Page 65 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

He shrugs one small shoulder, already reaching for the iPad again. “Okay. Can I watch cartoons on the drive home?”

I shake my head. “I was thinking we should get ice cream instead. Those flavors you like, the ones with the cookie chunks and the rainbow sprinkles.”

His whole face lights up, like someone flipped a switch. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“Can I have the chocolate peanut butter one? With extra peanut butter swirl?”

“Of course.” I ruffle his hair again. “Anything you want.”

The guilt washes over me. He shouldn’t be this surprised to see me picking him up from school.

The grin on Alexei’s face fades a little as he studies me. “You’re frowning, Papa. Frowning isn’t good for your face.”

I blink. “Who told you that?”

“Ms. Harper.”

A real smile tugs at my mouth this time. “Do you like Ms. Harper?”

He nods fast, curls bouncing. “She’s my favorite teacher.”

“Mine too.”

He tilts his head, looking at me like I’ve said something ridiculous. “But you don’t go to our school.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I lean back against the seat, watching the city slide past the tinted windows. “She’s still my favorite.”

Alexei giggles and goes back to his iPad, but not before sneaking another look at me, like he’s checking to make sure I’m still here.

I need to start being more present in my son’s life.

Chapter Nineteen

Laurel

I hate being sick. Everything hurts. My head throbs like someone’s hammering nails into my skull, my eyes burn when I try to open them even a sliver, and every joint in my body aches like I’ve been beaten with a bat.

Chills rake through me, making my teeth chatter even though sweat soaks the sheets twisted around my body. My skin feels too tight, too hot one second and freezing the next.

I toss and turn, desperate for a position that doesn’t make my muscles scream. Nothing works. The pillow is too hot, and the blanket too heavy. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing sleep to take me, praying that when I wake up this will all be gone.

A low voice filters through the fog, deep, familiar, edged with that thick Russian accent that always makes my stomach flip.

A small, weak smile curls my lips. He’s here in my dreams again. I feel strong hands on me, turning me gently onto my side. Pain flares sharp across my ribs and I groan, the sound scraping out of my raw throat. “That hurts…”

“Sorry, solnyshko,” he murmurs, voice softer now, right against my ear.

I frown into the dark behind my eyelids. Why does it hurt in my dream? Shouldn’t dreams be better than this?

“How long have you been like this?” he asks.

“Started… last night,” I mumble, words slurring together. Is he here for real?

“All night?” His voice drops lower, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to call me?”

I try to shrug. It’s too much effort. “Didn’t want to bother you…”