Page 51 of Night So Silent
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two Days Until Christmas
Barrett
Did I seriously just do that?
Letting out a forlorn breath, I brush my fingertips across Edie’s back as she tip-toes over my lap to her place on the sofa. She looks perfectly content while I’m ready to have a panic attack. That is, if I didn’t feel strangely calm. Maybe that’s just what I assume will happen after I did something so out of character.
I blurted out a declaration of love to Sergei in the middle of his living room.
Love!
He didn’t burst out laughing at me, so I guess that’s a plus. But still…what was I thinking? What the hell is going on?
I spend a few days in this house with Sergei Mikhailov, who I only met last week, bond over a game of chess, inadvertently take his virginity…
Virginity—another stupid construct that’s weaseled its way into everyday language.
It doesn’t matter. The point is that now I’m angry because he agreed to take me to the airport, after he told me that I’m his mate for life. He can’t just say something like that, tie me to his bed while I’m still sleeping, and then agree to let me leave! I don’t know what I expected; for him to demand that I stay?
Maybe…
I want to smash something. But, instead, I begin to quietly cry to myself as I drag my ass off the sofa. It's almost Christmas,my favorite time of the year, and I’m standing here crying by myself. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I could’ve said I was leaving tonight, but the truth is that I want to stay. But how can I? My house, my family, and mycareerare all back in Ohio. It’s not the most exciting place in the world, but it’s still where my life is. Isn’t it?
And then there’s the drama waiting for me when I return. I’m dreading going back to work and finding out what Derek and his Napoleon complex have in store for me. And then there are those texts from Caleb that Sergei deleted before I could read them. Well, I could have read them, but I chose not to because they were getting more and more unhinged. The pit in my stomach grows with each second that I think about it. I hope Caleb has it out of his system by now, but there’s no way for me to know that. Either way, I can’t think about it anymore tonight.
It's the day before Christmas Eve, I’m here in Colorado, in Sergei’s house, and I don’t want to waste a second of the time I have left. I don’t know how long he’ll be gone, but I feel like I should be doing something. It’ll be dinnertime soon, which gives me an idea. I pull out my phone and try to remember what he said about Christmas Eve in Russia. After a couple of Internet searches, I finally find the word I’m looking for.
What the hell issolyankaanyway?
It must be a soup because he mentioned his mom making it in a pot. I can dig up everything about some random guy my friend meets at a martini bar, down to what role he played in a middle school rendition ofWest Side Story, so I’m certain I can find a recipe for whatever this is. It actually doesn’t look too complicated. That is, if Sergei’s pantry is relatively well-stocked. The recipe itself sounds like one big delicious bowl of umami, so I’m hoping it’s not a total disappointment.
Lucky for me, Sergei has a package ofsausage in his freezer, along with some Genoa salami in the fridge. But I’m still missingone of the primary ingredients, because thiswouldbe a soup with three different cured meats in it. I’d say I’m shocked, but I’m not because there’s no way a man his size doesn’t consume a massive amount of protein on the regular, which is clear from the stacks of chicken and salmon in his kitchen freezer.
But didn’t he say he has a deep freeze? I think he said it was in the shed, but I don’t remember. I was kind of distracted…
I can’t imagine he doesn’t have bacon around here somewhere. Deer bacon? Elk bacon? Werewolf bacon? Whatever, I’m committed to this recipe now. Apparently, my love language is acts of service, evident by my makeshift Christmas decorations and now my copycat holiday soup. Granted, I never realized it until now because I’ve never felt the need to make holiday soup from scratch for anyone.
God, what has this man done to me?
I glance across the living room at the front door. I could just run out and check. But Sergei’s last words to me still echo in the back of my mind. They were cryptic and vague, much like him, but I still can’t brush them off. Because I still saw tracks in the snow, and something creeping around the porch, andsomethingin the trees this morning. The more I think about it, I decide that the bacon can wait until Sergei returns.
I only have to substitute a couple of ingredients, like water for broth and crushed tomatoes for tomato paste, but with some extra seasoning, I’m pretty impressed with myself. After turning the burner down to low so the soup can simmer, I check the time and stroll over to the window next to the front door. Night has come, and although the snow illuminates the darkness, I hope Sergei returns soon.
After another minute, I return to the kitchen and send him a text, asking his ETA. Before, I didn’t want to seem like a nag. But,now, that seems laughable. Maybe he’ll even like it. But just as I press Send, there’s a flash outside the window and thelight in the shed turns on. I don’t see anyone, but after a few moments, it goes dark again.
I crane my neck and look side to side, but I can’t see far enough to the garage at the back of the house. Maybe he’s already home and I didn’t see him pull in. I was trying to replicate a Russian soup that I’ve never heard of, after all. Speaking of which, I still need to search for cured meat hiding out in the alleged deep freeze in his shed. There’s no way in hell that I’d go out there by myself, but if he’s already here, I’ll just meet him before he comes inside.
I’m just really excited to see him.
I also can’t remember the last time I felt this way about a man. Usually, I look forward to seeing a guy I’m dating, but there’s always low-key suspicion involved. I try to expect the inevitable disappointment.
I also can’t remember whether I’ve ever cooked for a man before. Cookedwitha man, maybe, but I’m not sure that late-night mac and cheese after a night of drinking counts. This might be a new chapter in the Barrett Halsey Files. But Sergei had better not get used to this, especially with his own superior culinary skills.
Peering out the window again, I decide I’ve waited long enough and if I’m going to add another ingredient to this love potion, then I need to do it soon. After pulling on my boots and parka, I take a breath and steel myself for the Arctic blast as I tug open the door. The prints on the porch are gone, the steps and walkway cleared by Sergei. At least now I won’t bust my ass on the ice on my way to the shed.
