“Um, duh,” Noah said. “Anyone who can read sees that. The question is why you’re not letting him tell her.”
“You do not understand.”
“Obviously, because the way we see it, things are pretty simple,” Mack said. “Tony loves her. Anna obviously loves him—”
Vlad stiffened. “That is not obvious. She pulls away time and again. She gives him little tiny crumbs, just enough to make him want her, to make him have hope, and then she runs away every time. She is going to leave the minute she gets a clue about where Jack might be, and Tony knows that.”
“But she’s with Tony now,” Noah said calmly.
“Only because it’s her job.” He scowled.
“Bullshit,” Mack said. “He was a complete and utter asshole to her at first. She could have packed her things and hightailed it out of there. She even had plenty of reasons to do so. But she chose to stay with Tony. He just won’t see it.”
“No. That is not true.”
“She’s asking him to give her a reason to stay with him,” Noah said.
Vlad frowned. “Which is not the same thing as telling him she cares for him.”
“But it’s a goddamned start,” Mack said. “Why are you being so obtuse?”
“Because he can’t believe she could really want him!”
The silence that followed his outburst was humble and solemn. Probably because this time, the admission was like ripping open his chest and letting his heart fall right out onto the table while he bled out in a slow, agonizing death.
“Jesus, man,” Mack breathed. “Why would Tony think that?”
“He has his reasons.”
“Does Anna know the reasons?”
He shook his head. No. Anna didn’t know, because Tony couldn’t stand to think about what would happen if his reasons simply pushed her further away.
“You know, all that baggage that characters carry from their backstory,” Mack said. “Eventually, that fear becomes less of a motivation and more of a stubborn hindrance. Characters have to change during a book to earn their happy ever after.”
“I know that,” Vlad grumbled. He paused again when the waitress showed up with their breakfasts. Vlad scowled at his egg-white omelet.
“But Tony isn’t changing,” Malcolm said when the waitress walked away. “He’s clinging to his page-one fear. You have to give him some kind of midpoint plot twist to open up a new path.”
“And then he has to take it,” Mack said.
“He cannot risk it yet.”
“Risk what?” Malcolm asked. “His heart?”
Vlad nodded, poking his eggs with his fork.
“Jesus, dude, have you learned nothing from the manuals?” Mack snorted. “A man’s heart is the only thing truly worth risking.”
“But also the most dangerous,” Vlad fired back.
“Look,” Mack said. “You have two choices. Tony needs to tell her how he feels, or he needs to accept that she’s going to slip through his fingers, and you will have written the shittiest romance novel ever.”
Vlad stuck out his bottom lip. What he thought earlier, that he’d welcome their help, he was wrong about that. This sucked.
Malcolm steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Midpoints are a chance for characters to start rewriting their own stories. Let Tony start to rewrite his.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Elena returned home—correction, returned to Vlad’s house—just before noon with more party supplies. It was probably cowardly to ask Colton to take Vlad to his appointment, but she needed some space to think.
Last night, she’d finally gotten a response to her text asking for a favor. Call me when you can.
She had convinced herself to wait until tomorrow to call him back, but when she returned home—correction, returned to Vlad’s house—and realized he was still gone, she knew there was no reason to put it off any longer.
Neighbor Cat was waiting at the door when she walked in, so Elena let her in. The cat followed her upstairs and into her bedroom. Elena shut the door to her room and, hands shaking, dialed the number for a man she hadn’t spoken to in years. It was nearly eleven o’clock in Moscow, and she knew he’d still be awake. Journalists like him always were.
The phone rang in her ear twice before an impatient voice answered in Russian. “Elena?”
Relief at the sound of his voice was as potent as a stiff cocktail. She sank to the bed. “It’s me. I’m sorry to call so late, but with the time difference—”
“I was so happy to get your text. God, it is good to hear your voice.”
“You too.”
“How is America?”
Elena let Neighbor Cat crawl into her lap. “Good. Good. I mean, for now.”
“For now? What does that mean?”
She should’ve known Yevgeny would pick up on that. He was a journalist. He missed nothing. “You said to call you if I ever needed anything.”
“Yes, of course. And I meant it.”
“I hope so. Because . . .” She sucked in a fortifying breath. “Because I need a job.”
Her words were met with nothing but the sound of a newsroom in action somewhere in the distance. Editors shouted. Televisions blared. Reporters joked and cursed. He was still at work. Because of course he was.
“Yevgeny—”
He interrupted her again. “So it’s true, then. There were rumors, but I refused to believe them.”
The sweat on her brow chilled as icy fear wormed through her veins. “Rumors? What rumors?”
“That you wanted to come back.”
The fear turned her voice to a rasp. “Where did you hear that?’
“This is Russia, Elena. Very little is secret. And you think I haven’t kept tabs on my own goddaughter?”
She should have been warmed by the reminder of their lifelong connection, but she was instead plunged deeper into a cold bath of determination. “Then as your goddaughter, I am asking for a favor. I want to be a journalist like my father. I’m ready.”
The creak of a desk chair told her he’d either stood up or leaned back. Either way, she could picture him. He’d look just like her father used to. Sleeves rolled up over his forearms. Tie loosened or tossed aside altogether and the top button undone on his standard button-down shirt. All journalists around the world wore the same bland uniform.
“Elena,” he said, voice tight as if he were reining in the worst of his thoughts. “I’m sure your father would be very proud that you want to follow in his footsteps.”
“He wouldn’t be,” she snapped. “We both know it. He told me a thousand times that the last thing he wanted was for me to be a journalist.”
“So why are we even having this conversation?”
“Because I have to do this. It’s in my blood.” And because I owe it to him.
“There’s a reason he didn’t want this life for you. Even before he—before what happened . . . he knew this was no life for you. It’s dangerous. You know that better than anyone. You’ve spent nearly six years in America. It might be a hard adjustment to come back here after living and studying in a place that has freedom of the press enshrined in its DNA.”
She stiffened. “It’s not perfect here either. The press is vilified on a daily basis. People walk around with T-shirts threatening to hang reporters. Journalists get spit on at political rallies. They are called fake news and enemies of the people.”
“But do they mysteriously disappear from train stations there?”
His words packed a punch, one that knocked the air from her lungs.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should not have said that.”
“I’m not naive, Zhenya,” she said, using his nickname. “I know the dangers better than anyone. I’m not afraid.”
Yevgeny paused again, and this time she could hear the silen
t pity all the way across the time zones. “What about Vlad?”
“We’re getting a divorce.”
He cursed under his breath, and again, she could picture him. He’d be just like her father. Rubbing a hand over his hair and staring at the ceiling as if praying for patience and wisdom but coming up short. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he finally said. “Truly.”
“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. Just give me a chance. Treat me like any other entry-level reporter. Give me the shittiest assignments. Teach me. Please.”
“I need to think about this.”
“I’ll interview with anyone you need me to talk to. I don’t expect you to just hand me a job.”
“Before I do anything, I need to ask you something, and I expect the truth.”
“O-okay.”
“Why are you really coming back?”
She gulped. “What do you mean?”
“You could be a journalist in America.”
“No. My visa does not allow me to work here.”
“There are always ways around that. If you apply at a U.S. newspaper and get hired, they can arrange for you to get the necessary classification. Foreign journalists are hired by U.S. newspapers and broadcast networks all the time.”
“Yes, but—”
“Are you coming back here to try to find out what happened to your father?”
“No. Of course not,” she lied.
“Because if you are—”
“I’m not.”
“Because if you are,” he repeated, “I will not hire you. Do you understand? If I hire you, and I find out that you’re digging into what happened to your father, I’ll have no choice but to let you go.”
Her heart thudded against her rib cage so hard that she was certain he could hear it. “I understand. Of course.”
“Good. Then I will get back to you in a few days.”
Elena couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. “Thank you, Yevgeny.”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t.”
Elena dropped the phone on her bed and fell onto her back. The entire conversation had lasted less than fifteen minutes, but a lifetime had passed since the minute she’d dialed his number. Until now, it had been an abstract concept, but now it seemed real.
Soon she would go back to Russia, and Vlad would finally be free to move on.
The thought should have made her happy. Instead, she wanted to curl onto her side and bury her face into a pillow and sob like she did all those years ago. Back then, it was because she knew coming here was a mistake. Now, it was because the thought of leaving felt like one.
Elena pressed her hands into her temples and rubbed at the beginning throbs of a headache. Neighbor Cat purred and curled up into a ball next to Elena’s hip. The idea of joining her in a long nap was almost too tempting to ignore, but the hum of a car in the driveway brought her upright with a sigh.
She listened as the car doors opened and closed, followed a few seconds later by the front door. That should have been followed by Colton’s sarcastic tenor asking for food, but the door opened and closed again. For once, Colton hadn’t stuck around. Which meant the buffer she’d become dependent on was not going to be there when she walked downstairs.
Elena forced herself to get out of bed. Neighbor Cat meowed in protest but followed. She stopped at the top of the stairs to find Vlad standing at the bottom. “Hi.”
He looked up at her. “I was just coming upstairs to find you.”
Neighbor Cat made a dash down the stairs toward her boyfriend. Elena suppressed her jealousy. “How was your appointment?”
“Good. I can start putting weight on my leg twice a day.”
“That’s great.”
“I can also start bathing myself again.” He said that part with a half smile. It lifted his bearded cheek into a round ball.
Elena descended the stairs. “I’m sure your friends will appreciate that part.”
Vlad inched backward to make room for her when she hit the bottom step. “Where did you go this morning?” he asked.
“I had some errands to run.”
“For the party?”
“Yes.” She shoved her hands in her back pockets. “Are you hungry?”
“No. I met the guys for a late breakfast.”
“Okay. Well, I need to get started on some of the food for tomorrow, so . . .” She waited for him to move back so she could pass, but he didn’t. Neighbor Cat wound in and out of their legs. “I think your girlfriend missed you.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“The cat.”
“Oh.” He looked down. “Yes.”
“You should sit. I’ll bring you some ice.”
“I’m tired of sitting. I need to do something.”
“Then keep me company in the kitchen while I make the vareniki.”
He lifted one sexy eyebrow. “You making them with mushrooms, onions, and potatoes?”
She scooted away from him. “Like I’d make them any other way.”
“Let me help,” he said, following her into the kitchen. “I don’t have to just sit here.”
“Careful what you wish for, or I’ll make you peel the potatoes.”
“If that’s what you need, I’ll do it.”
She pointed to a chair by the island. “Sit and get that leg up.”
While he got settled, she pulled out all the ingredients for the vareniki. They were every bit as time intensive as pelmeni dumplings, but the recipes were slightly different. Like everything else, Vlad’s mom had taught her how to make them, but they were often a family affair. Vlad and his parents—and often, Elena—would circle the table and work together to shape and fill the dumplings. Those hours were some of her favorite memories, full of laughter and teasing and affection. But they were also tinged with a bitter aftertaste, because it was during those hours around the family table that Elena began to realize how different her own family was. Her father’s job never allowed him to be home in time for dinner at a normal hour. There were no traditions, no recipes to pass down.
Elena slid the bag of potatoes and a paring knife across the island to Vlad and then handed him a large bowl for the finished potatoes. “How many should I peel?” he asked.
“The whole bag, if you can. I want to make a lot.”
Elena stood on the other side of the island and began to dice the mushrooms and onions. Occasionally, she glanced up to watch him work but had to look away each time. His fingers—long and thick—appeared graceful as they swept the knife back and forth across each potato. It was all too easy to imagine his fingers sweeping across her, and that was a train of thought that would end with her cutting herself.
They worked in silence for a while, each concentrating on their own tasks and lost in their own thoughts. When they were done, he leaned back. “Now what?”
“Want to roll out the dough while I cook?”
“Anything but that.” He groaned when he said it, but then he grinned again and, holy God, he winked at her. Elena forgot her own name for a moment. When she opened the fridge to pull out the dough she’d prepared last night, she was tempted to lean her head all the way in to cool herself down.
“I might need a quick tutorial on this part,” Vlad said, watching her as she carried the dough to where he sat.
“You don’t remember how?”
“Only vaguely. Mama usually did this part.”
Elena grabbed the gluten-free flour, the rolling pin, and a wooden cutting board. After dusting the board with flour, she put the ball of dough in the center. “Start with small strokes,” she said, leaning across him to show him how. “Just keep doing it until the dough starts to flatten out.” She stood back and looked at him. “Got it?”
He chuckled, and their faces were so close that
she felt his breath on her face. “What’s so funny?” she asked, voice stretched tight.
“You have . . .” He lifted his hand to her face, and one of those long, graceful fingers brushed her cheekbone. “Flour. You have flour on your face.”
“Oh.” She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
His smile grew. “You just made it worse.”
Flustered—not by the flour, but by him—she backed away. “Okay, I’m going to get started on the filling.”
They worked for several hours, shaping, filling, and boiling the dumplings. Long stretches of conversation were bookmarked by content silence. When they were finally done, Elena stretched her arms over her head and winced at the catch in her neck.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Just stiff.” She rolled her head back and forth against tight muscles.
“Go sit on the floor in the living room.”
Elena blinked and slowly lowered her arms. “What? Why?”
“Just do it,” he chided gently. “I’ll be right there.”
Elena washed her hands and dried them as Vlad disappeared into the downstairs bathroom. Then she did what he told her to. She went into the living room and lowered herself to the floor in front of the couch. Vlad joined her a moment later and wedged behind her.
“What are we doing?” she asked.
“You are going to sit there. I am going to rub your neck.”
“You are?” Her voice came out as flittery as butterfly wings. Excitable and frantic.
“Let me take care of you for a change.”
Behind her, he widened his thighs to create a cocoon around her. “Scoot back,” he said gruffly.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she did so.
“Where does it hurt?” His voice was a warm, soothing baritone.
Elena pressed her fingers into the spot on her neck where the cords and tendons were stretched tight. Moments later, his fingers brushed hers aside and began a magical slide across her skin. Elena melted. Instant goo. A low moan escaped from her throat as he spread his fingers wide and wove them up into her hair. Slowly, he massaged her scalp in wider and wider circles, her hair tangling around his fingers. When he slid them down again, he brushed over the source of her pain—a knot in her neck. He paused. “Is that where it hurts?”
Isn't It Bromantic? Page 16
