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He shrugs. “You can’t control the weather.”
“Nope.” Biting my lip, I stare at the white landscape outside. Cars honk as we come to a complete standstill. There are still three blocks to go to the hospital. At this rate, we’ll get there in fifteen minutes.
“I’ll walk from here,” I say.
Yuri shoots me a dark look. “Mr. Volkov won’t like it.”
“Well, it’s not Mr. Volkov who’s going to be late, is it?”
“It’s cold. The pavements are slippery.” He taps a finger on the steering wheel, his frown deep, and then he comes up with another argument for why I should stay in the car. “You may catch a cold.”
Gathering my handbag and the tote that holds my lunch, I say, “I won’t melt. It’s not as if I haven’t walked to work from the subway in the snow before.”
“Miss Morell,” he says as I reach for the door handle. When I get out, he calls, “Kate!”
“See you later.”
I close the door and cross the road. When I look back from the pavement, Yuri is regarding me with a mixture of helplessness and concern. I wave to reassure him, and then I’m on my way, blending with the other pedestrians on Ocean Parkway making their way to work.
It’s not as cold as it is tricky to trudge through the rapidly thickening snow. My boots are waterproof, but in no time, my toes feel frozen. Like everyone else, I’m doing my best to navigate my way as I sink ankle deep into the white powder. The municipality services haven’t yet cleared the roads and pavements.
I’m so focused on my path that I don’t see the man slipping in front of me until he hits the pavement with a thud.
“Fuck,” he utters, cradling his wrist.
Rushing over, I go down on my haunches next to him. “Are you hurt?”
He gives me a startled look, surprise etched on his face. It’s quickly replaced by caution. “I’m good.”
He’s wearing a wool coat and dark, tailored pants. Expensive clothes. His face is square with hard angles, his blond hair cut military short. He reminds me of a Viking with his large, strong frame and the unforgiving look in his eyes that borders on something savage. He looks like a soldier or a warrior, or maybe a man familiar with hardships. He has a slight accent, but that’s not what betrays him. Even at a glance, it’s obvious he’s a foreigner. Not surprising, seeing that this is the Eastern European area of Brooklyn.
His brown eyes are intelligent and assessing as he takes me in. “Why did you stop? No one in this city gives a damn.”
His cynical comment only strengthens what I’ve already assumed about him.
“You took your full weight on your arm,” I say. “You may have broken your wrist.”
“I’ll manage.”
I hold out a hand. “Let me see.”
He lets go of his wrist but groans when he moves his arm.
“That doesn’t sound or look good.” Gently, I take his arm. “Can you move your wrist?”
He scrunches up his face. “Motherfucker. That hurts like a bitch.”
“Here.” I take his good arm. “Let me help you up.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says but lets me.
With his weight, it’s not easy, but he has strong legs. He pushes himself up without using his arms or leaning on me.
“I work at the ER. It’s not far from here. If you come with me, I’ll see what we can do about that wrist.”
He grunts and says under his breath, “Not the kind of fucking injury I can afford right now.”
“Are you right-handed?” I ask as I lead him down the pavement.
“Yes,” he grits out.
“You’re going to have to learn to use your left hand for a while.”
“Not as steady,” he mumbles, looking pissed as hell.
“Keep your elbow bent and your arm close to your stomach so someone doesn’t accidentally bump into your wrist. We’re almost there.”
We make careful but quick progress, and five minutes later, we walk through the sliding doors of the ER. Some of the staff members still gawk at me because of my relationship with Alex, but at least they’re not storming to the windows any longer to try to catch glimpses of him whenever he’s dropping me off at work or fetching me himself. The novelty is starting to wear off.
I take my charge to the reception desk. Trying to lift his mood, I say, “I assume it’s going to take you a while to learn to write with your left hand. The receptionist will fill out the form for you.”
“Tillie,” I say, recognizing the receptionist on duty. “This is Mr. …”
“Besov,” he says. “Ivan Besov. But call me Bes.”
That’s a Russian name, though an unusual nickname. As I suspected, he’s of Eastern European origin. “Please help Mr. Besov fill out the admission form and send him up when he’s done. He may have a broken wrist.”
