Page 79 of Ruined Vows
I just say, “Yeah.”
They both freeze.
Bianca looks at me with wide eyes. “Did you just?—”
“I did.” And I mean it. Even if she doesn’t believe me yet.
I’m halfway through painting what might generously be called a “very abstract horse” when the chair beside me shifts.
An older man with a face like cracked leather and hands that still look like they could snap a wrist sits down with a groan. He smells like pipe smoke and peppermint candies. He eyes my painting as if it personally offended him.
Then, in thick-accented Russian, he grumbles.
“?? ??????? ?????, ??? ????? ??? ???.”
You hold that brush like it’s a knife.
I snort.
“? ?????? ??????, ?? ????????.”
I’m used to cutting, not painting.
He gives me a knowing look.
“?? ?? ????? ? ???????? ? ???????, ??? ?????? ????. ????? ????????? ????????.”
But you’re sitting next to a girl with eyes like a summer storm. That’s worth learning to paint.
I glance across the table at Bianca. She’s laughing with Edie, paint is streaked on her hand, a small smudge on her cheek, unaware—or so I think.
“??? ????????. ??????? ????.”
She’s beautiful. Dangerous too, I say.
He nods sagely.
“????????? ?????????.”
Perfect combination.
I chuckle under my breath.
“?? ??????, ??? ?? ?? ????.”
You know we’re not a couple.
The man shrugs.
“??. ???.”
Yet.
Before I can answer, Bianca’s voice cuts in—in Russian.
“?????, ?? ?? ????… ?? ?? ?? ?????? ????????.”
Maybe we’re not a couple… but you’re not entirely wrong.
