He looks up. His eyes move over me, starting at my face and traveling downward.
I’m wearing my own clothes, a simple blouse, nothing remarkable. But the way his gaze traces the fabric against my skin makes my nerve endings prickle.
I walk toward the bed slowly.
He closes the folder.
“Anya?” he says.
“She’s fine. Down, I think. She was nearly asleep when I left.”
He nods. His eyes haven’t moved from my face.
I stop at the side of the bed. The space beside him is enormous. His bed seems designed for a person who wants to guarantee they never accidentally touch another person in their sleep, and I’m about to deliberately occupy a portion of it.
“I’m not sure I should—” I stop to gesture at the bed.
He looks at me with little patience. “Get in.”
The sheets are cold and absurdly soft. I sit against the headboard beside him and focus on the far wall ahead, which isn’t keeping my nerves at ease. My mind gallops with scenarios of whatthismeans.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask.
“You can try.”
“Why am I here?”
Silence follows. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
He reopens the folder, which I think is going to be his answer, but then he says, “I have my reasons.”
“Can I know what they are?”
“Perhaps.”
I turn toward him, taking in his carved profile in the lamplight. The jaw, the dark lashes, the way his face manages to look both completely still and completely present. He doesn’t look at me. He reads whatever’s in the folder.
“That’s not really an answer,” I say.
“No,” he agrees.
I consider pushing further. I’m tired enough that the cost-benefit analysis is running slower than usual, and the bed is extraordinarily comfortable.
I’m not aware of the exact moment I fall asleep, but one moment, I’m looking at the ceiling, and the next, I’m gone.
Warmth.
I surface from sleep slowly. The room is dark, and pressed against my back, one arm heavy across my waist, is the solid and unmistakable form of a particular Russian man who definitely did not fall asleep intending to end up in this position.
I am completely encircled.
Our bodies are touching everywhere, and his breathing is slow and even.
I stay still.
I could move and slip back into my own bed. Technically.
If I extracted myself carefully, if I shifted gradually, if I gave sufficient effort to the project of untangling — I probably could make a clean break.
