“I’d be glad to. Is it legal?”
I frowned. “Not really. You’d have to pay him in cash. Keep it all under the table.”
“Okay.” Ellen didn’t sound bothered in the least. “I’m not working tonight, but I can bring him in tomorrow.”
“Great.” Some of the tension eased from my upper back. “He says he’s got some experience.”
“Sounds good. Where is he now?”
“He’s back at the house doing some yard work for me.”
“You put him to work already?” She snorted. “That’s so you.”
“Ha ha. He offered, thank you very much. He said he had experience with gardening too, although he could be back there butchering my rose bushes for all I know.”
“He’s a real jack-of-all-trades, huh?”
“Apparently.”
“Too bad he’s so unattractive.”
His handsome face popped into my mind, and I forced it out. “Unattractive?”
“It was a joke, Derek! I was kidding. For God’s sake, the guy looks like a Calvin Klein underwear billboard come to life.”
“I guess.” Don’t think about him in his underwear. Don’t think about him in his underwear. Don’t think about him in his underwear.
“You guess? I’m sorry, but you’d have to be dead not to find him attractive. And not even recently dead. Like a hundred years dead.” She sighed. “Too bad he’s gay.”
I froze, my entire body on edge. “What?”
“He’s gay. One of my servers overheard him telling some girl at the bar that last night.” She laughed. “From the sound of it, she was pretty disappointed. Poor girl.”
“Oh my God.” The store was spinning.
“What difference does it make? Are you going to be all Dad about this?”
“No! It makes no difference at all. I just didn’t realize.” My voice sounded strange to me.
“Good. You scared me for a second. I can only take one narrow-minded relative. Anyway, I better go. I still have a shit ton of inventory to do.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, what are you guys doing tonight? I’m off. Want to see a movie or something?”
“Uh, no. I mean, I can’t. Maybe Maxim would like to.” His name felt different on my lips.
“Why can’t you?”
“I’m having friends over for dinner.”
“Whatcha making?”
“Roasted chicken and vegetables.” Which I was supposed to be shopping for, so I could get the fuck home and make it, but I was still anchored to my spot by the potatoes.
“Yum! Got room for one more?”
“Sure,” I said absentmindedly.
“Great! What time should I come over?”
“Uh, seven is good.”
“Perfect. Gives me time to go home and clean up. Who else is coming?”
I forced myself to start walking again, focus on the task at hand. Chicken. I need a chicken. “Um, Gage and Lanie. Carolyn.”
“Ooh, is that the girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just—someone I’m seeing.”
“Well, whatever. You’ve mentioned her, and I’ve been hoping to meet her. I’ll see you tonight!”
“Okay. Bye.” I ended the call and brought up my grocery list so I could finish shopping, but I found myself having to look at it again and again, my mind was so preoccupied with what Ellen had told me.
Maxim was gay?
If I’d made any peace at all with his presence in my house for the next two weeks, it was all undone by that news.
Was it true? Did it even matter?
Hell yes it did. My attraction to him suddenly felt a thousand times more dangerous, now that I knew it was possible it could be reciprocated.
And was it? Was Maxim attracted to me? I replayed last night and today in my head, looking for a telltale sign—a word, a touch, a look—something that would give him away, but I came up with nothing. Maybe it was because he felt nothing. Maybe it was because he was Russian and had that detached face mastered. Or maybe it was because I’d been so obsessed with my own feelings, constantly focused inward on what he did to me, that I could find no evidence I’d captured his attention like he’d captured mine.
For a split second, I was disappointed.
What the hell, asshole? That’s a good thing. The last thing you need is for him to be interested in you. You don’t want it. You can’t want it. It’s wrong. Nothing is going to happen.
I took a few deep breaths and repeated the words in my head.
Nothing is going to happen.
Twelve
MAXIM
I saw him.
Through the glass, I saw him.
I’d been looking at the roses, seeing what needed to be done, and I realized I’d need gloves to even get started. As I walked toward the house, I saw Derek through the large glass door off the patio and decided to knock on it. Then I got closer and saw him holding the sweatshirt I’d worn. His face was buried in it.
At first I thought it was a trick of the light on the glass, my mind bending a reflection into a fantasy. But I blinked several times, and he was still there.
My pulse quickened. Why would a man smell another man’s shirt that way, unless he was trying to smell the man? My stomach flipped over.
But rather than stand there and risk being caught, I decided to look away as I knocked. Make him think I hadn’t seen anything. The alternative would’ve been way too awkward for both of us.
Luckily, I was a good actor. I asked him about the gloves without a tremor in my voice and kept my face expressionless. In contrast, his cheeks were deep red, and he refused to make eye contact. It was the most flustered I’d ever seen him. He came outside and hurried into the garage without even glancing my way.
But by the time he found the gloves and handed them over, he’d appeared composed again, his usual self. He told me what he wanted done in the yard overall, what the priorities were today, and where all the tools were. I listened and asked questions and assured him I could handle everything he wanted done, but in my head all I could see was his face buried in that shirt.
I obsessed over it all afternoon, adding up all the significant details—the lack of a girlfriend or wife. The odd moment in the kitchen, where I’d had the crazy thought he might kiss me. The way he’d looked at me last night in my bedroom.
Maybe I wasn’t crazy.
Was it possible I had felt some chemistry between us? Was it possible the attraction was mutual? Was it possible he’d smelled that shirt for the same reason I’d asked to borrow his clothes in the first place—to experience the illusion of intimacy without actual physical touch?
This morning, I’d have said it wasn’t.
Now I was starting to wonder.
When Derek returned from the store, he took bags of groceries straight into the house with barely a glance in my direction. He spent the entire afternoon cooking and preparing for dinner without saying anything to me, although at one point he came out and set a plate with a sandwich and some chips on it on the patio table—a long wooden table with two benches on either side. Next to it, he set a tall glass of ice water. “Lunch,” he called to me before going right back inside.
Grateful, I took a short break to eat and cool off, and when I was done, I left the plate and glass on the table, figuring I’d bring it inside when I was done. But a little later, I looked over and discovered he’d taken them in already.
At that point, I was ready to conclude I’d been totally off about him before. He wasn’t acting like someone who was into me at all. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I might have thought he was irritated with me for some reason.
Eventually, he did come outside to talk to me. I was in the middle of mowing the lawn, and he wandered over, hands in his pockets. It had been a warm afternoon, so I’d taken off my T-shirt earlier, and even though he wore sunglasses I could see the way he stared at my upper body. The sun was hot on my back, but his eyes on my chest w
ere hotter.
“You need sunscreen,” he told me.
I turned off the mower. “Maybe. But the sun feels so good on my skin.”
His gaze stayed on me another few seconds before scanning the yard. “You did a lot of work out here today. And actually, I think you did a better job than my landscapers.”
“Thanks. I haven’t gotten to the rosebushes yet.”
“Don’t worry about it. It can wait until tomorrow.”
“I’ll get it done by tonight.”
“Well, dinner is at about seven-thirty tonight, and it’s about six right now. I wasn’t sure how much time you needed to clean up, or if you wanted to wash some clothes, or borrow something.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need to come to your dinner party. I can stay upstairs once your guests arrive.”
“Actually, you’ll be doing me a favor if you come.”
“A favor?”
“Yeah.” His expression was a little embarrassed, and his eyes dropped to his shoes. “Originally it was just going to be my friend and his wife and this woman I’ve been seeing, Carolyn.”
He’s seeing a woman. Disappointment punched me in the gut.
“But while I was talking to my sister earlier, she asked if she could come and I said yes without thinking. That would make five people,” he said, as if that explained the problem.
I was a little confused. “Five people?”
“I have a thing about an odd number of people at the dinner table.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “I know it sounds weird, but I can’t stand it. I like an even number. That doesn’t mean I’m superstitious,” he said defensively, probably because I’d started to grin. “It just means that visually, I like all the seats filled. It’s a personal preference.”
“Of course.”
“I have plenty of food, and I know Ellen would love to see you, so it would be great if you’d join us.” He finally looked me in the eye, and said the words I wanted to hear. “I’d like you to join us.”
I felt it again—that pull between us.
“Then I will.” Truthfully, I’d have said yes even if he hadn’t told me he wanted me there, because I liked the idea of doing him a favor. “You said seven thirty?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll finish quickly.” I looked down at my muddy jeans and chest, which was smudged with dirt and shiny with sweat. “Then I’ll clean up and maybe do some laundry.”
Derek didn’t seem to know where to look—he went from my torso to my eyes to the house in the space of five seconds. “I’ll put a few more things on your bed that I think might fit, and we can throw your stuff in the wash.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
He went back inside, and I finished up the lawn, cleaned up, and put the tools I’d used back exactly where I’d found them. I knew how Derek was about staying organized.
When I was done, I scooped up my sweaty T-shirt from the driveway and went up to the guest bedroom. Derek had placed a pair of jeans and two shirts on my bed, along with more new socks and underwear. I shook my head in disbelief. How much new stuff could one man possibly have on hand, the tags still attached?
I undressed, shoving all the dirty things in the bag I’d used earlier. I took a quick shower, scrubbing off the sweat and dirt of the day, and tried very hard not to imagine hands other than mine running over my skin. He’s dating a woman, remember? Not into guys, not into you, not into anything you’re thinking. So get him out of your head.
Derek had left a new towel folded on the sink, and it was slightly warm, like maybe it had just come out of the dryer. He’d also left a little travel kit packed with basics like a razor, deodorant, a comb, and a couple different hair products. He’s being so good to me. But was it only his belief in helping people out? Did he feel obligated to be this kind, or was there something more to it?
After messing with my hair a little, I hung up my towel and went into the bedroom, where I dressed in Derek’s clothes again. I was glad they belonged to him and weren’t new—it meant he’d worn them before. In fact, before I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the shirt, I found myself smelling the neck of it, looking for any trace of the man, feeling cheated when I didn’t find it. When I was dressed, I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
It pleased me that his clothing fit almost perfectly. No, it was more than that—it turned me on. I felt like we were sharing something (which we weren’t). I felt a physical closeness between us (which didn’t exist). I felt my body respond when I imagined him taking them off me, replacing them with the heat of his skin (which would never happen).
Enough.
I closed my eyes, willing the blood to stop rushing, the desire to stop building, the hum beneath my skin to go away. The insane thing was, my attraction had seemed to grow stronger since hearing that he was dating a woman. What was that about?
It’s about wanting what you can’t have, asshole. Now quit being stupid about him. He’s just a really nice guy. He’s not interested in you and never will be. Get over it.
Nothing is going to happen.
Thirteen
DEREK
I’d invited Maxim to dinner for a reason.
Beyond the fact that I couldn’t stand empty chairs at the table when I had guests, I’d hoped to prove some things to myself: That whatever confusion Maxim stirred up in me was simply displaced desire to be with someone like Carolyn, who was so perfect my subconscious probably felt she was too good for me. That seeing them together would make it abundantly clear that my attraction to Maxim wasn’t real, it was just a desperate attempt to make a connection with someone because I’d been feeling a little lonely. That God wasn’t punishing me for my sins—He was testing me.
It was my job to prove I was stronger than temptation, no matter how powerful it was. I could rise above it. I could win.
It was not going well.
“So, Maxim, did I hear earlier you’d like to be a screenwriter?” Carolyn asked.
She was seated to my right, looking beautiful in a silky red blouse that bared her shoulders and second-skin jeans with high heels. When she’d arrived, I’d greeted her with a big kiss on the lips. It had felt weird and forced, and I’d only done it because Maxim had been standing nearby. He’d looked away, and I’d been angry.
Look at me. This is who I am.
But it wasn’t. I couldn’t have cared less about her ass in her tight jeans, but I couldn’t get enough of Maxim’s in mine. I was angry about that, too.
“That’s the goal,” Maxim said, “but I need to do some studying first.” I’d seated him at the far end of the table because it was the farthest chair away from me, but of course that put us directly opposite each other, and all I’d done was stare at him all night. Even dimming the lights hadn’t helped, because that asshole looked even better by candlelight.
“Oooh, you could write Russian spy movies.” Ellen poured more wine in her glass and giggled. “Whenever I think of Russia, I think of spies. Is that terrible of me? Wait, you’re not a spy, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” He flashed her a mischievous grin I wish he’d given to me. “Not that I would tell you if I was.”
Ellen gasped playfully, then she snapped her fingers. “Damn. I thought maybe I could brag about sitting next to the KGB at dinner.”
“Does the KGB still exist?” asked Gage. He’d been my best friend since seventh grade, and I’d been the best man at his wedding to Lanie eight years ago. Now they had three kids under age six and rarely got out much socially, but he and I tried to have a beer a few times a month to keep up. “I’m kind of embarrassed I don’t know.”
“It’s sort of sad that all we know about Russians, or all they know about us, are stereotypes from movies,” said Lanie. “Why is that?”
“Because it’s fucking far?” said Gage, reaching for his drink.
“It is far,” said Maxim with a smile, “but I think our cultural differences can make it hard to understand e
ach other, even when people are in the same place. I was telling Derek earlier that Russians have a reputation for being cold, but we’re not. Not really. We just express ourselves in a more modest way. And even when we’re curious about someone or something, we don’t ask personal questions because we don’t want to be rude.”
“And in America, that would seem like indifference,” said Ellen. “Maybe even rudeness, like you didn’t care enough to ask or smile at someone.”
“Yes.” Maxim nodded. “I think it’s just a part of an eastern culture where people are more submerged in their own world than tuned in to what happens around them. If you take a subway somewhere in Moscow, for example, you won’t see too many smiling people. Everybody is thinking their own thoughts, and their faces don’t react to you. But if you get to meet them, you’ll find they’re actually very nice. In fact, if you go to a Russian house for dinner or something, you’d be surprised to find how welcoming and generous the hosts are.”
“I have to admit, I always picture Russia as being cold but exotic. Women in fur coats, dripping with diamonds and eating caviar.” Carolyn giggled. “But that’s probably from the movies too.”
“There are wealthy people in Russia, but it’s also very common for those who had a poor childhood to really like nice things, luxury things.” Maxim shrugged. “Lots of people never had new clothes or toys. Sometimes food was scarce. When you grow up this way, you don’t want to feel like that again. It’s my story, too.”
“I get that,” Lanie said.
He had a poor childhood, I thought, hungry for any personal details about him. I wondered how poor. Did he grow up impoverished? Hungry? Lacking for anything?
“We also like to impress,” he went on, a glint in his eye. “This is why some Russians drive luxurious cars while living in a tiny apartment, or wear designer brands or go to expensive restaurants—because they didn’t have a taste of it before and they want to show it’s different now.”
“Speaking of taste, my old roommate dated a Russian girl,” said Gage. “She used to bring us all these amazing leftovers from her family functions. And she’d come over and make these potato pancakes…” He closed his eyes and moaned. “So good.”
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