was hoping. His eyes meet mine, crooked smirk appearing, and emotions I don’t want to name expand in my chest until combustion seems to be a legitimate concern.
“You look nice. Pretty dress.”
“I had a performance before this.” Another fib, delivered as carefully as my stroking the side of the glass with the pad of my pointer finger. A soft squeak follows as skin glides against condensation.
If Lev Sokolov knew I’d purchased this dress specifically for him, a month ago, he would …
I’m not sure what he would do actually. I’ve never tested the boundaries between us because doing so could have catastrophic consequences.
I’m cautious. Careful what I say, careful how I act. For selfish reasons, not only because of my family. Our liaisons are foolish for Lev. My continuing to meet him is so idiotic that I don’t think a word has been invented for it.
Yet here I am—again.
I cross my legs. Lev glances down. We both watch my maroon dress drift higher up my thighs. I’m wearing tights since it’s snowing, but I feel the brush of his gaze like there’s not a single layer between us.
“How has your trip been?” I phrase the question purposefully, as unobtrusive as possible.
We could be two strangers who just happened to sit next to each other at this hotel’s bar tonight.
“Good. Busy.” His deep voice lowers before adding, “Better now.”
I blush. I feel the heat warm my cheeks—a common reaction when we’re in close proximity.
“We are expanding.”
I reach for my cocktail and swallow a small sip, hoping the whiskey will dissipate the sudden tension in my muscles. Does that mean he’ll be here more often? Does that mean my father will be ranting about the Russians when I visit this summer?
“Congratulations,” I say.
Lev nods an acknowledgment.
I don’t ask more questions. I stare, searching for a safe topic.
Another rare grin appears as he holds my gaze. The boyish smile sheds time off his face. He looks like the seventeen-year-old I met over a decade ago.
Sometimes, I forget how long we’ve known each other. Sometimes,two strangers who just happened to sit next to eachotheris an accurate description of us. Familiar strangers maybe, but nothing more.
Lev Sokolov is a difficult person to get to know.
My entire existence is a facade, constructed from falsehoods that wouldn’t matter so much if he were someone else. Someone separate from the world I carefully avoid. With one exception.
“Can I get you anything to drink, sir?”
Lev flicks an assessing glance at the hovering bartender. The man—he introduced himself as Wolfe when I arrived—was friendly, bordering on flirty, when he took my drink order. Hoping for a generous tip, or genuinely interested, or maybe both.
