Page 23 of One Last Shot

“Petra,” I say, holding my hand out to him.

“Sam,” he says in return as he shakes my hand.

“Maybe I’ll be seeing you tonight, Sam.” I take my laptop and slide it into my bag.

“I certainly hope so,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips as he watches me pack my stuff into my leather shoulder bag.

I strut out of that coffee shop high on the notion that even if tonight’s dinner is a shit show, I can retreat right into Sam’s willing arms when it’s over.

CHAPTER7

PETRA

When I arrive at Aleksandr’s building, Martin holds the door open with a flourish, saying, “Welcome back, Ms. Volkova. Do you want help with your bags?”

I glance down at the two bags I’m carrying, one with wine bottles and the other with a layered sponge cake with sliced strawberries and whipped cream. “I’m good, thank you.”

His white caterpillar-like mustache dances above his lips as they curve into a smile. “Right this way.”

He leads me through the lobby once again, and it feels less intimidating this time, now that I’m not taking it all in for the first time. Now, it’s almost cozy. The low leather chairs sitting on those Oriental rugs, the mirrored coffee table in the middle of them, the gilded chandeliers—it’s the perfect, elegant place to sit with a book and people watch.

When we get to the elevator, Martin inserts his key card for me, and the lift rises to the sixteenth floor so quickly that I’ve barely had time to collect my thoughts before the door is opening and I’m stepping into the empty entryway.

Well, this feels intrusive.I’m already uncomfortable coming to a family dinner when I’m not family, and now I’m standing here alone, not sure what to do with myself. I listen for some indication that the space isn’t actually empty, and I can hear faint voices coming from the opposite end of the apartment, a part I’ve never been in. I step into the dining room and the voices grow louder, so I follow the sound through a swinging door into a butler’s pantry that’s as big as my kitchen and twice as nice, then through another swinging door into a kitchen. In typical New York fashion it’s a galley-style because even in apartments this big, space is still at a premium. Everything in here looks original—painted white cabinets, white subway tiles that have so many hairline cracks in them they look intentionally aged, and worn soapstone countertops with a big soapstone farmhouse sink. People pay astronomical prices to remodel their kitchens to look like this, and here’s an original.

And at the end of it, standing around a little peninsula with a stand mixer on top, are Stella and Sasha. Covered in cake batter. It’s all over Sasha’s T-shirt, but even on her step stool Stella only comes up to his armpits, so she’s got much more on her: it’s on her face, in her hair, splattered across her dress. And they’re both laughing like it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened. They probably haven’t noticed it on the walls yet.

“Petra!” Stella says, her face lighting up when she sees me.

Sasha’s laugh stills when he notices me standing there. “Hey, I didn’t realize you were here already.” He sounds happy to see me, but his face is expressionless, so I can’t tell for sure. He clasps Stella’s shoulder when she tries to step off the step stool toward me. “You’re covered in cake batter,” he reminds her softly.

“Can people always get in this easily without you knowing?” I ask as I set the bag with the cake on the counter, then use both hands to set the bag of wine on the counter next to it so I can make sure neither bottle falls over.

He uses a dish towel to wipe some of the cake batter off Stella’s face, but she swats his hand away because she’s clearly enjoying licking all the batter she can reach with her little tongue. “I have a list of people who the front door staff know can access the apartment any time they want, which is why you were let up.” He wipes the towel slowly along the counter, but his voice is defensive, which means he doesn’t realize I was teasing. And also—what?—I’m on this list of his?

“Who else is on your list?” I lean my hip against the counter and cross my arms under my chest, keeping my voice teasing and my pose casual.

“The nanny will be when she starts next week.”

“So I’m the only one?”

My eyebrows knit together. He eyes me, then glances down at Stella. “Do you want to go take a quick shower before CeCe and Tony get here?”

Stella nods and hops off the stool.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

“No, I can take a shower myself,” she assures him. “I’ll be right back for my hug,” she tells me as she runs past me on her way out of the room.

Sasha looks down at his shirt, then glances around at the mess. “So much for dessert.”

“Lucky for you, I brought some.” I reach into the bag and take out the box so he can see the cake through the cellophane wall on the front and top.

“And you picked Stella’s favorite bakery. She’s going to be very happy.”

“Need help cleaning this up?” I ask as I glance around, trying to figure out how many surfaces are covered in cake batter.

He looks at the sleeveless shirtdress I’m wearing with a pair of wedges. “I don’t want you to get batter all over yourself too,” he says. He reaches behind his neck and pulls his T-shirt over his head effortlessly.

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