Page 101 of 10 Days to Ruin

Sasha’s scowl darkens. I wonder if he’s going to outright refuse.

Then, slowly—like a jaguar lowering itself into a bath—he descends to a seat behind me. His thighs bracket my hips. Heat sinks through my jeans.

Gina picks up his hands and tries to put them on my belly. “Hands there. Hold her.Protecther. Protect your baby-to-be.”

But he resists. His hands hover near my waist, a half-inch of very important space separating them from me. “If you don’t touch me, she’ll make us do it again,” I hiss.

He growls. Another moment of wondering if this is all about to blow up in my face.

But then he does it. Presses his palms to my stomach. Gently, devotedly. His breath fans over the nape of my neck the exact same way.

Gentle.

Devoted.

Worship.

To make things even worse, Gina then drops a plastic baby onto my chest. “Skin-to-skin! Bond vit spawn!”

Sasha freezes as he gazes at it over my shoulder. The doll’s painted eyelashes tickle my collarbone. His palm hovers over its lumpy back.

And for one stupid, suspended second, I glimpse it all—us, in some alternate universe. Him pressed against me in a hospital bed, sweat-damp and coaxing me on in proud Russian as a real baby wails. A baby with blue eyes and auburn hair. A little bit of him. A little bit of me.

My throat constricts.

His pinky grazes my neck. “This is absurd,” he whispers.

“It’s working, though.” I tilt my head, catching his gaze. The classroom fades away and all I see is him. “Admit it. You’re picturing me eight months pregnant. Huge. Raging. Demanding blinis at the ass crack of dawn. Then you demanding another five children right away.”

“Never.” His thumb traces the doll’s spine. “I’d want six.”

My heart lurches.

The smell of patchouli and way too much lavender clings to Sasha’s suit as we stumble back onto the sidewalk. Madame Giana’s cackle follows us out the studio door, muffled only when he slams it shut hard enough to rattle the hydrant next to his car.

Neither of us moves to leave.

Instead, both of us stand marooned on the sidewalk, awkwardly twisting in the wind. His hand drifts toward his collar to undo the top button like he’s still suffocating under that foam belly. I watch his throat work—that angry scar, the faint stubble—and think absurdly of rocking chairs. Baby names. Brooklyn brownstones with too many stairs for a stroller, so he’d just pick it up—stroller, baby, mama—and carry us over the threshold himself.

Snap out of it, Ward.

“Hope you took notes,” I mumble, kicking a pebble. “We’ll have a pop quiz later.”

Sasha just stares at the sky.

The streetlight above us buzzes. His keys jingle as he sighs. The sound reignites the phantom weight of his palms on my belly.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You seem… bothered.”

He drags his gaze down to me. As he does, his eyes soften—no,melt—and I see the man from the restaurant again. The one who looked at me like I was both the grenade that will kill him and the pin it came with.

Then he’s stepping back, jaw steeled. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired.”

I want to poke, to prod, to pry until he tells me what’s really happening in his head. With a face that beautiful, it’s sometimes hard to imagine him as a real person.

But heisreal. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

And I know what I just felt in that stupid room. I know he felt it, too.

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