14. Anna

14

ANNA

W hen I step into Adam, he’s so solid and real. Next to my eyeline, a pulse thrums in his neck and I’m seized by a sudden urge to press my lips to it. I breathe in a faint smell of coffee and something metallic and sharp, like lingering wood smoke, as his hand presses between my shoulder blades, every finger strong on my spine. I should move away now, but I take one more inhale, and, as if he can sense me on the edge of retreat, his arms tighten momentarily. My chest is pressing into his hard pecs, and his long legs brush against mine. It’s not sexual exactly just …

“It’s my pleasure,” he rumbles, and his deep tone vibrates through me.

Sighing, I sink into him as his fingers drift down to press into my lower back. But I can’t stand here getting sucked into his warmth and how nice it is to just be held, with no expectations or worry that this person could harm me in some way, twist my arm or twist my heart or get me sent back to Russia.

Although I liked Arty when we first started dating—he was sexy, charismatic, and such a good-looking guy—I was wary of his surface charm. A meanness would rise up every so often, and I knew that was always lurking inside him and could rear its head at any time, with me as its target. Adam isn’t charming in that obvious way: He’s not out to please anyone, but he is full of a genuine quiet appeal.

But I’ve gotten Adam involved in a fight and with the police. There’s helping each other out and then there’s dragging someone into some difficulty that they don’t need to be involved in. I don’t want to bring trouble to Adam’s door. I step back and blink up at him and his eyes do a slow circuit of my face and my lips when I lick them. He blinks several times and sucks in a deep breath.

“Let’s hope that’s the last of the excitement for tonight,” he says, and I tilt my head at him, the couple of inches between us snapping like a forcefield.

My hand flutters up. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it—maybe squeeze his arm—but he steps back and clears his throat, so I step back, too, and wave my hand at him. “Sleep tight, Adam. Thanks again.”

I turn and go to my own bedroom, where Pepper, in her usual position curled up on the left side of the bed, greets me with raised ears and a turn of her head. As I take off my lounge gear and slide between the cool sheets, she curls into my waist and I stare at the ceiling and play with her soft ears. She lets out a long, shivering doggy sigh.

Adam has enough on his plate with his business, and possibly with some past relationship history he doesn’t want to talk about. I huff and roll onto my side, pulling up my notes app and jotting down things I have to organize. I’ve employed security once or twice, but I need to think more seriously about it. I talked to Adam about scrutiny, but not about putting himself in physical danger. I should be concentrating on my tennis, on the pain in my elbow and my hip, not that I’ve got an ex-boyfriend who’s a publicity-seeking slimeball and is trying to intimidate me. A text in Russian flashes across the top of my screen as my phone buzzes in my hand:

What’s going on?

Kira. Why is my sister texting me so late? Oh God, the videos of tonight must already be online. And my mind skips back to the bedroom we shared for so long in my parents’ cozy apartment in St. Petersburg, full of my grandmother’s old furniture and patterned quilts.

Just Arty being a jerk. Don’t tell Mama.

Too late!

Ugh. Then:

Dad’s had some calls.

From who?

ANNA! People in tennis, the usual suspects. Just don’t piss anyone off.

A shiver runs through me. I feel like I’m always pissing someone off. Another message appears on my phone:

Who is this guy, anyway?

Just a friend.

He’s cute!

She follows it with a winking emoji, and it makes me smile. But who’s pressuring them? Calling my dad? Turning over again, I punch my pillow as Pepper shifts beside me. I don’t want to give up on my friendship with Adam. It’s gone from a fun night when we first met into something deeper and steadier. Something I’d call a real friendship, something I don’t feel I’ve had before. There’s not many people I trust. Not even really my sister or my parents. They could so easily be manipulated or blackmailed in Russia. Adam’s rapidly become someone I could turn to for help.

But how are we going to navigate this? What seemed like useful media interest has now morphed into something else. The video clips must already be circulating, but I’m too tired to look—the press is going to have a field day and Adam is right in the middle of it. If I were him, I’d be running for the hills.