22. Natalya

Chapter 22

Natalya

I manage to sleep. I don’t really know how.

After Alex came back with a laundry basket of my clean clothes, I retreated into the bathroom to take a shower. Then I crawled under the sheets and pretended like he wasn’t lying next to me, mostly naked since of course he only sleeps in his boxer-briefs. The heat of him made the room feel like an oven.

Or maybe that’s just the claustrophobia of being so near to him.

But it’s strange. I figured I’d be tossing and turning all night—I haven’t exactly been sleeping well since marrying my current husband—but instead, it’s like the moment my head hit the pillow, all my worries drained away.

Out on the couch I felt totally alone and exposed in that big, beautiful living room.

Even in the guest bed, I was extremely aware that there was nobody nearby.

For some sick reason that I don’t really want to analyze, lying next to Alex in his bed relaxes me.

It should have the opposite effect. I should be squirming and kicking my legs from discomfort and stress.

That’s not what happens.

I feel warm and safe for the first time in a long, long time.

Like just being beside him means there’s somebody that knows me and cares about me.

Like I’m finally not so insufferably alone.

The good feelings last until I wake up to the sound of a power drill.

“What the hell?” I mutter, licking my lips, bleary and confused. The bed next to me is empty and the clock says it’s exactly seven in the morning.

Then the hammering starts.

“What the hell!” I sit up in bed. Alex’s side is perfectly pristine—he must’ve made it while I was unconscious. The hammering starts, and I collapse back down.

Until the drilling starts again.

“This is a nightmare,” I groan as the noise continues for another ten minutes before I finally can’t stand it anymore.

I get up, use the bathroom, and throw on clothes. I find Alex at the front door installing a new deadbolt with multiple boxes of electronic equipment at his side.

I gape at him, trying to understand how a human adult man in his right mind could ever think it’s acceptable to do home improvement tasks at seven in the morning .

“Took you long enough,” he says when he notices me standing there. “You snore.”

I stare at him, only partially awake, and a million retorts rush through my mind.

Unfortunately, he’s presently shirtless and wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans, which makes forming clever comebacks hard as fucking hell.

The man’s sculpted. It’s not remotely fair. He looks like he lives on a diet of boiled chicken, kale salad, and manual labor. He’s got fifty abs, each chiseled, and a chest of iron. Tattoos cover him, snaking along his skin, and I think he’s gotten a few more since the last time I saw him shirtless. His hips make me believe in the concept of divine perfection, and those weird muscles that lead down to his dick make me want to join a nunnery just to get these sinful thoughts from my head.

Instead, I blurt out, “It’s too fucking early for this!”

He grins at me. The bastard knows what he’s doing. “I waited long enough,” he says with a shrug. “I wanted to start an hour ago. I let you sleep in instead.”

My eye bug out. “What the hell are you even doing?”

“Installing a security system.” He gestures at the boxes. “State of the art sensors and locks.”

“How? Why? Where the hell did you get all that?”

“Tools. To keep you safe. And I got a guy.” He taps his drill against his shoulder. “Are you done staring at me like you’re a horny teenager? Can I get back to work?”

My face turns red because yeah, I was staring, but screw him. “You’re infuriating. You’re insane!”

“I’m doing what I have to do to keep you safe.” He hits the trigger on the drill a few times like a cowboy shooting at the sky. “Now, if you’d excuse me?” He brushes past me carrying some of the boxes into the living room.

I retreat back to the bedroom—now apparently our bedroom—and take a shower. When I get out, he’s hard at work running wires and cutting holes. I last just long enough to make some coffee, pour it into a to-go mug, and sneak out the front. The noise of drilling and some creative Russian curses masks the sound of my escape.

It’s a nice morning. I go for a short walk, but inevitably end up at the music shop again. I pass it three times before I work up the nerve to head inside.

The old woman’s sitting behind the counter. She’s in another tracksuit—this one primarily a sea-foam green with white accents—and has a visor over her white hair. “I was wondering if you’d come inside,” she says and sound genuinely happy to see me again.

I smile sheepishly. “You noticed?”

“You passed me twice. Hard to miss you.”

“Three times,” I say and when she laughs I relax a little bit. “My name’s Natalya.”

“Pattie. Are you playing again today?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not in the slightest, but I’ll warn you, I’m going to lurk around and listen. Also, I’m very nosy.”

“That’s fine with me.”

She beams and gestures toward the back of the shop. “She’s all yours then.”

When I sit on the bench and begin to play, all the stress slowly releases from my shoulders. The tension from waking up in Alex’s bed, the frustration at his noise, the distracting, pulsing need at the sight of his shirtless body. Nothing is simple about my life right now, but this, right here, playing my music, this grounds me. This brings me back home.

Pattie makes me tea when I’m done and I stand up at the front desk with her for a little while. She tells me about opening the shop twenty years ago with her late husband, about playing in local jazz bands around the city before that, about teaching and fixing and living a life of music.

“It sounds amazing,” I tell her, practically gushing at the idea. “I’ve always wanted to play for people, but?—“

“You’ve seriously never performed before?”

“Not really. I mean, for my family and my piano teachers, but, you know—“ I gesture in the air. “Not for an audience.”

“Incredible. Honestly, I’m not saying this to bullshit you, but you’re extremely talented. And I’ve heard a lot of pianists in my time.”

“Thank you,” I say even though I’m not sure I believe her. I know I’m good—that’s not even arrogance, it’s just a fact—but there’s a limit to how far I could go. Maybe once upon a time, maybe if I had a different, more supportive father, if my family had let me pursue the dream?—

But that’s not my life.

“I like to put on little concerts in here sometimes. Just private things for music friends of mine. You should come one night.”

“I’d love that.”

“Perfect. Give me your email. God, I love email. My daughter set me up with gmail and now I’m addicted to the stuff. I send like twenty of these things a day.”

We exchange addresses and I leave feeling refreshed and happy. I don’t know how, but it feels like I just made a friend and found a way into a world I didn’t even know existed. A little musical oasis.

I start walking back to the apartment. The sun’s out and birds sing in the trees. I’m light and breezy, and barely paying attention to my surroundings.

Which is how I don’t notice the black BMW until it turns right in front of me, tires spinning out of control, smoke billowing up as it slams on its breaks.

The door throws open and I stagger away, hands coming up to stifle a scream.