I’m so groggy now, though, that I must have slepthardlast night. Maybe the release of months of pent-up tension was enough for me to pass out, or perhaps I just instinctively know Thatcher isn’t a threat to me. That has to be it.
Silently, I pull on my morning uniform of all-black sweats and sneak out, closing the door quietly behind me. I’m too tired to try to dig Thatcher out from my bed. I’m sure he’ll wake up, see that I’m gone, and take the hint. The walk to the kitchen reminds me that I need to get my coffee bar set up in my bedroom sooner rather than later because it’s impossible to try to be anything less than a gremlin before my first cup. Luckily, I don’t run into anyone in the house. I have a persona to maintain, and cranky coffee-deficient Mila isn’t someone the men need to see.
It’s no surprise at all to turn the corner and see Misha already in the kitchen, nursing what’s likely his second cup of the morning and staring out an east-facing window, waiting for the sunrise. Although it used to annoy me that he invariably roseat least half an hour before I did, once he started to supply my coffee, I conceded the morning crown to him. Sure enough, on the counter sits a steaming mug of coffee in the perfect color.
I join him at the window, quietly sipping and watching the inky sky transform to navy, then gray, and finally a pale, pinky blue as a new day dawns. I’m not sure how many sunrises we’ve seen together. At this point, we’re probably approaching ten thousand. If he hadn’t started this tradition, my sunrise count would have stopped decades ago. I’ve never asked if he was an early riser before me. Just like I haven’t asked if he ever wishes he hadn’t pledged himself to my cause. He could have a family by now, if not for the weight of our shared past. These are just two questions, out of many, on the list of things I’ll never ask.
Finally, both cups are empty, and golden rays are sneaking toward the kitchen when the dreaded raised eyebrow turns my way. I feel confident that I’m relatively intact and covered by my hoodie and sweatpants. Misha’s only hints of what transpired are my face and my eyes, which means I’m screwed. The man has always been able to read me like a book.
“So—”
“Nope! No ‘so.’”
With a sigh that I know is him coming to terms with my attitude this morning, he flops down into a chair at the breakfast table and spreads his long legs out, crossing his arms to assume his defensive position.
“Alright. How?”
“Not even a how.” I curl up on the bench on the other side of the table, thinking that maybe Thatcher has the right idea. Being cozy in bed with him would be much better than facing the Spanish Inquisition.Shit.Being cozy in bedalone, I mean. Not withhim.
“That bad?”
Ugh. As much as I don’t want to, we have to have this conversation. There are no secrets from Misha.
“It wasn’t bad. Not at all. It’s just not a good idea. I know you think it is, but there’s just too much going on. Plus, it’s not like he’s a stranger I’ll never see again. He gets hurt, he’s still around. He’s Teddy’s best friend.”
“Hmm. Well, I stand by my initial assessment. I think it’s a good thing. I don’t think anybody needs to get hurt with your usual rules up front. If he catches feelings, that’s on him. But he’s a grown man, even though I know I call him a kid to rile you up. He can make big boy decisions and take responsibility for his own emotions.”
“I don’t know how you’ve gotten to be such an emotional expert. You’re as chronically single as I am.”
“Hmm,” he replies, but this time, he doesn’t continue.
“Well,” I say, sitting back up and feeling my coffee start to kick in. “Mygut says that it’s easier and less messy to stop this before it truly starts. This is not a thing. I’m not allowing this to be a thing. So you andyourpet hockey player can have as much fun as you want training and cooking and having movie night, or whatever the fuck else you have planned—”
“A lot of these guys have never seen the classics. If they can’t get myMean Girlsreferences, I don’t know how you expect me to—”
“And have a great time! I’m not questioning your methods. You know damn well I can’t do this without you, and I don’t care how you do it. Now, can I shower in your room? I, uh…” I ignore his smirk. “I don’t want to use mine right now.”
“You can, but it’s the soap you hate,” he calls after me, but I’m already hustling out of the kitchen, disinterested in continuing this conversation for a moment longer.
“I’ll deal.”
And I will. With the soap, with Thatcher, with Zadorov.I’ll deal.
If you had asked me a few months ago whether one of the things I most look forward to is my weekly calls with my little brother, I would have laughed in your face. But here I am, tea steeping, excitedly awaiting my chance to catch up with Teddy. As always, my phone rings at exactly six o’clock.At least my long-lost brother is punctual.
Smiling, I answer the call. “Hello, Cuddles. How’s life in Thunder Bay? Still enjoying my home?”
“Ha. Ha. Are you going to ask that every time we talk? Even thoughyournew home is apparently significantly larger than this one?”
“You haven’t been here yet, you don’t understand.” The thought of how long it’ll take to eradicate the red latex sends a shiver down my spine.
“Oh no, I’ve heard.” Teddy laughs. “Misha told me it’s a nightmare. I think it’s a bit garish even for Thatcher. He would never admit that of course, but—actually, how is everything going with him?”
Fuck.Words. Any words.
“Mila?”
Say any words at all, Mila. Anything. It can’t be worse than this silence.
