Page 33 of Nine Months to Bear
“If I stayed away,” I drawl, “this whole place would crumble to the ground.”
Again, she couldn’t possibly care any less. “I’ve made it this far, Stefushka. I’m sure I can make it these last few years.”
“You’re not at the end of your life yet. So stop trying to cut it short.”
I drop into the stool across from her and my grandmother studies me with eyes identical to my own—except hers miss nothing. Never have.
She nudges the mug towards me. “Don’t blame your bad mood on me. Tell me what’s happening with this woman.”
I freeze, cup halfway to my lips. “What woman?”
Olivia’s face fills my mind. Her full mouth, her rounded stomach from my dream. I blink the image away before I end up in a very embarrassing situation in front of my grandmother.
“Don’t play stupid, Stefushka. It doesn’t suit you. The fertility doctor. The one in the gala photos.”
Of course. The society pages had a field day with our dance. A reclusive billionaire and the daughter of prominent physicians. The perfect fodder for gossip.
I swirl my tea, buying time. “It’s business.”
“Is that what they call it now?” Her knowing smirk reminds me she was young once, too, and she hasn’t yet forgotten what it was like.
My hands move automatically, straightening the seasoning shakers that sit in the center of the island. They’re little Russian nesting dolls, the pepper container slightly smaller than the salt. There’s a whole set of them, each tinier than the next from cayenne down to coriander.
I don’t stop until they stand in a perfect row.
“Stop organizing my kitchen,” she scolds gently. “Your father did the exact same thing, you know. Especially when your mother confused him.”
I withdraw my hand as if burned.
I don’t need or want the reminders of the man who birthed me. My brilliant, principled father—destroyed by loving the wrong woman. A kind, weak man who couldn’t see the serpent sharing his bed until it was too late.
“I’m nothing like him,” I say coldly.
My grandmother’s eyes soften. “That’s what frightens me, darling.”
Before I can say anything—not that there’s anything to say; whatever version of me my grandmother wants died the day my father did—my phone vibrates.
I glance down, grateful for the distraction, until I see Mikayla’s name on my screen, along with a text message:Dr. Aster is here.
“Fuck.” I’m fifteen minutes late—it’ll be thirty by the time I get back to the office. “I have to go.”
“Of course you do,” she sighs. “Things were finally getting interesting. An old woman tries to get the tea over tea and?—”
“Who taught you about ‘tea?’” I start to stand, but her gnarled fingers catch mine. For all her fragility, there’s immovable strength in her grip.
“Sit. The world won’t end if you’re late to one meeting. Who’s it with, anyway?”
I plan to dodge the fuck out of that question, but my phone buzzes again. Saved by the bell for the second time in as many minutes.
This time, it’s Taras.
“What?” I answer.
“The security system at Elena’s house triggered while I was in the shower. Need me to check it out?” His concern is genuine. Taras might be a cold-blooded killer, but he has a soft spot for my grandmother.
“I’m already here. False alarm. She tried to microwave plastic.”
My grandmother reaches for the phone. “Is that Taras? Give me the phone.” She snatches it from my hand before I can protest. “Taras, darling! When will you come visit an old woman? You’re wasting your pretty face in Stefan’s dirty business. With those cheekbones, you should be in magazines!”
