And my stomach tightens at a horrible realization. I’ve been reading Anya all week, so I can tell when she’s interested, when she’s guarded, when she’s half a breath from smiling.
I can’t read him at all.
“I’ll just,” I pause and gesture vaguely toward the stove. “I’ll get out of your way. Sorry for?—”
“Continue.”
One word. Low, direct, spoken without inflection, and it stops me mid-retreat.
“What?”
“Continue what you were doing.”
He moves. Not toward the door, which is what I expected and hoped for, but toward the other side of the island.
Toward the glass-fronted cabinet. He opens it and selects a bottle with clear liquid, no label. Vodka, almost certainly. He pours two fingers into a crystal glass with the ease of someone who does this often and the steadiness of someone who does everything with absolute intention.
He’s staying.
He’s going to stand there, three feet away, drinking vodka, while I make hot chocolate in my pajamas.
Okay. Fine. Great. This is fine.
I notice how he moves. It’s similar to the guards — with an economy of motion, the absence of wasted movement. But with him it’s more pronounced.
He moves the way large predators move in nature documentaries, slowly, precisely, with fluid control. He stalked from the doorway to the cabinet without making a sound. No footsteps. No scrape of shoes.
My father was a loud man. He filled rooms with his voice, his laughter, his mistakes. Landon was the opposite. Quiet and controlled. A man who used stillness as a weapon.
Rolan Belov is a different creature altogether.
I turn to the counter, set down the milk, and open the refrigerator again to check for — what do I need?
My mind goes blank.
I know this recipe by heart. Dad taught it to me when I was eight, standing on a step stool in our kitchen in Boston while he narrated each step.The secret, Ellie-belly, is patience. You don’t rush the milk. You treat the chocolate like a lady — introduce it slowly, let it melt on its own terms.
I need chocolate. Cocoa powder, ideally, but a good dark chocolate bar will do. Sugar. A pinch of salt. Vanilla, if they have it.
I open the nearest cabinet. Plates. The next one. Glasses. The one after that. Spices, but not the ones I need.
“Are you looking for something?”
I turn. He’s leaning against the island, glass in hand, watching me with what might be curiosity. I can’t tell. This man’s face is a locked safe.
“Chocolate,” I say. “I haven’t quite learned where everything is yet.”
He lifts his chin. A single, minimal gesture toward the upper cabinets, mounted high on the wall. The ones designed for people who are taller than five foot three.
“Top shelf,” he says. “Right side.”
I scan the cabinet, and my gaze travels all the way up to the top shelf. I calculate the distance between my extended fingertips and the shelf in question, factor in the height of the countertop, subtract my total vertical reach, and arrive at a number that can be summarized as:absolutely not.
On a normal day, in a normal kitchen, without an audience, I would solve this problem the way I’ve solved it my entire life and climb the counter. I’m an excellent counter-climber. I’ve been doing it since childhood.
But I am not climbing a counter in front of Rolan Belov. I am not scrambling up his marble countertops in my Hello Kitty shorts with my braid unraveling and my dignity already in critical condition.
So, I open the cabinet, rise onto my toes, and stretch.
