“Boring.” Artyom shrugged. “Also, I am having to retake Statistics for third time next semester.”
“Oh my gosh, Statistics is the worst.”
“You are taking it?” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “I am never seeing you in any of my classes.”
“Yeah, my parents made me minor in business. But I finished all the credits early by using my summers to take extra classes and landing the right internships.” I rolled my eyes and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “And by landing, I mean my dad made a few calls. But Statistics was definitely the hardest requirement to pass.”
“I am sad you are finishing all your requirements so soon. Maybe we could meet before now in this nightclub.” He frowned. “What did you get in class you are only taking once?”
“B-minus,” I admitted, ducking my head.
“This is much better than failing grade I am getting twice.”
He picked up his beer again, erasing my chance to dose it. But I was so warmed by the sensation of actually getting to feel smart for once that I found it hard to mind having to stay here with him a bit longer.
“I tell you what.” He tipped his NA beer at me. “You will be good egg and tutor me when we return to university we have in common.”
My heart raced, but I kept my voice steady. “You don’t need to be a good egg to pass Statistics. It’s just a numbers game—pun totally intended.”
I dropped the packet back into my clutch and pulled out a pen before grabbing a cocktail napkin. “Here, let me show you this trick for figuring out standard deviation….”
One impromptu tutoring session and a lot of laughing later, the guy Artyom had been talking to before I fell into his lap came through with two more bottles of Peroni NA beers clasped in one hand and a file folder in another.
“Chess, what are you doing?” Artyom demanded. “I am not asking you for this!”
The larger but not nearly as cute guy set down the drinks and answered with a serious stream of Russian.
Was he also related to Artyom? I squinted. A brother, maybe? The close cropped hair had thrown me off, but now I could see the resemblance. They had the same chiseled jawline and slightly hooded eyes…. Wait, what was I doing?
I stopped squinting at the possible brothers to drop my gaze to the two open bottles of beer he’d set down next to our empty glasses.
They were arguing. Now was my chance to pull off Paul’s plan without the Russian playing for Team Germany noticing. I snatched up Artyom’s glass and poured the new bottle of Peroni into it for him. Then I reached for my purse, and…
Put the pen I’d pulled out back inside before closing the clutch with the powder packet still inside.
I couldn’t do it.
I just couldn’t. Even if it would mean saving Paul.
Maybe there was an organ I could sell on the black market or something. But I couldn’t dose the way nicer-than-expected college hockey player to get my brother out of the mess he’d created.
I straightened and found Artyom’s possible brother pouring the other beer into my unused pint glass.
“For you,” he said with an even thicker accent. “You will drink it after the celebration you and my brother can have after you sign this.”
Then he set the file folder on the small table where we’d gone through standard deviation and walked away.
“This is unasked for, Chesik.” Artyom glared after the larger athlete, who just waved a hand over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
Well, that answered my question about whether or not they were brothers but left a bigger question in its wake.
What was in the file folder?
I opened it and blinked at the dense paragraphs in tiny font. “What is this?”
“Standard consent contract.”
I looked up to find Artyom no longer staring after his brother—but straight at me with a new heat in his eyes. “I am preferring to wait longer to give to you, but my brother is much more forward than me. Not nearly as shy. He thinks he is knowing better, so he is forcing our conversation.”
