decimating his opponents with a barrage of cleverly worded facts and figures. I don’t really follow politics—my mom thought all politicians were the scum of the earth, and her opinions have rubbed off on me—but this guy, Tom Bransford, is prominent enough that I know who he is. At fifty-five years of age, he’s one of the youngest candidates in the presidential race, and is so good-looking and charismatic he’s been compared with John F. Kennedy. Not that he’s got anything on my employer.
If Nikolai ran for president, the entire female population of the United States would need a change of panties after each debate.
The time on the screen changes to 7:56, and I power off the TV. Maybe tonight I’ll have a chance to watch something, preferably a light, funny comedy. Nothing romantic, though—I need to take my mind off Nikolai and the confusing situation between us, not be reminded of it.
I don’t want another sleepless night where my body aches with arousal and my thoughts loop in an X-rated reel, replaying his dirty promises and the dark, heated images they conjure up.
To my surprise, Nikolai isn’t at the table when I get down there at 7:59 on the dot. His sister is, though, and so is Slava. The child gives me a bright grin that contrasts with Alina’s much cooler smile, and I smile back at them both, even though the thought of what Alina saw last night makes me want to slink away and never show my face in this house again.
“Good morning,” I say, taking my usual seat next to Slava. It’s tempting to avoid Alina’s gaze, but I’m determined not to give in to my embarrassment.
So what if she caught me making out with her brother? It’s not like I’m a governess in Victorian times who was seen canoodling with the lord of the manor.
“Good morning.” Alina’s tone is neutral, her expression carefully controlled. “Nikolai is on a call, so he won’t be joining us for breakfast.”
“Oh, okay.” I again experience that strange mixture of disappointment and relief, as if a hard test I’ve been studying for has been rescheduled. Though I’ve tried not to think about Nikolai this morning, I must’ve been subconsciously psyching myself up for seeing him here because I feel deflated despite the easing of the tension in my shoulders.
Slipping my hand into my pocket, I take out the little jewelry box and hand it to Alina. “Thank you for loaning me this last night.”
Her long black lashes sweep down as she takes it from me. “No problem. Some grechka?” she asks, gesturing at a pot of dark-colored grain sitting next to her. Breakfast here appears to be a much simpler affair, with only a jar of honey and a few platters of berries, nuts, and cut fruit accompanying the main dish.
Nodding gratefully, I hand Alina my bowl. “I’d love some, thank you.” I’m beyond happy she’s acting normally. Hopefully, it’ll continue.
When she hands the bowl back to me, I try a spoonful of the grain she called “grechka.” It turns out to be surprisingly flavorful, with a rich, nutty taste. Mimicking what Alina is doing, I add fresh berries and walnuts into my bowl and drizzle the whole thing with honey.
“It’s roasted buckwheat,” she explains as I dig in. “Back home, it’s usually eaten as a savory side, often mixed with some variation of pan-fried carrots, mushrooms, and onions. But I like it this way, more like oatmeal.”
“I think it’s tastier than oatmeal.”
Alina nods, ladling Slava his portion of the grain. “That’s why I like it for breakfast.” She tops Slava’s bowl with berries, nuts, and a generous drizzle of honey and places it in front of the boy, who immediately sticks his spoon in. Instead of eating, however, he starts chasing a blueberry around the bowl while making engine noises under his breath.
I grin, realizing I’m finally seeing him play with his food like a normal kid. Catching his gaze, I wink and start stacking my blueberries on top of each other, like I’m building a tower. I make it only to the second level before the berries roll off each other, landing in the portion of the grain made sticky by the honey.
I grimace, feigning dismay, and Slava giggles and starts building a berry tower of his own. It turns out much better than mine since he uses honey as glue and props up his blueberries with cut strawberries.
“Very good,” I say with an impressed expression. “You really