Page 98 of 10 Days to Surrender

That’s not thunder.

That’s someone knocking on the door.

“Knocking” is a pretty polite way to put it, actually. It’s less a knock and more a full-body slam against our heavy wooden door. My heart jumps into my throat—because I only know one person in the world who knocks like that.

We all freeze. Sasha’s hand drips olive oil from the bruschetta he’s assembling as he moves toward the door. I see him pluck the cleaver from the cutting board as he goes.

My heart is freaking out. It can’t be. It can’t be. It can’t…

“Surprise, bitch!”

As soon as Sasha rips the door open, Gina comes barreling in, as if dropping in unannounced on a mob boss in hiding who’sliterally holding a red-stained knife—red from tomatoes, not blood, but still—is something she does every day.

She hits me in a blaze of wet, magenta bangs and a squeal that’s more deafening than any summer thunder could ever hope to be.

I wrap my arms around her and squeeze until the squeal hits octaves never before heard by man or womankind.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” comes another familiar, sarcastic drawl. Feliks thumps through the door with an obscene amount of luggage in his hand. “I’ll just carryallthefuckingbagsmyself.”

I swing my feet off the footstool and stand, still hugging Gina. Feliks shuffles inside and plops the soaking wet bags on the ground. After him, Pavel and Lora come slinking in. They all look like they tried to swim here rather than drive, but the smiles are irrepressible.

Gina grins at me. “What?” she says when she catches my dumbstruck expression. “You didn’t think we’d let you have these babies without your emotional support team, did you?”

I’m a sopping mess in my own right, but unlike them, I can’t blame the rain. It’s just pure, unchecked tears of joy pouring down my face.

I hug them all in turn. Gina, Feliks, Lora, Pavel—then I start from the top and do it all again.

Feliks chuckles as he loops an arm over my shoulders. “There’s more of you to hug these days, darling,” he remarks.

Gina hits him over the head. “Never say that to a woman, idiot!” Then she laughs and kisses him on the cheek.

I step back as Feliks and Sasha lock eyes. Suddenly, the temperature in the room plummets.

The men shuffle awkwardly in place. Two schoolboys, I swear. Deathly allergic to feelings. The prospect of displaying emotions gives them both verbal constipation.

“We woulda been here sooner,” mumbles Feliks. “But you really picked the goddamn middle of nowhere to hide out. Anyway, thought it was time for a little vacation.”

“Were you followed?” Sasha grits out.

Feliks rolls his eyes. “Don’t disrespect me like that, you son of a bitch.”

Sasha’s face is ice. Iron. Steel. Marble. Then?—

It cracks.

It splits right down the middle into the biggest, goofiest smile I’ve ever seen on him, as he strides forward and grabs his best friend into a tight hug. They pound each other on the back and cackle like only boneheaded alpha males can do.

A few more drops of water hit the ground at my feet. I pretend it’s rain.

Zoya ends the moment when she comes clomping in, clicking her tongue, thrusting towels at everyone. “Dry off before you catch death! Idiots, idiots, all of you!”

The storm howls outside. It’s not letting up anytime soon. But inside, there’s laughter.

Soon, the kitchen transforms into a war zone of delicious chaos. Zoya barks orders like a drill sergeant, Kosti pours shots of grappa far more often than is wise or necessary, Jasmine teasesMama, Mama teases me, I tease Jasmine. Gina and Lora stay stuck to my side, while Sasha and Feliks stare into each other’s eyes like they’re doing their own rendition of Lady and the Tramp.

It’s all just so damn happy that I can’t stop smiling. My face hurts.

After we eat until everyone is bursting, we commandeer the dining room table for what might be the world’s most ridiculous poker game. Sasha insists it’s called “Moscow Hold ‘Em,” though I swear he’s making that up. Whatever it’s called, since we’re short on supplies, dried penne stands in for chips, though Feliks keeps stealing from his own pile to snack on.

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