Page 170 of Nine Months to Bear
I kiss her then. I can’t help it. She makes these little sounds against my mouth that drive me crazy. When I pull back, she’s breathless.
“I’ll, um… I’ll go grab my purse,” she mumbles in a daze, backing toward the stairs. “And maybe some snacks. Do normal people bring snacks on drives? That’s a normal thing to do, right?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
She laughs and disappears upstairs. I watch her go, that dress swaying with each step.
I’m so fucked.
“Ahem.”
I spin around. Babushka’s standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “Jesus. How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.” She hobbles past me to the coffee maker. “That girl has you wrapped around her little finger.”
“She doesn’t?—”
“Stefushka.” She turns to face me, and her expression is serious now. “Don’t mess this up,da?”
“I’ll be careful. I’m always careful.”
“No. You’re always incontrol. There’s a difference.” She pours her coffee and adds three sugars like always. “With her, you’re not in control. And that makes you do stupid things.”
“I can handle it.”
“Your father said the same thing.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not him.”
“No, you’re not. You’re stronger than he was. Smarter, too.” She takes a sip of coffee. “But love makes fools of us all,vnuk.”
“Who said anything about love?”
She gives me a look that says she’s not buying my bullshit. “You’re taking a day off work to drive around with a pregnant woman. You, who hasn’t taken a day off since you were in diapers.”
“Things change.”
“Yes, they do.” She sets down her mug. “Just remember: That girl upstairs isn’t your mother. She won’t betray you the way she did.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you’re either about to run away with her or push her away completely. There’s no middle ground with you Safonov men.”
Before I can respond, Olivia’s footsteps sound on the stairs.
Babushka pats my cheek. “Don’t be your father, Stefan. But don’t be so afraid of becoming him that you lose what he never had the chance to keep.”
My phone rings against the counter. Not just any buzz—the specific pattern I programmed for Taras. Three short, two long.
Emergency.
“Ignore it,” Babushka warns, reading my face.
But I’m already reaching for it. “I can’t.”
“Stefan—”
“It’s Taras.” I swipe to answer. “What?”
