Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” I gulp through a dry throat when I recall who the last person was to see Vasily alive. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just lying low because he’s embarrassed he needs surgery on his hand.”
“Probably.” After waggling her brows, her face goes deadpan. “I forgot to tell you. Tyler was more than happy to help with your request, but…” I could kill her for the delay. “He wants your number.” Before I can speak, she adds, “Your real number. He’s obviously been caught out by you before.”
“He’s American,” I defend. “You know how I feel about Americans.” Don’t be like that. I’m one of them, so I’m allowed to be bitchy. I was born in the US and lived there most months out of the year until my parents started calling Paris home.
Millie’s pout is cute. She’s been an expat for five years.
“American men,” I clarify. “You and Taylor are the bomb. I would have never lasted here without you guys.”
You’d swear I gave her unlimited access to my credit card for how loud her happy squeal is. “You’re not too bad yourself.” Her eyes bulge as a second bout of excitement hits her. “And that dress is divine. My god.” She scampers from the floor, snatches up a dress Polina just got in, then twirls it around the boutique while asking, “Do you get a staff discount?”
Several hours later, after the last customer has left, Polina wipes up the pollen sprinkling the counter from the flowers Vasily had delivered. Her expression is as despondent as mine has been the past few days, her mood a little sour.
Yev’s lack of contact the past week has made her somewhat pessimistic, and I am desperate to remind her that it is usually the men with showy gifts we need to be cautious of the most.
“You know he wasn’t there that morning for no reason, right?”
I realize how snowed under by confusion she is when she replies after a slight delay, “He said he was worried about me and wanted to be close by in case I needed him.”
“And you believed him?” The reminder of how he tried to railroad me makes my words snappy. “Vasily Cabanow cares about nobody but himself.” I stuff a dress a customer returned earlier today onto the rack before spinning to face her. “And you didn’t see how he reacted last Friday when you left with Yev. He gave arrogance a new name.”
Before I can blurt out a truth I should have told her days ago, she shocks me by defending Vasily. “Because his wrist was snapped in two places. He needs surgery, Nat. Have a heart. Not every man handles pain the same way.”
“He wouldn’t have a broken wrist if he’d kept his hands to himself.” Since I’m unsure of the honesty of my following words, they’re barely a whisper. “If only Yev were more violent.”
I’m torn on my reply because I believe everything happens for a reason. If Yev had been more violent, I wouldn’t have needed to bribe Vasily, but I also wouldn’t have met Matvei.
He confuses me, and I hardly act like myself around him, but isn’t that what living is about? The highs and lows that reflect the beauty in a messy disaster?
Life isn’t linear. It has twisty, curvy contours that feed our wish to live. It isn’t meant to be about analyzing every interaction and picking it to pieces with “what-ifs.” I’m tired of following the line someone else carved into the sand for me.
I want to be me.
And I’m given a chance when Polina flips our conversation on its head. “How did it go with my request?”
Since she doesn’t often ask for favors, I know precisely what request she’s referring to. “Good. Tyler is more than happy to put away any foreign caps he finds.”
Polina has the situation all wrong when she asks, “What will it cost me?”
I bite back my laugh. “You, nothing. Me…” I leave my question open for her to fill in the gaps.
She does precisely that only seconds later. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do to help me fix my mistake. I’ll start importing beer.” Her nose screws up. “I’m not a fan of malty drinks, but I don’t have to drink it to collect the caps.”
Hating that I’ve made her panic, I say, “Believe me, it isn’t an injustice. Have you seen the guy running Tappers?”
I realize how much I’ve missed her playfulness the past six months when she looks disgusted by my attempt at recreating the drooling emoji in person. “You’re disturbing.”
“Don’t be jealous.” I place the final returned dress onto the sales rack before informing her of the update Millie texted me an hour ago. She reneged on her suggestion for us to take Taylor out. “Tyler said he’ll have a good collection for you to pick up tonight.”