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“Normally, I would stay and care for him myself, so today, I let his caretaker know I wouldn’t be. I also made an adjustment to his exercise schedule. He’s a young horse, full of spirit. He needs someone to get on him more often.”
It touches my heart to hear how sensitive Pyotr is to his horse’s needs. It surprises me, though I don’t say as much. I’m sure that would only offend his sense of pride or honor. I’ll need to reassess my view of him. With this new, more attentive side of his becoming exposed, I find I’m underestimating my betrothed on a regular basis.
We enter through a side door of the house, walking across a stone patio that appears to be newly redone and up onto a small wooden deck that’s freshly painted. Pyotr opens the door for me, and a bustling energy greets me as soon as I step through it into the kitchen.
The open space has at least ten people accomplishing various chores. But as we enter the room, a silence falls over them. Each person offers a polite bow or curtsy as Pyotr takes my hand and guides me to the sink.
“Hungry?” he asks, indicating I should wash my hands first.
“Famished, actually.” I hadn’t realized that riding would make me work so hard.
Pyotr says something to an older gentleman near the fridge, and the man immediately gets to work as Pyotr turns toward the sink. In the blink of an eye, a stack of egg salad sandwiches is ready for us, waiting on the kitchen island.
We settle onto the high stools and dig in, sharing the quiet meal as the staff bustle around us once more.
“This seems like a large staff to care for four of us and some bodyguards over a weekend,” I observe, glancing around the kitchen.
Pyotr flashes a mysterious grin. “Don’t worry. Plenty more will be coming.”
Curiosity piqued, I’m burning to know what that means, but Pyotr skirts around an answer when I prod him for one. By the time we polish off the sandwiches, it’s clear I won’t be getting any details out of him. So I drop it.
Sliding his fingers between mine, Pyotr guides me through the massive house. First, we pass through a wide hallway with a rich mahogany floor. Double doors cap each end of the long distance. But Pyotr takes me back toward the front of the house and the impressive foyer.
Similar to my home, it has marble floors laid out in a decorative pattern that mimics a compass and elaborate furnishings that scream wealth.
But rather than a single staircase leading up to the upper floor, this one has a double staircase curving up to the second story, with a banister that wraps around high above, showcasing the countless second-story rooms. The wood is a striking combination of dark for the steps and hand railing with white risers, spindles, and molding on the walls.
“Shall we change out of our riding clothes, maybe rinse off, and I’ll find you in your room in an hour?” Pyotr suggests as we climb the stairs together, our fingers still interlocked.
“That sounds perfect.”
We stop when we reach the last door on the left, and I open it to enter my room.
“You want help with those boots?” he offers, standing in my doorway as I sit in the dressing chair to unlace them.
I smile sheepishly. “Honestly, that would be wonderful. I have no clue how to get out of them.” I’d been wondering that logistical question since the moment I slipped my feet into the snug footwear and realized the lack of zipper or elastic material would make it very hard to pull them back off.
He chuckles. “It’s an age-old conundrum they’ve built contraptions to try and solve. But I find a helping hand does the trick best.”
His eyes track swiftly around my room as he enters, as though he’s entering a new and forbidden territory, and it strikes me then that I’ve never had a boy in my room beyond my family. That’s all it takes for the atmosphere to charge with energy.
Pyotr kneels in front of me, his face close to mine as I bend over to finish loosening the laces. I sit back, unsure of what I’m supposed to do, but seeing him kneel before me does strange things to my stomach. Knots of nervous energy roil in my core.
It dawns on me that this is probably the closest we’ll ever be to him getting down on one knee–seeing as we were already engaged the night we met. But rather than pulling out a ring, Pyotr scoops one booted foot off the floor and slides my heel out of it with well-practiced ease.
Like Cinderella–but in complete reverse. The shoe already fits. We’re already getting married. Now it’s time to take the glass slipper off for the night.
He does the same for my left foot, setting the boots beside the chair when he’s done. His eyes meet mine as he braces on his knees, and one eyebrow cocks in question as his lips curve into a smile.
“What?” I ask, heat tracking up my neck and into my cheeks.
He chuckles. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
That’s when I realize I was staring at him, all but gaping with my jaw hanging open. I need to get my act together. Smiling shyly as my blush deepens. “It’s nothing. Thank you for helping me take those off.” He would think I’m a complete idiot if I told him what was really going on in my head.
“Of course.” Pyotr rises, catlike, to his feet and turns toward my door. “See you in an hour.”
My shower is quick and efficient, though it feels wonderful to wash the dirt I collected at the barn from my hair. For once, I blow my hair dry, rather than letting it dry on its own, and apply a thin trace of eyeliner along with my mascara.
