Page 40 of Charmingly Obsessed
“Dessert is later, my dears,” Serafima announces, cutting them off. With regal authority, she confiscates the Swiss cake and hides it on the dusty top shelf of the sideboard.
Nadya watches its unfortunate departure with an expression of profound, mournful longing.
Hippolyt turns out to be not quite as na?ve, or perhaps just as oblivious, as I initially thought. At first, he keeps glancing from me to Mykola, a flicker of confusion, of dawning awareness, in his cognac-colored eyes.
Perhaps irritated by the relentless questioning, Hippolyt redoubles his efforts to make a favorable impression on me. I falter under the unwelcome heat of his gaze and desperately reach for Mykola’s hand under the table.
He finds it immediately, lacing his fingers through mine and gently stroking my palm with his thumb. The touch is more intoxicating than champagne, sending a jolt of pure, illicit pleasure straight to my core with every caress.
Hippolyt casually brings up several acclaimed female artists, praising their work and asking my opinion. Oh God, he’s trying. He’s actually making an effort, which is almost sweet in a clueless, destined-for-failure kind of way.
With a theatrical flourish, Serafima plugs in the multicolored fairy lights she’s draped haphazardly over bookshelves, a ficus tree, and a taxidermied owl. To be honest, her own vibrant inner light makes the festive decorations seem entirely unnecessary.
Mykola straightens up beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. Then with breathtaking audacity, he lifts my hand from his lap and places it firmly and possessively high on his hard, muscular thigh.
Now I don’t even dare to turn towards our hostess. Or anyone else. My cheeks are on fire. My heart is hammering.
“It is time,” Serafima Pylypivna commands, her voice ringing with authority, “for the traditional New Year’s toasts!” Aza, startled from her salami-induced slumber, barks enthusiastically in agreement.
“I need a husband,” Nadya announces suddenly, her cheeks flushed with champagne and existential angst.
“You and Hippolyt would make a rather… striking couple,” Mykola comments,He gives my thigh a subtle, possessive squeeze.
Nadya lets go of a stray golden-red curl that has escaped her tinsel crown, takes another fortifying sip of champagne, and waves her hand in a gesture of weary, dramatic resignation.
“My apologies, Hippolyt,” she says, addressing her glass as if it’s her future, long-suffering spouse.
“But I’m afraid I need a husband… for money.
Cold, hard, spendable cash. Preferably in large, untraceable denominations. ”
“Husbands, my dear Nadya,” Serafima Pylypivna nods approvingly, her eyes twinkling, “with very, very few notable exceptions are only truly useful for their financial contributions to the household. And perhaps… for reaching things on very high shelves.”
“I’m very sorry,” Nadya mutters again.
“It is, perhaps, more pleasant in the long run to love a person, rather than their money.” Mykola tilts his head slightly, his expression one of thoughtful, philosophical contemplation.
He says it quietly, without a trace of arrogance or condescension. Thank God. No one here, I think, especially not Nadya, needs a lecture on the fleeting, ephemeral nature of wealth – particularly not from a man who probably uses hundred-dollar bills as kindling.
“Exactly!” Nadya grumbles, draining her glass.
Hippolyt’s voice turns defensive as he puffs out his chest. “I plan to earn significantly more, and I don’t need a wife to do it.”
Mykola leans in, his voice deceptively innocent. “Really? And why is that, Hippolyt? Do tell.”
Serafima lets out a hyena-esque cackle that makes the wine glasses tremble. “You have clearly forgotten what it is to be young and full of vigor,” she laughs.
I need to escape. Now. Before this brewing battle of egos, and Serafima’s increasingly inappropriate commentary, escalates any further.
I murmur a vague excuse about checking on the… something… in the kitchen, and flee.
My plan works. Mykola joins me a few minutes later, closing the kitchen door softly behind him.
We kiss. Briefly, hungrily, maybe a hundred. We just… look at each other, as if speaking with our eyes, a silent, desperate conversation. He came because he missed me. Because he couldn’t stay away. And I… I want him to stay. Until morning. Until forever.
“When will you move in with me, wife?”
“After Paris, probably,” I manage, my voice shaky. “Just… please, Kolya, let’s keep visiting her. Serafima. She’s… she’s all alone now…”
For a moment, he closes his eyes, a flicker of something unreadable – pain?
regret? – crossing his face. Then he nods.
“We’ll visit, sunshine. Often. But…” He tilts his head upward, that familiar gesture he always makes when he’s pondering something unpleasant, something…
complicated. “This whole situation… it’s ridiculous.
But she’ll forget all about these… suitors… once we return from Paris.”
“She will,” I echo slowly, my thoughts trailing, my fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw.
Then he kisses my fingertips, one by one, and I laugh. A soft, helpless, ridiculously happy sound. Like a complete and utter lunatic , honestly.
“The most important thing is that she kicks that clueless Hippolyt out on his ass,” Frez mutters as we walk back to the living room, his eyes glinting with feral satisfaction. “Soon.”
But our guest figures out he’s out of his depth on his own. Nearby, Nadya is already passed out on the velvet couch, her tinsel crown askew.
Unfortunately, Hippolyt, in a last-ditch effort to prove his… something… decides to have one final drink, thus breaking his supposedly ironclad, Spartan-worthy dietary regimen.
“Dear me, but it’s so dreadfully cold outside tonight! Where are you going in such a hurry, Hippolyt?” Serafima Pylypivna clucks with exaggerated, insincere concern as he fumbles with his coat.
“He’ll manage,” Mykola mutters under his breath, loud enough for everyone, including a now distinctly green-around-the-gills Hippolyt, to hear.
I give his leg a sharp, warning pat, feeling the coiled tension in his thigh even through the expensive wool.
Frez actually looks sheepish for about three minutes, until we all gather in the hallway to say goodbye to a swaying, glassy-eyed Hippolyt.
At the last fateful moment, whether from courage or terminal confusion, Hippolyt pulls me into a lingering, surprisingly enthusiastic, and entirely unwelcome farewell hug.