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I examine myself. I feel light, but not because of alcohol. At least, I don’t think so.
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
He waves at Marusja. “Two shots. And a cup of honey for the parilka.”
As we wait, he pours us both tea and squeezes a whole lemon into his cup.
Hey, if he wants Lemon juices, there are other ways.
“What do you think of the tea?” he asks.
I taste it. “Fruity. Are there berries in this? And chamomile?”
He sips his. “Yep. A nice mix.”
Marusja returns with two more vodka shots and a honey jar identical to the one I saw the guy in the steam room use. She puts the shots on the table and reverently hands the honey to Art. I don’t need to be psychic to know she’s picturing smearing the honey all over him.
“Can you take another picture of us?” Art asks her.
She takes the phone, and we grab the shots.
“Za zdorovye,” Art says again.
“Ditto.” I gulp down my vodka, and it goes down my throat very smoothly—the way I hope Mr. Big will at some point.
Wait. No, Rule Number One. Mr. Big needs to stay firmly in Art’s pants.
We make Marusja take a few more pictures, and when she starts to look particularly cranky, Art thanks her and leads me to the next parilka.
“This one is a little wetter,” he says as we walk down the hall.
I look around for the female he’s talking about, but he’s gesturing at the steam room door we’ve stopped in front of.
“Is it as hot?” I ask warily.
“No. Plus, it’s easy to cool off in this one.”
“All right, let’s go.” I take a brave step forward.
He opens the door for me.
Wet heat, here we go again.
