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“That sounds wonderful,” I agree. “It’s not too far?” My feet are aching from all the walking we’ve done today, but I don’t want to say no and bring the night to an early end.
Pyotr shakes his head. “Just a few blocks that way.” He gestures down the street.
“Okay.”
He offers me his elbow, a gesture he seems to do almost as if it’s second nature to him. I like it. It brings me closer to him and stabilizes me all at once. Val and Efrem fall into step several feet behind us, our silent shadows.
“So, you and Dani seemed to hit it off well,” Pyotr observes after several minutes of peaceful silence.
“She’s adorable. And knows so much about art for someone still just in high school,” I marvel.
Pyotr chuckles. “The schools around here are well known for being excellent.”
“I’ll say.”
“How did you get so interested in art?” he asks, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
I frown slightly, not quite sure what to tell him. I’ve loved drawing for as long as I can remember. It probably stemmed from being kept inside and on my own for so much of my childhood. I fell in love with reading and art because those were two activities that could keep me entertained for hours in my room.
But to say that would sound so depressing. So instead, I dig further into the why of what makes art so fascinating to me. “I spent a lot of time drawing as a child, and I guess I just found it so… therapeutic. I could pour my emotions into my creations, and somehow, that would help me understand them better.”
“You speak about the emotions of drawings as if you know the artist’s mind,” he observes thoughtfully.
Hearing Pyotr’s insightful observation sends an unexpected jolt of attraction through my chest. I wondered if he might have been judging me today, from his lingering looks and long silences. But it seems he was actually trying to understand me. While I was studying the art to unlock the artists’ hidden meaning, he was searching formymeaning.
“Do you not see the emotion in their work?” I ask, trying to stay focused on our conversation, not the giddy butterflies fluttering through my stomach.
His lips pull up into an amused smile. “I see it far better after having you as a private guide.”
That makes me laugh. “I’m sure you would learn far more from a proper guide… but thank you for today. I loved every minute of it.”
“I’m glad.” Pyotr pauses, growing pensive for a moment. Then his footsteps slow.
I turn to face him in silent question when he stops completely, but I don’t drop my hand from his arm. I love the warmth his proximity radiates through my fingers. Warm golden light from the streetlamp above us washes over his chiseled features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and straight nose.
“Silvia, I do want you to be happy here. With me,” he says, his tone sincere, his gray eyes almost silver in the glow of the dim lighting.
His conviction seems to come straight out of left field, and I’m struck speechless by his words.Who is this Pyotr? And how do I keep him?I’ve spent so many nights since the start of the school year wondering whether I’d imagined all the appealing qualities I’d seen in my betrothed the night we met.
But today definitely confirmed it wasn’t all my wishful thinking. And right now, I don’t know what to say. Because his words cut right to the core of my greatest fear. That I’ll be trapped in New York, alone and unhappy in my marriage.
Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I fight them. “After today, I really can see myself being happy here,” I murmur. “With you.” The last, I confess on a breath, afraid to say it and shatter this tender moment or jolt us back to where we were before.
I don’t get how he can seem so horrible one minute and so charming and thoughtful the next, but when he’s nice, I find I can almost forget all the mean things he’s done. And though he doesn’t say the words, his eyes seem to ask whether I can forgive him.
My breath catches as he lifts a hand to gently comb a lock of my hair behind my ear.
His eyes never leave mine.
“May I kiss you?” he says quietly, his deep voice rumbling across the space between us and making my heart flutter.
It’s the first time he’s ever asked to touch me. Despite my better judgment, I can feel my defenses weakening, my sharp edges softening.
“Yes,” I whisper, looking up into his impossibly deep, intense eyes.
The fingers that brushed my hair behind my ear travel a soft line along my jaw.
Pyotr hooks a curled finger lightly under my chin, tipping it upward.
