The woman blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter.
“Oh, you’re such a sweet girl! I will never let anything bad happen to you ever again,” she vowed, hugging the dog she’d only just met around the neck.
But then her laughter turned into another sound. A harsh one that I didn’t realize was sobbing until her husband drew her away from P.M. into his arms so she could cry into his chest.
P.M., proving just how loving dogs of every breed could be, nudged at, then licked her denim-clad legs, as if to comfort her, too.
“You will forgive her,” Mount Nik, who was nearly as tall as Artyom, said in a slightly less thick Russian accent.
His voice turned somber as he spoke to me over his wife’s head. “She still misses our other pit bull, Backup, very much, even though she died a few years ago.”
“Totally understandable. That’s not the kind of pain that ever goes away,” I replied. Then I turned to the crying woman in his arms to gently say, “Backup is a great name, by the way… Was she named after the dog fromVeronica Mars?”
“You knowVeronica Mars?” Suddenly, the wife stopped crying and pulled out of Mount Nik’s arms to regard me with wide brown eyes.
“It’s one of my favorite vintage shows,” I answered.
She let out a watery laugh. “Okay, well, I’m going to have to forgive you for calling itvintage. But other than that…”
She beamed up at Artyom. “I could not approve of your girlfriend more. Big heart, great taste, and not that it matters, but she is stunning. How did you get so lucky with that perma scowl of yours?”
My cheeks flamed. “Oh, we’re not… He’s not…”
“Looking for your approval,” Artyom finished before I could.
“Oooh, I can’t wait to tell your Aunt Eva all about this on our Monday call!” Ruthie’s mom declared, as if she hadn’t heard either of us.
My heart dropped. There was only one Eva I knew of in the Rustanov family. But surely she didn’t meanthatEva. Eva Rustanov St. James, the vice president of the freaking United States.
Artyom stepped in front of his aunt, blocking my view of her before I could answer. “Puppy is tired. Take her inside so she can rest,” he commanded. “Then you will meet with my family in the living room to discuss what they need to do to complete adoption.”
As much as I wanted to aggressively clarify our relationship status before any VPOTUS was called, Artyom was right. P.M., though happy to meet all these new people, was starting to sag against the harness I’d made. All this excitement most definitely went against Dr. Kovacs’s instructions to keep her still and quiet. So, I took her back into the guest room, as ordered.
Proving Artyom’s point, P.M. plopped down and immediately fell into a deep, snoring sleep as soon as I unharnessed her over the improvised doggie bed of pillows I’d made for her.
Which left me with nothing to do but meet Artyom and his absurdly attractive family in the living room to talk.
I felt crazy self-conscious as I walked into the front room after peeling off my coat, wrangling my dreads into a ponytail, and French-tucking the oversized UMG Hockey t-shirt—delivered along with the doggie pee pads and a package of underwear—into the front of my jeans.
They were all sitting on a leather sectional, and everyone but Ruthie’s mother was having a low conversation in Russian.
However, that conversation came to an abrupt stop when I appeared.
“Oh, look,” Ruthie said, giving me a smirking up-and-down look. “It’s Yommie’sassociate, wearing one of his t-shirts after spending the night.”
My face burned, and Artyom said something harsh to Ruthie in Russian before standing up and commanding me, “Sit down here.”
“Here” was one of two large leather armchairs I hadn’t noticed directly behind me.
I gingerly sat down, only to jolt when Artyom took the chair beside me and said, “Tell them what they are needing to do to adopt P.M.”
It made me feel like we were some kind of queen and king presiding over an important conversation as a unit, even though I hadn’t been lying to Ruthie about Yom and I only being associates.
Anyway…
I cleared my throat and told Ruthie and her family, “There’s not much to say here. Um, obviously, you all have experience with raising pit bulls and would never hurt or neglect P.M. the way Tommy did?—”
“Never!” both Ruthie and her mom assured me in unison.
