Page 72 of Pretty Little Princess

“You look lovely tonight,” Pyotr observes, his eyes sweeping down my body.

And despite his stiff, emotionless tone, butterflies awaken in my stomach. “Thanks,” I mutter and take his offered arm.

He escorts me down the front steps to his flashy white Corvette, where he opens the passenger-side door like a proper gentleman. I slide inside, holding the hem of my army-green sweater dress down to ensure my modesty.

As soon as my feet are safely inside, he closes the door softly behind me, and I watch him round the front of the car.

“I hope you’re in the mood for seafood,” he says, keeping his eyes carefully focused through the windshield as he throws his car into gear and starts to drive.

“Sounds great,” I agree.

Awkward, rigid, our dates lack any of the intense connection from our time together in New York. At first, when Pyotr suggested we have a date night once a week, I was tentatively excited. I thought his mood after our last night at his family estate might be temporary, that we could find our rhythm once more. Even if physically we must not be as compatible as I thought.

But it didn’t take me long to realize he was only going through the motions. Stiff and withdrawn, Pyotr acts the gentleman in a robotic way without showing any of the genuine interest or charm I’d fallen so hard for. Instead, I’m faced with hours of tense silence or short, stinted conversation.

I just don’t get it.

At least it’s only once a week.

And so far, Pyotr hasn’t breathed a word of what happened in New York to my father. That means my father doesn’t know I lost my virginity, and apparently, Pyotr still wants to go through with our engagement. More likely, the Matron wants it; therefore, he’s resigned himself to a lifetime of living with someone he doesn’t like sleeping with.

No wonder he doesn’t want to talk to me.

It’s a long drive, as traffic’s bad heading into the city, exacerbating the discomfort since we have little to distract ourselves with. I’m not entirely sure why Pyotr insists on the facade. Probably his mother expects it of him.

Finally, we pull up to the valet parking in front of RPM Seafood. It’s an upscale restaurant just north of the Chicago River next to the Clark Street Bridge. The bustle of downtown crowds my senses as I accept the valet’s hand and rise from the car.

Then I join Pyotr at the front of the car, where he offers me his arm once more.

“Welcome to RPM Seafood,” the hostess greets brightly as soon as we step through the door. “Table for two?”

“We have a reservation,” Pyotr says.

And good thing. The house looks packed, with a considerable crowd already gathering in the waiting area. We’re escorted to our table located just next to the glass wall looking out across the river. Lights from the riverwalk dance across the water’s surface, reflecting the city on the far side of the bridge.

Pyotr orders us a bottle of white wine–which never fails to make my stomach twist nervously, seeing as we’re both underage–and an appetizer of caviar.

“Have you ever been here before?” I ask once we’re settled in.

“No, but my family has a connection to the owner,” he states simply.

His finger absently traces the base of his empty wine glass, and then he takes the stem delicately between his fingers to spin the delicate piece.

I pause, waiting to see if he might offer up any attempt at conversation. But yet again, I’m disappointed to see this will be another night of painfully one-sided inquiries. Stifling a sigh, I turn my attention to the view outside the window.

At least it’s something pretty to look at.

The patio area stretches between us and the river, a popular place for customers to sit during the summertime. But with late fall sweeping through Chicago, the bitter winds make it nearly unbearable to sit outside, especially at night.

Still, that makes my view all the better.

“Are you all done with midterms?” I dare to ask once the wine arrives and our server leaves with our dinner order.

“Yes.” Pyotr sips his sauvignon blanc, and his gray eyes study me for a moment, their inscrutable assessment unnerving. “And your art projects?” he asks me finally.

A flicker of uncertainty dances in his eyes, and I wonder if he’s thinking about my drawings. I’ve done several more of him since we came back to Chicago, though he can’t know that. I haven’t shown him any of my new work.

“I managed to get a decent grade on my tree sculpture, but I have to admit, that medium is not going to be my forte,” I state dryly. But a pencil or a brush in my hand, and I’m your girl, but molding things out of materials does not seem to be my thing.

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