She nods, her chin tipped up like she’s offering me a challenge.
“It’s after ten p.m.”
Svetlana shrugs. “That’s not my problem, is it? And I want the good ones, not those flavorless ones from the regular supermarket. And whipped cream. Real whipped cream, not the canned shit." She crosses her arms. "You said anything."
It’s a test. I can see it in her eyes. She’s waiting for me to tell her that she’s being ridiculous, difficult, that I’ll get them for her tomorrow to satiate her craving. She’s purposely seeing if I’ll follow through on my word.
I shrug. “Okay.”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly before her face quickly shutters back into a defensive mask. “Okay?”
“I’ll get them. Just let me get my shoes on and call Artem to come watch the apartment.”
She blinks at me. She clearly expected me to argue. “Oh, and dark chocolate,” she adds. “The expensive kind.”
I nod without hesitation. “Any specific brand?”
Svetlana stares at me for a moment. “No,” she says finally. “Just make sure it’s good.”
I nod and head for the door, but her voice stops me.
"Kazimir."
I turn back.
"They have to be good strawberries," she says. "Not just... whatever you find. They have to be ripe and sweet and perfect."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Her eyes narrow. "Because if you come back with garbage, I'll know you don't actually mean it."
"I mean it," I smirk at her, reaching for my leather jacket. "I'll get you the best fucking strawberries in Boston."
Her mouth twitches, and for the briefest moment, I think she’s actually going to smile at me. "We'll see."
It’s midnight before I’m successful. I went to three different stores, disabling the alarms and slipping into the dark produce sections feeling like the world’s most ridiculous thief, only to come up empty-handed each time. The strawberries looked like shit. It’s not until I find a small specialty store that’s closing up that I hit the jackpot.
The owner is locking the door when I step out of the shadows, cap pulled low, and my jacket collar up around my chin. “Open back up.”
The man nearly jumps a foot in the air. His hands fly up. “There’s nothing in the register! I… here’s the deposit bag?—”
He starts to fumble in his pocket, and I reach out, grabbing his wrist. He lets out a squeak and goes pale.
“I don’t want your money. Do you have strawberries? And good whipped cream.”
The man looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I… yes.”
“Then open back up.”
Fifteen minutes later, I have two cartons of the juiciest-looking strawberries that I’ve ever come across, a glass jar of clotted cream, and three bars of dark chocolate from Switzerland and France. I leave a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, the man still looking at me like he’s about to piss himself, and head back out into the night.
By the time I get back to the apartment, it's nearly one in the morning. I'm half-expecting her to be asleep.
Instead, she’s sitting up in bed when I knock on the door and ease it open, surprised that it’s not locked. It feels like a verysmall victory. There’s a book in her hand, and she sets it down when I step inside.
I set the bags down on her nightstand. She looks at me suspiciously and opens them, pulling out one item after another. She examines the strawberries, then looks at me, clearly unable to hide her shock.
“Where did you find all this?”
