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The little pitbulls race toward me and they each grab a hand. They drag me into the kitchen with Josh trailing behind us, fighting a smile the entire time.
“Come sit next to me, Ruslan,” Caroline orders, pointing to a chair at the round table crammed in between the fridge and the stove.
“No! Sit next to me!” Reagan wheedles as she quite literally hangs off my arm.
Emma rolls her eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Girls, can wepleasebe on our best behavior tonight?”
Both of them stop short and look at her as though she’s deeply offended them. “But we’re being so good!” Reagan insists.
Caroline nods effusively. “Superdupergood.”
I nod, backing up the little hooligans. “I agree. They’re angelic.”
Reagan juts her chin out and braces her hands on her hips, the very picture of sass. I get the feeling this is a pose she strikes a lot. “See?”
Emma holds her hands up. “Alright, I can see I’m outnumbered. Ruslan can sit over here and you can both sit on either side of him. How’s that?”
By the time we’re all seated, it feels like we’ve achieved some semblance of peace. I can’t seem to stop smiling. Between Emma’s maternal clucking and the girls’ constant chatter and Josh’s stoic patience, this dinner is, as advertised, most definitelynotwhat I’m used to.
So then why do I keep imagining myself amidst the pandemonium on a more frequent basis? Not as an outsider, like I am right now, but a member of this chaotic little tribe?
I need to get a fucking grip.
Talking about my mother, thinking about being a part of this family, wondering whether Emma’s going to walk into my office tomorrow and sit on my lap like she did today…
I mean, what the fuck is next? I’m gonna decide that knocking Emma up is the right move for her future and mine?
And just like that, I’m imagining a highchair wedged between Josh and Emma. A chubby little baby with her warm eyes and my dark hair.
What.
The.
Fuck.
Before I can decide whether to cut and run or grit my teeth and sit through this dinner, the door in the living room bursts open.
Emma freezes. Josh flinches. The girls jump in their seats.
“What the hell is going on?” The man who appears in the threshold of the kitchen looks at me with bloodshot eyes and a fuck-ton of suspicion. “Who the fuck areyou?”
37
RUSLAN
Emma jerks to her feet, the color draining from her face. “Ben, this is my boss, Ruslan Oryolov.”
I can smell his breath from here. He stinks of cheap booze and cigarette smoke. The moment Emma introduces me, his eyes bulge a little wider. The veins running through the whites of his eyeballs shine a sickly red.
“TheRuslan Oryolov?”
I don’t like the way he says that. I can practically see his irises turning into two massive dollar signs.
Emma’s gaze keeps flicking from the drunkard to me. “Ben, we’re in the middle of dinner.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” he growls. “I’m not invited to dinner in my own fuckin’ apartment?”
It’s the first time all night the girls have been silent. The bottom half of Reagan’s face has disappeared behind the table. All I can see are those big eyes glancing around fearfully. Caroline has moved a little closer to me and she’s abandoned her plate of pasta to chew on her nails. Josh is the only one who’s sitting up straighter since their so-called father entered the room. But I don’t miss how his fists tighten around his fork and knife.
