But now, after two weeks, I’m sitting here on the sofas in the lobby with my laptop yet again. I have on my sparkling clean clothes—that look exactly the same as they did dirty, I might add—and I’m wondering why I bothered. My father would tell me that I should bring my clean clothes and my bad attitude over to the office and start taking my rightful place as the heir apparent. I wish he’d give Dmitri half as much trouble as he does me, but Dmitri is allowed to pursue his art to his heart’s content with no pressure to join the company. I, on the other hand, as the oldest, have the weight of a thousand Russian expectations on my shoulders.
Somehow Dad convinced himself that once I’d followed the dream of professional hockey I’d be ready for the family business. I’m not, and I won’t ever be. I hate Petrovich Vodka, I hate that it took both my parents—in different ways—from me my whole life, I hate the corporate bullshit, and I hate the thought of sitting at a desk for the next forty years trying to convince people to pickle their livers with my product instead of someone else’s, as if I should be making a profit off of people’s innate weaknesses. Living most of your life without a mother because she died driving drunk tends to do that to you.
I don’t remember much about her, but I know she was an alcoholic, I know that as the wife of the CEO of Petrovich Vodka there was no way to deal with her issue diplomatically or confidentially. She was surrounded by free alcohol and people who couldn’t find a way to admit that alcohol wasn’t good for her.
The board warned against a rehab facility and the bad P.R. it could bring, so my father let her problems fester. His fucking company kept him from doing what needed to be done to save her. Mom stayed home and drank, Dad kept a posse of domestic servants and nannies around to ensure my brother and I were safe and cared for, and everyone pretended that she wasn’t three sheets to the wind twenty hours out of every twenty-four. It worked—until it didn’t.
So, as far as me joining the family business, the old man and I are at an impasse. It’s been a long time coming, but that doesn’t make it any more enjoyable. Every conversation we have is colored by it, and it’s pushed an already difficult relationship into volatile territory.
“You got a haircut,” a matter-of-fact voice that I’m coming to recognize all too well says from above me.
I look up into those brown eyes that are full of mischief today, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
“Solnishka,” I purr. “Fancy meeting you here.”
She huffs out a breath as she cocks a hip and looks at me.
“I do live here for the time being.” She scans the lobby, people coming and going, the concierge desk command central for the whole place.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” I ask, gesturing to the empty sofa next to me. “I promise I won’t bite unless you ask me to.”
She shuts her eyes and pretends to ignore me, but I can see by the faint blush on her chest that she hears every word I’m saying, and likes them too. I chuckle and her lips compress into a tight line.
I realize I need to remember my brother’s advice; compliments, romance, then the orgasms.
“I can have the concierge bring you a cup of coffee if you’d like. You must have had a long day.”
She sighs then, her shoulders dragging down as she collapses one cushion’s width away from me.
“It was so incredibly long,” she laments.
“Coffee is on its way then.” I get up to go place her order.
When I return we sit quietly for a few minutes. She picks up a nearby magazine and works to look engrossed by it, but I can tell by her breathing she’s anything but relaxed next to me.
“I think I owe you an apology,” I say finally.
She looks at me expectantly.
I clear my throat. Apologizing isn’t something the men in my family do too often. I’m out of practice, to say the least.
“I was, uh, well, a dick that night—at your place. You were right to toss me out on my ass, and I’m sorry.”
She blinks at me for a moment. “Okay, you’re forgiven.”
Seriously? That was a whole lot easier than I thought it’d be. “Wow. Thanks,” I tell her, grinning.
She shrugs and goes back to reading her magazine. Wait. That wasn’t how I pictured this playing out.
The concierge appears with her Starbucks and she gives him a glowing smile in return. Fucker. I was the one who ordered it for her.
“Uh, is that it?” I ask after he’s gone.
“Did you need to say something else?”
“So you forgive me but you won’t really talk to me?”
“I’m not sure what we have to talk about.” She’s still got her eyes glued to that damn magazine, and it’s starting to piss me off. I know she feels this too—the attraction. I saw it in her eyes when I was about to kiss her the other night. She wants me.
“Solnishka.” I reach over and run a finger up her arm slowly, causing little goose bumps to break out all over her pretty skin. “Aren’t you going to ask why it’s so important to me to get your forgiveness?”
She sighs and finally looks at me. I see her gaze falter for a moment before she shores up the defenses again. It’s quick, but it’s there. She’s trying to push me away. I’m not going to let her.
“What I did the other night was a dick move. It was rude, and I don’t have an excuse except that I’ve been pretty self-indulgent for a while, and living in the world of pro hockey for a lot longer. Neither thing has helped when it comes to civilized behavior around women.”
She can’t help but chuckle.
“But you kicked me to the curb, and I learned.” I’m working hard to spin this, I hope she catches some of my enthusiasm. “And when I spent a couple of days thinking, I realized two things. First, you’re not a puck bunny, and I had no business treating you like one. Second, I want to get to know you.”
“Sooo, what does that mean exactly?”
I shift to face her more fully, then I take one of her sweet hands in mine. “It means this. Solnishka, will you have dinner with me? I’d like to get to know you better. No expectations, just two people eating some good food and talking. My treat.”
Her expression wobbles a little, but she doesn’t pull away further, maybe there’s hope yet.
“I shouldn’t…” she says hesitantly.
“Why? You said you weren’t seeing anyone, right?” I realize that the idea she might already belong to someone else makes me want to punch something.
“No, I’m not seeing anyone,” she answers as I nearly choke on my relief. “But I’m so busy with my job, and you’re …well, you.” She waves a hand up and down in front of me.
“Look.” I take a deep breath, because I’m going to take the honest route, instead of the easy route. “The truth is, I’m not me. Me was a guy who played professional hockey and slept with puck bunnies. I don’t play hockey anymore, and I’m starting to realize that maybe I don’t want to sleep with puck bunnies anymore either.”
She smiles at me now. Women love it when we share our feelings, but fuck I hate it. I feel like I’m slicing open my belly and exposing my innards to the one person whose opinion I actually value at the moment.
“I honestly don’t know who I am at this point. But I know that I need to start trying to figure that out, and if you’re willing to be a little patient I’d like to get to know you while I’m also getting to know me.”
I lift her fingers to my lips and kiss them. The way her eyelashes flutter and her lips part sends a bolt of electricity straight through my chest to my balls. Fuck. This woman’s got some kind of secret juju. It’s like I can’t resist the pull of her. My Russian grandmother should be here to explain to me what it’s all about. Baba Ninotchka has this eerie ability to see inside of people. I bet she could tell me what Solana’s secret pull is. Which gives me an idea.
I can see Solana fighting with herself, it’s all over her face.
“One dinner,” I say softly. “Two people ea
ting together. No expectations.”
She sighs deeply and my heart clutches at the turmoil that one breath conveys. I’m awash in guilt that I’ve made such a bad impression on her that she’s this distrustful.
“Okay,” she anwers, just as I’m thinking I can’t stand the waiting another second.
I want to leap up and cheer, but I play it cool instead, giving her a grin and a wink. I stand and look down at her. “Good. Give me your number.” I hand her my phone and she half-heartedly puts her number in, then I text her so she has mine. “If you have any questions text me. Otherwise, I’ll be over in a couple of hours, dress casual, and bring your appetite, I have a special treat for you.”
She blinks at me. “We’re going out tonight?”
I nod.
She sighs heavily. “Okay.”
I lean down and chuck her cheek before I hobble off. Smooth exits aren’t really my forte at this point, but I’ll make up for it when she sees what I’ve got planned for dinner.
At seven o’clock on the dot I go next door to pick her up. After I knock I hear her talking to the cat. Well, chastising him is more like it.
“Don’t you dare piss on that rug again while I’m gone, Ambrose. I mean it. It’s way too expensive for me to replace. But you? I can say that you ran away. They won’t be able to prove what happened.”
The door swings open and I raise an eyebrow. “Really? You’re threatening to make him disappear? You think that’s the way to build good will?”
She shrugs, although she looks a little embarrassed that I heard her.
“You don’t have to live with him,” she answers.
“Hey, buddy,” I tell the cat as I walk past Solana. I lean down and pick him up so I can pet him. “Why’d you take a whiz on the rug, huh?” He purrs and rubs his face against mine.
“You know, maybe he’s frustrated that he’s here alone so much.”
“He’s a cat. It’s not like he needs to be taken for a walk or anything.”
“Just because they’re self-sufficient doesn’t mean they don’t get lonely,” I tell her. “How many hours a day do you work, anyway? I know I don’t hear you leave in the morning, and I don’t hear you come home until after eight most nights.”
Shit. I’ve just unintentionally told her that I’m in my damn apartment all day listening for her to come home. Luckily she doesn’t seem to pick up on that little tidbit.
“With commuting added in I’m probably gone fourteen hours most days, but again, he’s a cat.”
“I have an idea,” I say, letting him climb down to the floor where he continues to rub against my leg. “Why don’t you let me take him during the day while you’re gone.”
“Oh, I couldn’t…” She shakes her head.
“Why not? I’m home, he’s home right next door. I’ll bring him over to my place, he’ll get some attention, a little change of environment. I’ll bring him back before you get home, you’ll never even know he was gone. Just give me a spare key and I can handle it all.”
“Really? You’d do that. Cat sit?”
I shrug. “Sure. Why not?” I’ve actually always really liked pets, I just couldn’t have any when I traveled so much for hockey.” It occurs to me that I could get a pet now.
“But you’re…” She flaps a hand at me. “You. The Czar. Don’t you pay people to do things like play with your cat?”
I laugh. God, normally I’m not fond of the nickname, but when she says it it’s kind of hot. “I pay people to do all sorts of things, Solnishka, but playing with pussies isn’t one of them. I’m perfectly capable of doing that all on my own.”
She turns bright pink and I put my hand on her lower back as I direct her toward the door. “Come on. The cat will be fine, and I’ve got a night planned for you that you won’t get with anyone else.”
She grabs a key out of a little table in the foyer and hands it to me before we exit. I stick the spare key to my neighbor’s apartment in my pocket, my insides doing a little jig in delight at the access I’ve been handed. Solana locks the door and walks alongside me to the elevators. When we get to the parking garage Vanya is waiting for us in the Escalade. I introduce them and she looks a little surprised but doesn’t say anything. And as we weave our way through the streets of Chicago I watch her silky hair and sumptuous curves and hope that my grandmother can explain what the hell’s wrong with me. I’ve never felt like this and I’m afraid it might be bad news for my heart even if it’s great news for my dick.
12
Solana
I’ve gone and done one of the dumbest things of my life. Agreeing to go on a date with Mick is like asking to have my whole career blow up in my face. I got up to the apartment and nearly pounded my head against a wall for the next two hours. I almost walked next door a half dozen times to cancel, but then I kept remembering the look on his face when he said he didn’t know who he was anymore. He was so painfully honest, so raw and genuine, how could I throw that back in his face? My damn hormones rode roughshod over my reasoning so now I’m trapped in a big black car complete with a driver, plus Mick and all of his muscles and vulnerability. Argh!
I’m surprised when we pull up to a small brownstone row house with a wide stoop and lace curtains in the front windows. I peer up and down the street wondering if I’ve missed a restaurant somewhere, maybe a small neighborhood café. But all I see are the middle-class row houses of the Ukranian Village neighborhood.
“Patience, Solnishka,” Mick tells me with a grin.
I narrow my eyes. “What are you up to?”
“Only good things. I promise.”
Vanya opens the car door for us and we climb out before Mick gestures for me to precede him up the stairs of the house in front of us. I climb the flight that leads up a half story, and Mick follows, although I can tell navigating the stairs with his leg brace on is difficult. He has to step up with his good leg, then let his bad leg follow before starting the whole process over again. When he reaches the top I see the frustration etched on his swarthy features, but he shakes it off and gives me a small smile before reaching for the knob and opening the door.
He’s hardly turned the knob when the door swings open and a tiny whirling dervish appears, all rapid fire words and grasping hands as she clutches Mick in hugs and pushes him back to appraise him nearly at the same time.
“Mishka! Come, come. What is this? You have not been to see me in so long. When you call I think, maybe he is injured again, this is the only time he calls me.”
Mick reaches out and takes my wrist in his hand as he pulls both of us through the doorway, murmuring things in Russian to the little old lady. I close the door behind us and stand awkwardly as she reaches up and takes his face between her hands. He smiles at her tenderly and the picture is so incongruous, yet so perfect at the same time that I feel something in my chest soften like warm wax.
She talks rapidly to him in Russian as she stares into his eyes. He places his big, blocky palms over her tiny fragile hands and says, “It’s okay, Baba. I’m fine, I promise. But we’re being rude. I want you to meet someone.”
At the endearment “Baba” I realize that this is his grandmother, and I swallow tightly. I can’t imagine that she spends time at the Petrovich corporate headquarters, but what if she does? What if next week she comes by to chat with her son or something and she sees me? How will I possibly explain to her that I haven’t told her grandson I work for their family?
“Of course you want me to meet her,” she says, pulling me into a hug, then patting me on the cheek. “She is lovely.”
I dart a glance at Mick, who’s grinning because he’s blindsided me with this and finds it funny.
“This is Solana,” he tells his grandmother. “Solnishka.”
His Baba examines me for a moment then nods decisively. “Yes, she is. It is easy to see.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I tell her with a smile, not knowing what else to say. I feel as if I’ve just had my soul examined under
an X-ray. It doesn’t feel bad necessarily, just thorough.
“Now,” she says, turning and marching down the central hallway toward the back of the narrow house, her flat shoes making squeaking noises on the dark, worn wood floor. “Come. Your dinner is waiting.”
As we follow, I grit out, “You couldn’t have given me a little warning we were visiting your grandmother? I might have dressed a little more conservatively or something.”
“One, I want you dressing for me, not my grandmother, because she could give a damn what you’re wearing but I, on the other hand, have a great appreciation for everything you put on, and everything that’s underneath it as well.”
He flashes his white teeth at me in a leer. I roll my eyes.
“And two, I knew it would make you nervous to know ahead of time. Baba is a taste best acquired all at once, like a shot of slivovitz. Just down it fast. It burns for a moment, but then the warmth hits you, and the edges blend. Baba will wear down anyone’s edges, it’s just who she is. Come see.”
He leads me after Baba and at the back of the house we enter an old fashioned eat-in kitchen. It’s a generous size, but not open to any other rooms like modern kitchens are. The floor is the same vintage wood that the rest of the house seems to use, and the cabinets appear to be the originals, now painted a glossy medium blue, the same shade as a cornflower blue crayon. But the appliances are all stainless steel and enormous.
The room is filled with a myriad of scents—vinegar, garlic, dill, and basil. My stomach rumbles softly and I can’t help but lean toward the stove where various pots are concealing what I sincerely hope is our dinner.
“Yes, come, come,” Baba gestures. “I make all Mikhail’s favorites because he never come to visit.” She turns a quick scowl his direction and he chuckles as he lowers himself into one of her kitchen chairs.
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