I mean, he got down on his knees and went all Cinderella’s prince on me! And maybe it says something about me that I noticed, but he also tied themperfectly—they both have the same tension, which is tight enough so they stay on my feet, but loose enough not to cut off any more of my poor pinky toes’ circulation. Makes me wonder what else he knows how to tie up perfectly, since he’s clearly got some experience…
Heat flashes in my belly, gathering between my legs in a thoroughly distracting kind of way.
We walk along in silence, and I grasp for something to say to break it. Normally, I’m good at this kind of thing. I have plenty of practice. I may not like small talk—who does, really?—but you can’t succeed in a public-facing job without some skill in it. And it makes for a moreenjoyable first date, since the part where you’re unraveling the mysteries of a new person is usually the most fun.
I’m curiously tongue-tied now. A dozen questions make it almost all the way to my lips, but I can’t quite bring myself to ask them until I know my voice won’t break. My body is practically shaking with nervous energy at his light, guiding, almost possessive touch on my lower back. My heart is racing with how close we just were.
And then there’s the million-dollar question: how much do I really want to know?
My conversation with Emma echoes in my head again. RussianBratva. It can’t be just a coincidence that he’s got such a thick Russian accent. Is he one of them? He definitely looks and feels the part.
And what if he is? I desperately want to invite him back to my place, but… beyond the fact that our combined weight would probably pop my air mattress, I’m not even sure if I could really do it.
Could I sleep with a man in the mob? What are the implications, even if it is just one night?
I don’t want to get whacked for giving a bad blowjob.
But what if he’s not? I’ll have made all these assumptions, made up this totally far-fetched scenario in my head, and it will be mortifying. It’s much more likely he isn’t. And then I’ll have missed out on what is sure to be the wildest of rides.
Occam’s razor, right? Doctors love that saying. When you hear hoofbeats, don’t assume zebras. When you meet a Russian guy, don’t assume he’s in the mafia. Emma’s wild imagination just planted an idea in my head, and I need to let it go.
“How do you know Matt and Jenny?” I ask, nearly wincing at how it comes out all high-pitched and full of forced brightness.
“Business,” he replies curtly. “And you?”
Okay… not really helping dispel the mafia associations…
“Jenny’s a distant cousin.”
“Tell me, Nicole…”
I love the way he says my name, pronouncing it likeNee-cole, with a kind of softness in his accent. “Yes?”
“What would you say if I asked—Felix?”
We’ve arrived at the top of the stairs, and he straightens like someone poured ice water down the back of his jacket. He scowls, eyes fixed on something—or, more likely, someonenamed Felix—inside, and takes a half-step away from me.
I feel the loss of the warmth of his hand on my back immediately, and a chill shudders through me. “Lev?” I ask.
The glance he shoots me is one of confusion, then hesitation and apology. “I have to…” he doesn’t finish the statement as he starts moving. Then, as if remembering he was in the middle of talking to me, he turns back. “Excuse me. I have just seen someone I must speak with. I will find you later, Nicole.”
Then he’s just… gone. It’s amazing how such a large man can move so quickly and quietly.
Disappointment swells, hot and sharp. Over before it began, and here I am, left holding up all those hopes.
Should I wait for him to find me? The pessimist inside of me assumes he won’t, and that I’ll be stuck waiting here like a silly, hopeful fool for hours. The optimist wants to give him a chance—so,sobadly.
What was he going to ask me to tell him? I think I owe it to myself to find out.
Maybe I can ask Jenny or Matt for more information about him. Or is that a stalker-y thing to do? The guest list is so big; I wonder if Matt’s even the one who invited him, or if he’s a friend of the family.
Damn, I hope he’s not someone else’s date.
“Oh, Nicole! I’m so glad I found you!”
I can tell it’s my great-aunt Margaret from the scent of the powdery perfume that envelops me as her soft, round arms come around me fromthe side. I try not to stiffen, but being touched unexpectedly isn’t my thing. “Hi Aunt Margaret, good to see you.”
“You too, dear!” she cries over the music. The beads on her dress clack together as she moves, sparkling in the light, and the silver tone matches her steel gray curls. “Where is that mother of yours?”
