Page 82 of 10 Days to Ruin

“This isn’t funny! I have acareerhere. A life that doesn’t involve—” I gesture wildly at his entire existence.

“Criminal conspiracies? Midnight fireside chats? Me?” His mouth quirks. “Face it,ptichka. You’re stuck with all three.”

I press my palms to my eyelids. “I don’t know why I bother. Just… God, make me understand. Why are you here?”

“You missed our morning check-in call.”

“We don’thavecheck-in calls!”

“We do now.” He plucks a stray Post-It from my hair—a grocery list readingeggs, milk, self-respect—and tucks it into his breast pocket. “Hungry?”

“I’d rather eat my laptop.”

“Good. I know a place.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m squished beside Sasha on a splintered park bench, forcing a smile back at the street vendor who just handed him two dripping hot dogs.

“This is kidnapping,” I mutter, watching him scrutinize the toxic green relish like it might be poison. “Not to mention terrible for my productivity. I have deadlines, you know? Actual journalism to do.”

“Your editor assigned you a story about…” He squints at the mustard smeared on his thumb. “Canine athletes, was it?”

“It’s a human interest piece!”

“It’s a waste of your talent.” He takes an experimental bite, pauses, then devours the rest in three brutal chomps. “Not bad.”

I blink. “Have you… never had a hot dog before?”

“I don’t normally eat food that touches pavement.”

“It’sstreet meat, Sasha. A New York rite of passage.” I snatch the untouched second hot dog from his hand, biting off the tip with relish. Literally. “What’d you survive on as a kid? Caviar and death threats?”

“Vodka, mostly. Bullet casings. The occasional rat.”

“Part of me doesn’t think you’re joking.”

“Part of you might be right. But I’d believe in the joke if I were you—the reality is far uglier.”

He says it like he’s commenting on the weather—cloudy with a chance of childhood trauma. I stare at the half-eaten hot dog in my hand, suddenly nauseous.

“Hey.” His knuckle brushes my wrist. “Eat. You’re shaking.”

“I’m contemplating.”

“You’re hypoglycemic.” He nudges the food toward my lips. “Eat, or I’ll force-feed you.”

“Speaking of adjectives, you’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling. Which is a verb, but true nonetheless.”

I take a grudging bite. The pop of the mustard, the tang of onions—it’s stupidly comforting. Sasha watches me chew with unsettling focus, like he’s memorizing the way my jaw moves.

“What?” I lick ketchup from my lip.

“Nothing.” He looks away, throat bobbing. “Doesn’t matter.”

Central Park unfurls around us, all golden-hour light and scampering squirrels. I’m suddenly antsy. You’d think that yesterday’s hike debacle would’ve put me off of “walking” forever, but the thought of staying marooned on this park bench with Sasha is way too cutesy and anxiety-inducing for me.

“Walk?” I ask.

---