“How did she die?” he asked.
I inhaled and explained, “Heart attack. We found her one day in her chair, it was the anniversary of my dedushka’s death.” I shook my head, the pain of that day still strong. “My mama always said she died of a broken heart.”
Zaal was quiet as he contemplated my words, no doubt thinking about who was responsible for my dedushka’s death. With a sigh, Zaal said quietly, “I do not remember my papa well, Talia. I wear the name Kostava, though I find, apart from a few strong memories that seem set on repeat, I do not know the man at all.” Zaal patted his chest. “But know that I am not my papa. I am not vengeful toward your family.”
I held Zaal tighter. My affection for this man swelled to fill my every cell. He was perfect for me. In every single way.
“She would make me dance,” Zaal suddenly rasped, breaking the heavy silence, and turning the direction of the tense topic.
I lifted my head and asked, “Who?”
His eyes narrowed as he thought something over in his head and he answered, “My grandmama.” His eyes then widened. “She is how I know English. She had lived in America before she married my grandpapa.”
A smile broke on my face. “I always wondered how you knew English.”
“It was her. She said to lead the family we should know English. And Russian.”
My chin rested on Zaal’s packed stomach, and I asked, “She taught you to dance?”
I could see Zaal searching his mind for more memories, when he said, “Yes. She said we needed to be real gentlemen.” He exhaled like the memory took effort to remember. “We would dance to her favorite song, a song she heard in America.”
“What was it? The song?” I pushed eagerly.
He racked his brain and said, “I’ll Walk … I’ll Walk…” His lips pursed and his forehead creased as he pushed the memory. Then his beautiful green eyes lit up. “Alone,” he said. “‘I’ll Walk … Alone.’”
My breathing paused in disbelief.
“What?” Zaal asked, my face obviously showing my surprise.
“It was one of my babushka’s favorites. It’s by Dinah Shore.”
I lifted myself from Zaal’s arms and reached for my phone on the coffee table. I scrolled to my music and found the track. Zaal sat up in interest, and as I turned my head, I just had to pause.
He was so damn beautiful.
My heart raced as he sat there in black sweats and a white T-shirt. His olive-skinned muscles stood out against the paleness of the white and his long hair hung in front of his face. I loved his hair, I really did, but I loved his face more.
Zaal was staring at me. “What?” he asked.
“You’re so handsome,” I said quietly, and felt the blush build on my cheeks. “Takoy krasivyy.”
Zaal regarded me strangely, as if he had no idea why another person would ever regard someone as handsome. I sat with that thought for a second, and realized, he probably didn’t.
Getting to my feet, I walked toward him. Zaal sat up looking at me. His sitting down was almost the same height as me standing.
Reaching up to my hair, I pulled on the band keeping it in a ponytail. My long hair fell down over my shoulders and I held it in my hand.
Zaal frowned. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Can I do something?” I asked. Zaal regarded me warily. I leaned down and ran the back of my hand across his face. “I love your long hair, Zaal, but I want to see your face.”
The frown never moved, but when I raked my hands through his hair, his hands laid on my thighs, his eyes closed, and a low hum sounded in his chest.
I smiled at him and gathered his hair to a knot at the top of his skull. Finished, and wanting to survey my work, I stepped back, and all the air escaped my lungs.