Page 38

CHAPTER 37

ALEXEI

I drag myself in the front door of my house at two in the morning, really over this whole vibes-aren’t-vibing week, and I find Emery asleep in my bed.

Everything immediately feels better.

I quickly change into a t-shirt and sweats, and climb in with her, wrapping myself around her soft little body.

As I correctly thought two weeks ago, I sleep spectacularly with her in my arms.

* * *

“Shhh, don’t wake him up.”

“I’m up,” I mumble, right before Inessa burrows herself in between me and Emery little a warm little bowling ball of joy.

“Papa,” she whispers happily.

“I’m home,” I say, rubbing her back as I blink my eyes open. “What time is it?”

Emery has slid over in the bed, but she didn’t bolt, so that’s a good sign. “Just after six.”

I groan. “I got in at two.”

“She must have sensed your presence. Think she might go back to sleep with you?”

I nod sleepily.

“Okay. Send her out to me if she doesn’t let you rest. And I’ll come check on her after my workout.”

Wait , I want to say. Come back and cuddle with us . But my eyes are already sliding shut again, fatigue and exhaustion pulling me back under.

* * *

When I wake up again, it’s half-past nine.

Inessa is no longer asleep next to me. I find her downstairs in the kitchen. My mom and Inessa are working at the table, and Emery has an assembly line of food on the island.

“What’s all this?”

Emery looks up from where she’s piping something white onto what looks like a rectangular piece of Russian black bread. “We’re recipe testing sandwiches for Ani Hale’s baby shower.”

“Delicious breakfast,” my mother says, then giggles.

“Hi, Mama,” I say, crossing to drop a kiss on the top of her head. She looks so much better than when I left last week. Her cheeks have more colour in them, and her eyes are brighter. “You look like you have lots of energy today.”

“I do. It's all of Emery's excellent cooking,” she says in Russian. “Oh, exciting news. I taught her to make borscht. And it’s even better than mine.”

“Did you?” I groan and pat my stomach, then switch back to English. “Tell me there’s leftover borscht, Emery.”

She laughs. “In the fridge.”

While the soup heats up, I ask about everything laid out on the island.

“Fresh pickles for sandwich toppers.” Emery points one by one. “Shallots, radishes, tiny cauliflower florets. Do you want to try some?”

“If you’re making it, I’m eating it.”

“The black bread is an unexpected base for fresh cream cheese with chives and garlic.” She grabs a long pair of tweezers and carefully layers on three pickled radishes on top of the cheese before finishing it with a garnish of pea sprouts.

I open my mouth as she lifts the sandwich and holds it for me to take a first bite. Flavours explode in my mouth, fresh and tangy and sweet all together.

I groan and lunge forward, taking the rest of the finger sandwich before kissing the tip of her finger.

She laughs, a delighted peel that goes straight to my chest.

I swallow and gesture for more. “Yes. Make me another one.”

The next one is ham and mustard.

I’m already in love and I haven’t tried it yet. I lean in as she prepares it. “And how did you make ham and mustard fancy?”

“Well, the mustard has some honey in it. Just a little sweetness. And underneath that is a smoked butter.”

“Smoked…” I blink. “Did you make your own butter?”

Her smile is a thousand kilowatts bright. “Yep.”

“Feed it to me.”

“Alexei, let the poor girl finish her work,” my mother says.

And that’s when I remember we aren’t alone.

Emery’s cheeks turn pink as I pick up the delicate finger sandwich, topped with a few pickled onions.

It’s. Fucking. Amazing.

“Stop moaning,” she whispers. Then she lifts her voice. “Your borscht is ready.”

“Good. I’m starving.”

And then, because my mother has turned her attention back to her task at the table, I slap Emery on the ass.

She jumps and whirls around, and the bright eyes and pink cheeks are everything I’ve ever wanted in a response. “What was that for?”

“For making everything better. Just like sunshine.”

* * *

After sandwiches, they move on to decorating sugar cookies. I’m given the task of moving decorated cookies to drying racks—and also keeping Inessa’s icing-covered fingers away from the official cookies for the party.

She’s got her own little batch that she has free range to decorate as she wants, which is…lots of icing. All the colours.

But there are limits for little girls, and she tires of the project long before Emery and my mom are done.

“Is this a sign we need to go to the park?” I try to wipe her hands and face, but she has icing in her hair, and she needs a change of clothes, too. “Come on, little one. You’re a mess. We’ll get cleaned up, and then we’ll go to the park.”

Upstairs, I strip her down to her diaper, then go into the bathroom she now shares with Emery to get a damp washcloth.

Emery has made the space her own. Makeup, perfume, face cream, hair clips. So many hair clips.

A bright pink hair iron, probably the tool that makes those perfectly smooth waves, catches my eye on a high-up shelf.

And then my gaze slides to a small foil packet next to the iron. It’s something that I haven't seen in this washroom before, and I pick it up before my brain can stop my inappropriate curiosity.

Birth control pills.

I turn the packet over, blood pounding in my ears. Two pills are gone. Her period must have ended the day before yesterday.

I picture Emery standing at the sink, popping one in her mouth, swallowing it down with water before she brushes her teeth in the morning, taking care so that she doesn't accidentally end up a single parent like I have.

Something wild curls in my chest, a sharp, complicated feeling that I have no right to allow to foster.

She isn’t mine , exactly. Not yet. Every time we’re intimate, she makes it clear that she’s leaving. And we haven’t done this yet. We haven’t needed these yet.

Her personal life is her own, I know that, but my fist clenches around the pack, crumpling it in an irrational reaction.

Fuck.

She’s taking these pills to avoid getting pregnant. She’s taking these so she can have a cock inside her and?—

I smooth it as much as I can and put it back on the shelf.

I didn’t miss her all fucking week to lose my mind to irrational jealousy.

Of course I know that when the playoffs are over, she’s leaving us. She needs to follow her dreams, and I’m not an asshole. I won’t stop her from going to Switzerland—wouldn’t even if I could, but I know I can’t.

But I can give her all the reasons in the world to come back to me when she’s done.

And I can set a standard so fucking high, no Swiss dick will ever compare.