He rubbed the spot where her palm had met his shirt. “Some things don’t need to be shared.”
“Your heart is broken?” Shit. She didn’t look like she bought it. “You vill swear this on the image of yourdedushka?” She rummaged through the oversized purse she dragged everywhere.
“I’m not swearing anything.” He crossed his arms, ready to stand firm against his overbearing grandmother.
“Jason Mikhail Dvornakov.” She yanked the eight-by-ten photo of her late husband from her purse. Holding it out faceup so Dedushka glowered at him.
She wasn’t going to let this go.
He glanced to the image of his dead grandfather.
Fuck.
“Hand on Dedushka’s face.” Her eyes turned serious, her expression firm—as it should’ve been when pimping the image of her dead husband to manipulate innocent grandchildren.
“My heart’s broken, there’s no need to swear anything.” No need to involve dead relatives.
“You vill swear on your grandfather’s image vhat you say is true. Lies vill haunt you for your days. Vhen I die, I vill haunt you for your days. You vill be haunted.”
He had a suspicion that, whether he swore or not, Babushka would haunt him. Still, one did not swear on a dead person’s image without being totally honest.
Babushka picked up his hand and set it on the glass.
A chill ran through him. It was not the first time he’d been forced to swear on his grandfather’s picture. The last time he’d been eighteen and had to swear he hadn’t stolen a bottle of vodka for a party at Brek’s house. He hadn’t. His sister, Anna, had.
“I swear I am not ready for a relationship. My heart can’t take it.” There, that worked. Not a lie.
“Because of the woman across the street,” Babushka said, nudging him to say it.
He lifted his hand from the glass just enough so he wouldn’t be haunted on a technicality. “Yeah, because of the woman across the street.”
Babushka gave him a soft look he knew to be total bullshit. “Time is precious. I have so little.”
“Speaking of, any birthday requests or should I just wing it?” The family always threw a big shindig for her birthday.
She harrumphed. “I vill be dead by then.”
“So no card?” he asked. She’d been saying she was dying for years. She couldn’t see for shit, but otherwise, she was healthier than the rest of them.
“For my birthday I vish you vould find a voman to make you happy.”
He gave her his sincerest look. The one he’d practiced to perfection in front a mirror at fifteen years old. The one he saved for important occasions. The one he used for getting his way. “A little time and then I’ll be ready to try again.”
Now they were both liars. He slid his arm around her for a side hug, the frail bones of her shoulder a lie to the iron-plated woman who was his grandmother. Then he snagged the vase of hyacinths for the jewelry shop up the street and headed out to deliver it.
Successful deflection. Next: evacuation.
The mountain air was crisp like it always was right before summer. Spring would hold on for a few more weeks. This type of weather used to make him antsy, make him wonder what else the world had to offer. But he’d traveled. He’d seen the world. He’d had his skin sandblasted off in the heat of the desert and he’d strapped an oxygen tank to his back to defuse bombs in the Atlantic. The mountain air didn’t make him antsy anymore; now, it made his muscles relax and his mind clear.
He tugged open the glass door to the jewelry store, and his heart stopped beating for a nanosecond.
Heather.
He was definitely a leg guy. She was blessed by the angels in that department. Her toned calves outlined by tight jeans curved up and up and up to her ass…assets.
The object of his intense observation cleared her throat. He jerked his gaze to Heather’s.
She was looking over her shoulder, frowning like she’d sucked on sour cherry candy, clearly catching him checking her out.
