“Where should I put the napkin?” I asked, holding it up.
“Oh, here.” He took it from me, and our fingers touched. “I’ll throw it in the laundry.”
He disappeared down the back hall. A few seconds later, he returned to the kitchen and reached behind me to turn off the lights. For a moment, we stood there in the dark, neither of us moving. He was close enough that I could see the rise and fall of his chest, hear his breath, close enough that I found myself thinking two very dangerous words—what if?
Then he brushed past me. “You have to be exhausted. Come on upstairs. I’ll show you your room, and then I’ll come back down and turn the rest of the lights off.”
Saying nothing, I followed him through the dining room and living room and up the stairs. I was exhausted—so exhausted my mind was playing tricks on me. Making me think crazy things.
Because for a second there, I’d almost thought Derek was about to kiss me.
Go to bed, Maxim. You’re delirious.
At the top of the steps, Derek turned left. “Guest bathroom is right here,” he said, opening a door off the hall and turning on the light. “Towels are right here on the sink, and—” He opened a drawer and took out a toothbrush and toothpaste, still in their boxes. “You can use these.”
I stood outside the bathroom, peering in. “This is incredible. In Russia, we normally have a single bathroom for the entire apartment that all the family members share.”
“Sounds crowded.” He opened the shower door as if to check something. “Shampoo and conditioner are in there.”
“Thank you.”
He came out of the bathroom and I stepped aside to let him by, but his shoulder brushed my chest. My stomach tightened—I hadn’t been this attracted to someone in a long time.
“And you can sleep in this room,” he said, opening the next door down. He moved inside and switched on the light.
The room held a big double bed neatly made up with striped bedding, a dark wood dresser beneath a huge framed mirror, and matching nightstands topped with identical lamps. Just like all the rooms downstairs, there were small, personal touches that made the guest bedroom even more welcoming—art on the walls. Candles. Plants by the windows. A bottle of water on the nightstand. Half a dozen pillows on the bed, one of which said Sweet Dreams.
“This is beautiful,” I said.
“I’m sure you’d prefer a hotel, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“Not at all.” I shook my head in disbelief. “This is much better than a hotel.”
He shrugged like it was no big deal and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Need anything else? I can get you something to sleep in if you’d like. Or some clothes for tomorrow?”
Normally I would have said no, but the prospect of wearing something of Derek’s was too tempting. “If it’s not too much trouble. I feel like I’ve had this stuff on for days.”
“No trouble. Just give me a minute.” He left the room, and I stood there feeling guilty. A couple hours ago, I hadn’t even wanted to accept the offer to stay in his house. Now I was asking for his clothes? You don’t need his fucking clothes. Stop it.
But when he came back in the room and set a stack of clothing on the bed, my pulse quickened. “Thank you.”
“Let me know if you need anything else. My bedroom is across the hall.”
Oh, fuck. “Okay.”
He put his hands in his pockets again. “Tomorrow you'll probably want to sleep in. I’m going to the gym early in the morning, but I’ll try not to wake you. I’ll be back around nine.”
I nodded, but I’d barely heard what he was saying. I was too busy trying not to think about his room being right across the hall.
“If you do wake up and want breakfast, help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” His broad shoulders lifted. “Guess that’s it.”
Don’t leave yet. “Derek, thank you again for all of this.”
“No problem.” He headed for the door. “Night.”
“Night.”
He shut the door behind him, and I went over to the bed, sat next to the clothing he’d brought me, and placed one hand on the top of the pile.
I told myself he was this kind to everyone.
I told myself I wasn’t special—I was just a favor to his sister.
I told myself I’d only imagined the tension between us downstairs in the dark.
But I wished I hadn’t.
Seven
DEREK
I closed the guest room door behind me and stood still for a moment, my hand still on the knob. Had I thought of everything? Was there anything else he would need? I’d told him about the towels, right? Maybe he’d like an extra blanket? Some deodorant? A razor?
What the hell are you doing? Leave him alone already.
I yanked my hand off the knob as if it had burned me and went downstairs. After locking the back door and setting the alarm, I walked through the shadowy kitchen and noticed his notebook on the counter, right next to his phone. I picked it up, fighting the urge to look inside it. What was it, a journal or something? Or a screenplay? Curiosity about him battled with my conscience.
Put it down, asshole. Whatever it is, it’s private.
I set it on the counter again, but I couldn’t stop looking at it. Maybe he’d want it upstairs. And what about his phone? He’d need that up there, wouldn’t he?
Stop it. He’s probably asleep already.
I could knock softly.
You could let it go until morning.
But he might want to call his friend again tonight.
That’s an excuse and you know it.
It was. And I did.
Frowning, I stood there for a few minutes with one hand on his phone. The truth was, I was drawn to him, and it wasn’t only his looks. It was his warmth and optimism. His manners. His gratitude. He struck me as someone who didn’t take things for granted like a lot of Americans do. And I liked the way he’d come here determined to change his life, leaving everything and everyone he knew behind. Not because he felt entitled to something better, but because he had a dream and he was willing to work for it. He was almost like someone from another era—part of a generation of immigrants that had come here and built this country into what it was today. They might not have had a lot of resources, but they had backbone. Fortitude. Grit.
And okay, fine—I liked that he’d taken his shoes off without my having to ask.
But I was worried for him too. How was he going to get by? Did he at least have some money saved? Where would he live? How was he going to eat? I felt protective of him somehow, almost like since I’d come to his rescue, now I was responsible for making sure he’d be okay here.
Don’t be fucking ridiculous. He’s twenty-four, not twelve. He doesn’t need you. Plus, he has a friend here already.