I chuckle, leaning down to sniff my shirt. It’s only slightly rank. “I don’t know, dude, that could be me too. I’ve been slacking off too much lately. I’m pretty disgusting right now.”
“It didn’t seem like you’ve been slacking,” Yordan says, eyes wide as we start walking out of the kitchen and toward his new room. “You kicked my ass.”
I grin at the compliment. “To be fair, I’ve been fighting like that since I was like ten. I have eight older brothers who’ve been taking turns kicking my ass for twenty-one years.” I pause. “Well, I guess they waited until I could throw a punch first, but you know what I mean.”
“I can’t imagine,” he replies, sounding mystified. “Growing up with such a big family. It’s always just been me and Rayna, really.”
He probably has no idea how envious I am that he got to grow up with his sister. But I’m hardly going to tell the kid that. He’s been dealt a rough hand; the last thing he needs is me telling him to be grateful. From how highly he speaks of her, I know he’s already grateful for Rayna. Every other sentence out of his mouth has been about her.
Partly because Apollo can’t stop asking about the woman.
When we get to the spare room, I see Apollo has already left a stack of clothes and towels for him–no doubt the shower is stocked too. My control-freak brother probably had this planned out from the moment he decided he was going to mentor Yordan.
“See you later?” I ask, leaning against his doorframe. “Remo put my number in your phone, so you can text me if you need anything. I always have it on me.”
Even more than usual now that I have texts from Anya to look out for.
“Yeah, thanks,” he agrees. “See you later.”
On the way up to my room, I check that my ringer is still on and remind myself to shoot her another message after I finish showering. Though I don’t want to overwhelm her with too many questions in one day, I think it’s time to get to know the girl better.
Hopefully she feels the same way.
Chapter Eight
Anya
Matteo had to put his phone away for a couple hours right around the perfect time. He had training to do, and I had a family meal to get through. On most days, I eat lunch by myself. Either in my room, in the living room, or by the pool if I’m up to it. Not today though.
Lunch today is bound to be an uncomfortable affair, to say the least. Uncle Lev and Aunt Irina are over to eat with us. And normally, that alone wouldn’t lead to any awkwardness, but unfortunately, there’s a new topic of conversation that’s bound to come up. And quickly.
Minutes into our plates being set down, I know I’ve messed up by bringing my phone along with me. I only get two bites of my grilled chicken salad before it vibrates against the wood tabletop, and Uncle Lev spots it.
“Not at the table,” Dad rumbles softly, eyeing it.
“I wasn’t going to respond,” I mutter, poking around my bowl and avoiding eye contact.
I silently hope that ignoring it and going back to eating will make the topic drop, but I’m sadly mistaken.
“Who is it?” Aunt Irina asks, genuinely interested. “Masha?”
My stomach twists at the sound of my old friend’s name. Masha hasn’t reached out in years, and I don’t blame her. I didn’t text her back when I ended up in the hospital, and I refused to allow her to visit me. She stopped trying after a few months of my ongoing rejection.
I didn’t want to see her. Masha would remind me of everything I lost the day that my mother took me. She would remind me of ballet, and how desperately I missed dancing. And how sick to my stomach the thought of putting on pointe shoes again made me.
“No,” I reply quietly. “We still don’t talk.”
Aunt Irina is friends with Masha’s mother. They used to model together years ago, and even though my aunt retired from the runway to have children, she still looks like a movie star. Tall, slim, blonde, and bursting with Russian beauty. She probably sees my old friend often, but I doubt they speak of me much at all.
If she feels any disappointment from my answer, my aunt smothers it seamlessly. “A new friend, then?”
I hesitate, but nod. “Yes.”
“The Italian boy?” Uncle Lev asks, voice deep and disapproving.
“Italian boy?” His wife sits up straighter, her blue eyes widening.
“He has a name,” I tell my uncle grumpily.
