“How is that?” I ask.
Kayla turns her wide blue eyes on me. She’s got that Buffy the Vampire Slayer look going—a cute little dynamo in the All-American way. “Sasha’s the one who got me going to Monique, our hairdresser. She’s way out of my budget, but Sasha sniffed out the best in L.A., and that studio is where things happen. I mean, I felt like Monique practically acted as my agent with the agent. You know? Like she made the introduction while we were both sitting next to each other with foils in our hair.”
Sasha shifts in her chair and looks at her manicure. “Well, I’m happy for you, but also—I’m so jealous, bitch.”
Something twists in my chest. Sasha had dreams. Maybe I hoped she hadn’t—that her theatre degree was just some fluffy thing to do while she enjoyed college. Sasha could probably buy that agent’s agency, she could fund her own movies, but I doubted that would be as exciting as the achievement of the Hollywood dream. Getting discovered. Auditioning. Nailing the part. Making it big. Those experiences couldn’t be bought.
But no problem can’t be fixed. That’s my motto, and it’s never failed me. So I’ll have to figure something out. Something that lights my bride up back in Chicago.
Our drinks arrive, and I lift my champagne flute in Kayla’s direction. “To new opportunities.”
“For all of us,” Kayla counters, and we clink glasses.
Sasha steals a look at me. She’s been doing that since we checked out of the hotel, and I hired a driver for the day. He’s sitting in his car somewhere nearby with our belongings safely stowed.
I reach for her hand under the table and squeeze it, and she meets my gaze with a surprisingly vulnerable look. Like part of her wants to slam the door in my face, and the other part wants everything from me—more than she believes I’ll give.
It unsettles me. Not because I wouldn’t give her everything she needed. I mean, I hadn’t thought about it, but I probably would. I’m unnerved because I recognize that chaotic sense of falling. It mirrors my own.
I hadn’t felt it with her until this moment because falling wasn’t in question. She was an obligation. A duty. A job. I didn’t make myself vulnerable when I married her. I made myself rich. My heart was never in play.
But after cracking her shell—after things got real—it’s impossible not to care about her. She gave herself to me today. Not just the sex. I don’t believe a woman’s virginity is some huge momentous gift. I don’t think it’s something Sasha should’ve been required to save for her husband. But the fact is, she did. And I had the privilege of taking it.
“Look at you two, making googly eyes at each other,” Kayla says.
Sasha pulls her hand from mine and picks up her champagne flute. “Yeah, he might not be that bad, as far as husbands go.” She says it lightly, and Kayla laughs but something kindles inside me.
I wink at her. Maybe we’ll become more than an arranged marriage.
Kayla points at me and makes her face stern. “You’d better be good to her,” she warns.
My lips twist with amusement. “Or?”
“Or I’ll kick your ass.”
I nod and cross my heart with my finger. “She’s safe with me. I promise.”
Sasha
Maxim is damn sweet with Kayla. I haven’t had a boyfriend before, but Kayla, Sheri, and Ashley have, and I know from experience that a guy hanging around patiently for girl talk is unusual.
Maxim’s on his best behavior, though, charming Kayla without being flirty. Treating brunch like a continuation of last night’s party, with the champagne and orange juice. He lets us linger for two hours before he finally tosses cash on the table and stands.
I’m certain he’s going to say we have to go straight to the airport, but after we say goodbye to Kayla, he laces fingers with me. “Want to walk on the beach?”
I swallow and nod, stealing a glance at his handsome face.
Gospodi, I do not want to fall in love with this man.
I can’t be crushed again. And worse—he may want me dead although I don’t think so.
“Boardwalk or sand?”
“Sand,” I breathe. Living near the beach was one of the best parts of living in L.A. The weather, the ocean, the culture are all so different from Moscow. When I was here, I pretended I was something else. A native Californian, consumed only with my looks, my health and acting.
We walk down to the sand and take our shoes off. Maxim cuffs his slacks. His shirt sleeves are already rolled up his forearms, giving everyone at brunch a view of his heavily corded forearms and the colorless tattoos that crawl up them.
Maxim takes both pairs of our shoes in one hand and with his other intertwines his fingers with mine. The beach is noisy, teeming with perfect bodies and families with children.