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“This is what Russians have when they don’t feel well,” he says, setting it on my nightstand and taking a seat on the edge of my bed.
The thought of eating again turns my stomach until I get a whiff of the broth. I nearly knock Bogdan out of the way grabbing for the mug of salty, golden deliciousness. After chugging almost all of it, I lean back onto my headboard, and sigh, my eyes closed.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the warm liquid instantly calming me.
“Mybabushkaused to make this when someone was sick. I gave Chef the recipe so he could replicate it.”
I lick my lips, hoping I don’t look like a greedy pig. “That was heavenly. Pure heaven,” I breathe as I wave the steaming tea under my nose.
Bogdan pats my head and stands to leave. “Get some rest,malishka. I’ll check back in a bit.”
“Thank you. Love you,” I murmured happily.
What?
What the fuck did I just say?
No, no, no, no.
But, bless him, instead of compounding my embarrassment, he winks and pulls the door closed behind him to leave me to doze off, wallowing in my big-mouthed misery.
I vow to eat no more octopus.
The next thing I know, I’m startled awake by another knock on my door. I look around, surprised to find my room dark. I figure I’ve been out for a few hours.
My stomach feels better, though.
“Come in,” I call.
Ilya opens the door, flanked by Bogdan and Fedor. I hope they aren’t looking for playtime. I’m not up for that at the moment.
“Hey, guys,” I say, trying to perk up my energy while pulling the bedsheets to my chin.
They stand there for a moment until Ilya speaks. “How do you feel about having a visitor?”
Visitor?Who the hell would visitme? Maybe my dad? No. No way. The French girls? Fuck them.
I shrug. “I… I guess that would be fine. Who is it?” I ask.
Ilya returns to the hallway and guides a woman through my door and into my room.
She’s about my height and has wild black hair like I do. She forces a smile, but her bottom lip is quivering too hard to pull it off.
I know this woman. I haven’t seen her in fifteen years, but I’d know her if a hundred years had passed.
What the hell?
It’s my mother, Nanette Madden.
At least, I think it’s my mother. Could this be a joke? Did they find someone who looks like my mom, just fifteen years older than the last time I saw her?
Would someone really do that?
“Abby,” she says cautiously, her voice breaking.
My mouth is so dry I can’t speak. Not that I’d know what to say, in any case. But this is my mother. It’s no imposter. I know my own mother.
But what the fuck?
