Page 78 of Charmingly Obsessed
Now, who is not always good-natured? Serafima Pylypivna.
At this very moment, Serafima is extravagantly feeding her corpulent dachshund Aza paper-thin salami slices from the charcuterie board. The little dog, a furry sausage with legs, scurries in ecstatic circles, yapping as it leaps onto Mykola’s impeccably tailored trouser leg.
This entire circus act begins just as I strategically seat my husband between myself and our formidable hostess, which prompts a theatrical arch of her perfectly sculpted silver brow.
Nadya reappears with a refilled champagne flute and tinsel in her hair, murmuring with genuine concern, “She’s going to get an upset stomach.”
“Nonsense, my dear! Aza is practically omnivorous! She’d gnaw on human bones if given half a chance. And enjoy every morsel! So, Mykola,” she turns her full, formidable attention to Kolya, her eyes gleaming with predatory interest, “are youplanning on staying the night? With Diana, of course. Or perhaps you have… otherarrangements?”
Hippolyt, the unsuspecting Spartan-wannabe, is clearly unprepared for such… bloodthirsty dinner party conversation. Also, he apparently doesn’t drink. At all. Whereas suddenly… all of us, even Nadya, seem to really want to celebrate. Extensively.
Serafima Pylypivna doubles down on her efforts to simultaneously charm and interrogate him. And, unfortunately, Hippolyt, clearly misinterpreting the social cues, or perhaps just emboldened by champagne he isn’t actually drinking, follows her lead. He starts asking me about my work. My art. My… aspirations.
Thank God I’m married. Even if it’s a sham. These polite getting-to-know-you interrogations are unbearable at the best of times. Especially since my hesitant, rambling, overly modest pronouncements about my current “freelance design projects” make it sound like I don’t even know where I actually work myself. Or if I even do work.
“A true talent,” Kolya declares suddenly, his voice a rich, authoritative baritone that cuts through Hippolyt’s earnest questioning, “shouldn’t have to work. A true talent,” he fixes me with a look of intense and utterly public adoration that makes my cheeks flame, “should simply… create.”
Great. Now I sound like a freeloading, kept slacker.Thanks, husband.
Poor Hippolyt nearly blushes crimson when Serafima changes the subject. Whether sensing his discomfort or simply bored with my angst, she deftly guides the conversation back to his triumphs in the thrilling world of mid-level real estate.
“Didn’t that ‘Italian Quarter’ luxury condo project of yours… rather spectacularly collapse? Last year, wasn’t it?” Kolya inquires, his tone one of unnerving, almost clinical neutrality.
With a casual nudge, he pushes the cake he’d presented so proudly toward the center of the table.
Hippolyt gets flustered and starts rambling about lawsuits, giving Mykola a predatory opening. He immediately unleashes a barrage of nineteenortwenty highly specific follow-up questions. Who’s counting anyway?
“Dessert is later, my dears,” Serafima announces, cutting them off. With regal authority, she confiscates the Swiss cake and hides it on the dusty top shelf of the sideboard.
Nadya watches its unfortunate departure with an expression of profound, mournful longing.
Hippolyt turns out to be not quite as naïve, or perhaps just as oblivious, as I initially thought. At first, he keeps glancing from me to Mykola, a flicker of confusion, of dawning awareness, in his cognac-colored eyes.
Perhaps irritated by the relentless questioning, Hippolyt redoubles his efforts to make a favorable impression on me. I falter under the unwelcome heat of his gaze and desperately reach for Mykola’s hand under the table.
He finds it immediately, lacing his fingers through mine and gently stroking my palm with his thumb. The touch is more intoxicating than champagne, sending a jolt of pure, illicit pleasure straight to my core with every caress.
Hippolyt casually brings up several acclaimed female artists, praising their work and asking my opinion. Oh God, he’s trying. He’s actually making an effort, which is almost sweet in a clueless, destined-for-failure kind of way.
With a theatrical flourish, Serafima plugs in the multicolored fairy lights she’s draped haphazardly over bookshelves, a ficus tree, and a taxidermied owl. To be honest, her own vibrant inner light makes the festive decorations seem entirely unnecessary.
Mykola straightens up beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. Then with breathtaking audacity, he lifts my hand fromhis lap and places it firmly and possessively high on his hard, muscular thigh.
Now I don’t even dare to turn towards our hostess. Or anyone else. My cheeks are on fire. My heart is hammering.
“It is time,” Serafima Pylypivna commands, her voice ringing with authority, “for the traditional New Year’s toasts!” Aza, startled from her salami-induced slumber, barks enthusiastically in agreement.
“I need a husband,” Nadya announces suddenly, her cheeks flushed with champagne and existential angst.
“You and Hippolyt would make a rather… striking couple,” Mykola comments,He gives my thigh a subtle, possessive squeeze.
Nadya lets go of a stray golden-red curl that has escaped her tinsel crown, takes another fortifying sip of champagne, and waves her hand in a gesture of weary, dramatic resignation. “My apologies, Hippolyt,” she says, addressing her glass as if it’s her future, long-suffering spouse. “But I’m afraid I need a husband… for money. Cold, hard, spendable cash. Preferably in large, untraceable denominations.”
“Husbands, my dear Nadya,” Serafima Pylypivna nods approvingly, her eyes twinkling, “with very, very few notable exceptions are only truly useful for their financial contributions to the household. And perhaps… for reaching things on very high shelves.”
“I’m very sorry,” Nadya mutters again.
“It is, perhaps, more pleasant in the long run to love a person, rather than their money.” Mykola tilts his head slightly, his expression one of thoughtful, philosophical contemplation.
