Page 7 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

Zara's visits become a regular occurrence, each one both sweetly anticipated and agonizing in its brevity. Like an addict, I find myself craving her presence, concocting increasingly flimsy pretexts to summon her—curtains an inch too short, squeakydoors. Trivial issues that could be easily remedied, but I pounce on them as opportunities.

"Ah, Zara, I'm so glad you could make it," I greet her warmly as she arrives yet again at my behest. My eyes drink her in hungrily—the blonde silken hair, the graceful lines of her throat, her lush, kissable mouth. "I'm afraid I need your expert opinion on reupholstering the ottoman in my study. And I was thinking I’d like to change the door to the living room to a fluted one."

She smiles, guileless and sunny. "Lead the way.”

Once inside, we sit and pour over fabric choices. “I want to suggest something, but I’m afraid you might not like it,” she says, looking at me with her eyes all squinted, playful, teasing, inviting.

“Tell me,” I urge, sitting back against my seat.

“Tweed,” she says, wincing.

“Tweed?” I raise my brows incredulously. “Like, granny tweed?”

“Well, not exactly,” she sings. “Your room is hyper-masculine. But we can use darker tones of tweed—brown and white, or black and gray. Still masculine in colors, but it could add a touch of softness to the room. Here,” she says, leaning forward with a sample book in hand, pointing at a small flutter of fabric. “Something like this.”

I lean forward and touch the fabric, gently letting the idea seep into my mind. Now that she points it out, I get it. “Let’s go with it,” I declare.

“Really?” she asks, her eyes widening with excitement.

I nod, not wishing to state the simple fact that, at this point, she could sell me neon pink, and I’d take it.Anything to keep her happy.

“You’ve got a good eye, you know?” is what I choose to go with instead. It’s the bare truth, and she deserves to hear it. “You see spaces in ways others don’t. You make the unexpected just click.”

“Thank you.” She bows her head slightly in a gracious movement.

I lean back, crossing my legs casually as I study Zara. “What made you choose interior design as a career?”

Her posture relaxes slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, well… I've always been drawn to beautiful spaces. Even as a child, I was constantly rearranging my room."

"Is that so?" I prompt, genuinely intrigued. "Tell me more."

Zara's eyes light up, her hands moving animatedly as she speaks. "It's the way a well-designed space can affect mood, you know? The right colors, textures, lighting… it can transform not just a room but the people in it. I’ve often found families can be happier, if they choose to change how their home is built at the moment. I know it sounds silly, but—"

“It doesn’t,” I say, hating how she’s cutting down the impact of her own theory. “Human psychology is dependent on the environment. I’ve often said so myself.”

She nods gently, her eyes locking with mine. Not wanting to break away from the fact that she’s finally opening up to me, I push my luck further. “What about your work at the gallery? How does that tie in?"

"The gallery!" she exclaims, her whole demeanor shifting. "It's my passion project. I've always believed art shouldn't be confined to sterile white walls. Our exhibits integrate pieces into livable spaces, showing how art can enhance daily life and spark imagination."

As Zara continues, her enthusiasm is infectious. I find myself leaning closer, captivated by the way her eyes sparkle, the flush in her cheeks. She speaks of color theory and spatial dynamics with the fervor of a true artist.

"You know," I interject softly, "I'd love to see your work sometime. Perhaps a private tour of the gallery?"

Zara pauses, seeming to remember herself. "Oh, I… that's very kind of you, Abram. We do offer guided tours by appointment."

And with that, she shuts down again. But I now know the way into her soul…art.

***

Later that evening, I find myself pacing my study, her scent still lingering in the air from the chair she sat in. I pick up my phone, scrolling to her number. My thumb hovers over the call button, hesitating. What excuse can I use this time?

I press dial before I can talk myself out of it.

"Zara? It's Abram," I say when she answers, my voice low. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all," she replies, a hint of surprise in her tone. "Is everything alright?"

I chuckle softly. "Yes, I just… I was thinking about that sculpture you mentioned. The one with the intertwining metal ribbons. I can't seem to get it out of my mind."

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