Page 21 of Night So Silent
I stare at the wall, images of Sergei’s naked body still flashing through my mind. Between his moonstone blue eyes and mountain range of back muscles that lead straight to his Greek god-level ass, I’ll need a change of underwear by the time I decide to crawl out of this bed. And based on what I saw last night, he has better hair than I do. How is that even possible? I mean, what the fuck?Oops.This trip is not helping my New Year's resolution. It should be illegal for a man to be this beautiful. There must be something wrong with him—mentally, emotionally, psychologically…
I don’t know how long I lay there thinking about it, but I suddenly flinch when I feel something move against my foot. I jerk my head up, eyes wide, to find Edie, the little black cat, kneading the comforter at the end of the bed. I rise from the pillow, stretching my hand toward her. Edie cranes her neck to sniff my fingertip and then rubs her chin over my hand. She’s so soft and the vibration of her purr awakens a feeling that I’ve missed, but not dared entertain since I lost Roux.
Edie rolls onto her back and grabs my arm with her front and back legs, nibbling my fingers.
“Oh, you stop!” I murmur with amusement, retracting my hand before her back claws catch me.
A bittersweet warmth fills my heart. Roux used to do the same thing. He was old, but still a kitten at heart. I reach for Edieagain, giving her another scratch under the chin before deciding that I’m probably not going back to sleep.
I take my time getting dressed, the realization setting in that I’m snowed in at an unfamiliar house on a mountain across the country. At least I have my e-reader, a fact that instantly fills me with excitement. I’m stuck in a house straight out of IKEA with a thousand books I haven’t had a chance to read.
Oh, darn…
But when I slowly come out of the bedroom, the house is quiet. Dark clouds still hang over the mountain, spitting snow against the windows that stretch across the length of the house. Sergei is nowhere to be found, but I come to a halt when I see the table.
There’s an empty ceramic coffee mug sitting next to a stainless-steel creamer and jar of cane sugar. In front of the mug is a small dish with three hard boiled eggs in it and a plate with two Danishes on it—one cheese and one dark berry of some sort.
Well, shit.
I don’t even chastise myself this time for the poor choice of words.
How perfectly lovely.
From the way he talks, I half expected to find a can of instant coffee and a granola bar, if anything at all. But he did make ramen last night.Goodramen…
And much like dinner, the breakfast is amazing. Everything is cooked perfectly and the coffee in the carafe is nice and strong without being bitter. And eating by myself the morning after another airport disaster is surprisingly refreshing. It feels like I’m simultaneously home and still on vacation. I’m not sure where Sergei is, especially since it looks like the sky opened up and dropped three feet of snow, but I doubt I should be worried. Since I’m the only one here besides Edie, I pour another mug ofcoffee, settle onto the couch, and get lost in a new book for the rest of the morning, relishing the glorious silence.
It must be a few hours until Sergei returns. However, I wouldn’t know for sure because I fall asleep at some point and wake up to his daunting figure slouched in the chair adjacent to the sofa, reading a paperback that looks comically small compared to him. I immediately straighten up, acknowledging him with a smile. He, in turn, glances at my reader laying on the cushion next to me.
“How busy have you been today?”
“I think I made it halfway before falling asleep.” I stretch, pulling my sweater sleeves down over my hands. “Where did you go?”
“Out to check the road conditions and look for downed limbs.”
Sergei sets the book—Ada Blackjack—down on the coffee table next to a glossy wooden box with hinges on the side.
“And?”
“Impassable. But no damage to the lines or buildings.”
“That’s fortunate, I suppose. Unfortunately for you, I guess that means I also can’t leave here quite yet. I can always ask Brett if I can stay with them if the road to their house is better.”
I don’t know if it’ll make a difference, but I understand how valuable solitude is when you need it. And I don’t want to impose on Sergei’s. But he doesn’t answer. He only leans forward and places his fingertips on the wooden box, sliding it toward him.
“Do you play chess?”
???
You can tell a lot about someone by how they play chess. Cautious and methodical or bold and assertive, or biding their time like a thunderstorm rolling across the plains. I am cautious and methodical, like my dad taught me to be, playing chessor not. Sergei is like a thunderstorm; distant rumbles with interludes of rain, then a flash of lightning before the wind spins up and takes your house.
It's a good strategy when it works, but it’s also the reason I won the last game. I wonder if Sergei’s like this in real life, too, and not just chess. This, of course, is not something I can ask outright and expect to get an accurate response. Case in point—we’re about to start our third game and neither of us has uttered a word except “checkmate.”
“Are you a secret Russian chess champion?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.
“I have never played chess competitively.”
“Don’t lie, that’s why you moved to Canada, isn’t it? You got too good and they ran you out of the country and the world chess league or whatever it is.”
