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She isn't ready for all of it. So I give her a piece.
“You walked into your father's dining room once and told six men they'd moved a decimal point. Then you stole his cognac and winked at me on the way out.”
Her brow furrows. “I don't remember that.”
I ignore the tug of disappointment in my chest and twist my fingers in the napkin. “I know.”
“I'm sure I didn't mean anything by it.”
“I'm sure you didn't either.”
Guilt, or curiosity, flickers in her face. With Arina, it's hard to tell the difference.
“This still isn't a date,” she says, quieter.
“It's a first date. I booked a table. I ordered your wine. You changed your clothes and put on make-up.”
“I always wear make-up.”
“You're wearing pink lipstick, Arina.”
Her mouth snaps shut. She glares at me with so much indignation that I laugh. It comes out rough, and she looks so startled by the sound that some of the fury drains out of her face.
“Stop it,” she mutters. “You're supposed to be terrifying. Everyone says you're terrifying.”
“I am.” I refill her glass. “Just not to you.”
I walk her to her car at eleven.
Her father's men are parked half a block back. The one who kept falling asleep has been replaced.
She stops at the driver's door and turns, keys in hand. The streetlight catches in her hair. She looks tired and well fed and less angry than she did this afternoon, and I think it might be the best thing I've ever seen.
“Thank you for dinner,” she says, even though she doesn’t look happy about saying it.
“Thank you for coming.”
The air thickens the way it did in my kitchen last night. Her eyes drop to my mouth. She catches herself and looks away.
I don't move.
“Goodnight, Arina.”
She doesn't open the car door.
She stands there, staring at the middle of my chest, and I can see her arguing with herself. Her jaw tight. Her fingers clenched around her keys hard enough to whiten her knuckles.
“I hate this,” she says.
“I know.”
“I hate that he planned it. I hate that you knew. I hate that you know how I take my coffee and what wine I like and where I go when I want to be angry in private.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
She grabs a fistful of my shirt.
