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That’s okay; I still enjoy the challenge. And even if I’m unimpressed by my final product, my professor doesn’t seem disappointed.
“I’m sure it turned out far better than you’re giving yourself credit for,” he says matter-of-factly.
His confidence in me brings a blush to my cheeks, and for a moment, the air crackles between us with fresh potential.
“Thank you,” I murmur, thrown off by the unexpected compliment.
Pyotr nods and turns his attention back to his wine glass. I do the same, sipping on the crisp, refreshing bite of fermented grapes.
Silence pervades as our food arrives, and I cut into my tuna au poivre as Pyotr cracks into his grilled king crab legs. Every bite is delicious, the seafood as fresh and flavorful as I could dream, but I bite back the groan of appreciation that eeks up my throat.
Pyotr’s stoic silence makes it impossible to feel comfortable, and my enthusiasm deflates.
We finish the meal by sharing a banana cream Napoleon, which looks as beautiful as it tastes, and relief floods me when Pyotr finally signs the check. After over an hour of forced proximity, I’m humming with tension and more than ready to be up and moving again.
“Would you like to walk along the river a bit before I take you home?” Pyotr suggests as he guides me toward the front door.
“Oh, um, sure. That sounds nice,” I agree, my pulse kicking up a notch for no apparent reason.
The wind has settled with the last dregs of sunlight vanishing from the sky, and our breath plumes before us as he leads me across Clark Street bridge to the south side of the river. It’s a beautiful night, the air crisp and cool against my exposed skin. But my padded jacket keeps me warm.
Pyotr shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his peacoat, and rather than take his elbow, I do the same. We walk in companionable silence along the concrete path lining the water’s edge. And every now and then, I steal glances at my betrothed from the corner of my eye.
He keeps his head down, a slight frown creasing his brow, and curiosity burns deep within me as I wonder what he must be thinking about. I just can’t make sense of him.
I’ve never met someone so capable of charm and yet so decidedly withdrawn.
He pauses as we reach the railing before the DuSable Bridge and looks out at the historic bridge with curiosity. His features are striking in this light, his eyes a pale silver like the moon. Shadows accentuate his strong jaw and the subtle dimple on his chin.
I can’t seem to tear my eyes from him, and the slight breeze steals my breath away as I’m momentarily captivated by his beauty. My heart aches to feel that closeness with him that I found in New York.
Emboldened by two glasses of wine and driven by my loneliness, I step closer to him, sliding between his strong chest and the riverwalk railing. His silver gaze drops to meet mine, his expression startled, but Pyotr doesn’t move away.
I’ll take that as a good sign, and though I risk rejection, I take advantage of the moment. Rising onto my toes, I steady myself on Pyotr’s muscular shoulders as I close the distance between us.
Our lips meet in an explosion of fireworks that shimmer through my body with tingling elation. Giddy excitement swells in my breast as Pyotr’s arms snake around my waist, pulling me close to his warm, firm body.
And he seems to give in, his tension softening as he bends around me, molding my body to his. An agonized groan vibrates from his chest, and his tongue strokes out between my lips in a passionate and assertive kiss.
I shiver with the intensity of my arousal that floods through my body in a warm wave. I submit to his embrace, relishing the way his strong hands splay across my back. My lungs burn for oxygen, and I gasp against his lips, refusing to break the kiss even in my need.
And that’s all it seems to take to bring him back to his senses. In an instant, the fire between us turns cold as Pyotr’s hands shift to my shoulders, and she shoves me roughly away. Anger flashes across his face as he holds me at arm’s length.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he growls, his tone accusing.
“I-I just… I thought…” I trail off as the sting of rejection brings hot tears to my eyes. I had hoped the tension between us might be more about the men who attacked me and thought if I showed that I was working through the trauma, we might be able to find our way back on track.
But the bitter loathing in Pyotr’s gray eyes tells me otherwise. “Don’t try that shit again,” he snaps, giving me a slight shake. “I’m only taking you on dates because that’s what’s expected of me as your betrothed. So stop acting like some love-sick puppy. You don’t love me. We’re stuck together–not in love. Got it? Quit looking for some stupid happily ever after.”
Fierce anger bursts to life inside me as I come face to face with the truth of it all. “That’s not what you told me the night we had sex,” I counter, my pain only feeding my fury. “Why are you so set against being with me?” I press, unable to stand not knowing any longer. If he wants to hate me, then fine. But I deserve to know why.
But Pyotr doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands drop from my arms, and he takes a step back. His fists clench as his jaw works furiously, making the tendons pop beneath his five-o’clock shadow.
“I thought we had a real connection in New York,” I insist, my voice dropping. “But now you’re acting like that never even happened. So, what is it? I deserve an explanation, at the very least. Was I a bad lay? Are you in love with someone else? Please, just tell me.”
War wages across Pyotr’s face, and for once, I can read him perfectly. The indecision, the conflict, it’s like he wants to tell me. His lips part as if to do just that. But then his jaw snaps closed once again. He shuts down entirely, his eyebrows pressing into a deep frown before his expression shifts into something completely unemotional.
“Date’s over. I’m taking you home,” he states flatly.
