Page 30 of Wrath
Misha stepped in and the breath caught in Wyatt’s throat. She looked like an angel underneath the light of the newly fixed globe. Her blond ringlets glowed in a tumbling up-do and, despite the soot on her shoulders, she had a rosy complexion and a genuine smile on her face.
“You’re still here.” She cast her gaze over the room. “And you cleaned. Wow. You cook and clean. You’re hired!” She laughed, then fizzled out, no doubt thinking of her family business now a charred skeleton.
Despite all this, Wyatt sensed no wrath in her. How could she not be furious? She’d said the fire was caused by someone called Dimitri, who he guessed was the gold-bling man she’d argued with. Probably the one she owed money to.
You’re not angry at the man who did that to you today?he asked, but she had trouble following his lips, so he typed the message on his cell and showed it to her.
“No,” she said simply. “I’m upset, yes, but I don’t have room in my life to waste emotions on an asshole like him. Karma will come for him one day.”
Do you need money?he asked.
“All the money in the world won’t be enough to get rid of him. Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came to invite you to have a meal with us.” She grinned. “We’re frying up some pierogi.”
He hesitated.
She might not be angry, but he certainly was. Shame and guilt were coming in a close second. If he’d not run from his new powers, from his destiny, that restaurant might still be standing.
Seeing his reticence, she came over and sat next to him, sighing. “Yeah, this is new for me too.”
New for her?
She dipped her head and blushed. “I mean, it’s the first time I’ve invited someone I’ve been… um, intimate with, to my family home.” She scratched her head. “Normally there is no second date. Not that this is a date. God.” She scrubbed her face. “The family want to thank you, and Alek’s asking about you. Do you want to come, or not?”
No. He shook his head and went back to his phone, not sure what he was doing with himself, but not that.
After putting up with his cold shoulder, she went to the door. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us.”
And then she was gone.
Wyatt wasn’t sure how long he sat there feeling sorry for himself, and then he heard the sound of music coming from the main house. Modern music and the mouthwatering smell of dinner cooking. Butter, onions…
Then the song’s chorus hit—Welcome to my house—and he almost smiled.She was back to her music games, enticing him over, and what was he doing? Stewing in his misery. Fuck, he was a moody bastard. All he needed was to play some Celine Dion, eat ice-cream and shed some motherfucking tears in the shower. Was he going to miss out on life because of his inability to admit failure? Maybe Evan was right and Misha was it for him. Maybe this woman would make his life perfect.
Would that be so bad?
There had been no ulterior motive with her invitation. It was simply a thank you for your help.
He went to the door and looked down at the house, studying the family through a window. Misha’s aunt was in the kitchen doing the frying. Roksana tried to taste something from the pan, but got her fingers whacked with a wooden spoon. She pirouetted out of the view, laughing. Vooyek walked to a table only partly seen in the background. A tall bottle of vodka sat in front of a series of empty crystal shot glasses, waiting to be filled. Celebrating, or commiserating? With the music in the background, he guessed the former, which made him curious. Why celebrate after losing your livelihood?
There were more people sitting at the table. More family Misha wanted Wyatt to meet.
She’d never had a boyfriend over for a meal, or a lover, or anyone she was intimate with. This was new territory for her too. That thought bounced around in Wyatt’s head until warmth spread from his chest. He was her first.
It felt good.
He supposed he could eat.
Fourteen
Wyatt lethimself in the back door of the Minski family home. The smell of fried onions and bacon made his mouth water. The next smell he noticed was oiled cedar. Just like the restaurant, there was a lot of wood in the home. Furniture, wall art, paneling. Macrame textile wall hangings. Potted plants and knick-knacks. But the house was warm and inviting, so he wouldn’t change a thing.
Damn, he was turning into a soft-cock.
The closer he got to the kitchen, the stronger the sounds of laughter and a television beyond. At the doorframe, he folded his arms and leaned against the jamb. The kitchen was small. The old Smeg fridge, free-standing oven and chrome-plated dining chairs, held a seventies charm. An elderly man and woman played a game of cards at the round table. Their wrinkles were so deep you could hardly see their eyes, but they were creased from smiling. Ciocia Violetta was now at the sink, washing up, humming a happy tune. Pierogi was sizzled in the pan.
Eight plates were laid out on the table. Wyatt counted in his head. Unless there was another person hiding in the house he didn’t know about, the eighth plate was for him. That gave him a strange feeling.
Misha walked in holding some cutlery and froze. “You came!”
