Page 75 of Nine Months to Bear

OLIVIA

Ferris Bueller had it right: Life really does come at you fast. Three minutes ago, I was a doctor in a business meeting. Now, I’m fleeing the scene of a shootout with a known criminal.

As Stefan takes another corner too fast, the G-force presses me into the leather seat. I steal glances at his profile—jaw clenched, eyes hyper-focused on the road, one hand on the wheel while the other taps rapid-fire responses on his phone. He shows no sign of shock or concern.

I, on the other hand, am a wreck.

Stefan must sense that, because without looking at me, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” I swallow. “You already looked me over.”

His eyes flick to me briefly—enough for me to catch the storm brewing in them—before locking back on the road. “Good.”

But he sets his phone down and puts his hand on my knee once again.

A few high-speed turns later, we pull up screeching in front of a modest brick house with cheerful window boxes overflowing with geraniums. He walks around, opens my door, and offers me his hand.

I take it. His eyes never leave mine as I unfold from the seat. And when he sees my Bambi legs are still wobbling and unsteady, his hand never leaves mine, either.

He keeps hold of me as we shuffle up to the front. He goes for the doorbell, but before he can ring it, it opens.

On the other side is an elderly woman with shrewd eyes identical to his. Her silver hair is twisted in an elegant knot, and she wears a floral apron dusted with flour.

“Another attack, then,” she states with no trace of emotion or surprise.

“Yeah. Tough day at the office.” Stefan presses a quick kiss to her cheek and lets go of me.

I wish he wouldn’t, and part of me wants to ask him to stay. But I don’t, so he disappears deeper into the house without explanation, leaving me standing awkwardly in the doorway.

The woman studies me with unnerving intensity before her face softens into a smile.

“Come, come! You look like you need tea.” Her hands are papery and dotted with liver spots, but they’re strong. She grabs my wrist right where Stefan let go and ushers me toward the kitchen. “I was just about to makepirozhki. Do you like cabbage filling? I prefer the meat myself, but Stefushka always says my cabbage ones are better.”

Stefushka?

I’m about to ask who the hell she is when I see the photo of a young Stefan stuck to the refrigerator. He’s every bit as handsome as he is now, but leaner, softer—probably no more than eighteen. He has his arm slung over a younger version of the woman in front of me.

She follows my gaze and sighs happily. “Even big tough men have a soft spot for their babushkas.” Then she turns back to me. “So? Tea?”

I blink. There’s a lot going on right now. To say I’m struggling to process would be a major understatement.

“Tea would be… nice.” I sink into a chair at her kitchen table before I fall over.

The woman—I should really ask her name—busies herself with the kettle. Meanwhile, I look around. The kitchen is warm and lived-in, a stark contrast to Stefan’s sleek, impersonal penthouse.

More family photos line the walls. I catch more glimpses of a young, unguarded Stefan in several of them.

When she slides the tea in front of me, I wrap my hands around the mug and try to ground myself in the warmth.

“Beautiful hands,” she observes. “Long fingers. Good for detailed work, yes? Stefan mentioned you are a doctor. Very impressive.”

He mentioned me? I don’t know what to make of that.

“I… Uh, yes.” My fingertips trace the rim of the cup in endless circles.

“My sister was a nurse, back in the old country. Delivered babies during the worst years. She always said new life finds a way, evenin darkness.” She reveals a plate of cookies. “Try these. Special recipe. You can’t say no, so don’t bother.”

I take one. My hands are still trembling, I notice. All that adrenaline and nowhere for it to go, so it’s just bubbling up into boiled anxiety in my veins.