Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
I shrug. “I slept well, and I’m eating like a queen.”
“That’s not what I meant. How are you feeling in here, where it matters?” He pats his chest.
Unable to lie to his face, I look away. “Good.”
“Mm.” He goes back to stirring the contents of a big pot. “Alex left you English books in the library. The cable isn’t connected, but there are DVDs.” He looks over his shoulder again and winks. “All the seasons of Downton Abbey in case you’re in the mood.”
I utter a wry laugh. “Alex disconnected the cable? What does he think I’m going to do? Send Morse code via the cable connection?”
Tima’s smile is so wide his whole face looks like a piece of creased paper. “You’re certainly clever enough.”
“Ha. Technology and I aren’t friends.”
“If there’s anything you want, you only have to say the word. Alex will send for it.”
“That’s good to know,” I say with a bite to my tone, even though my anger is already wearing off, leaving me with a confusing mess of emotions and the worry that Alex is an open target outside.
“I’ve known Mr. Volkov for some years now.” Tima puts the spoon on a saucer, turns to face me, and crosses his arms. “I’ve never seen him as invested in anyone as he is in you.”
I raise a brow. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Leaning against the stove, he says with a sincere expression, “He obviously cares about what happens to you.”
I consider that. Tima is kind, but I don’t know him. I don’t trust him yet. I’m not going to discuss my dilemma or my feelings with Alex’s staff.
Another smile scrunches up Tima’s face. “Eat up. Your oatmeal is getting cold. I’m sure you have better things to do than keeping me company in the kitchen.”
Actually, no. What else am I going to do with myself? “Do you need a hand in here?”
His eyes grow round. “Absolutely not. Mr. Volkov will roast me like that lamb if I make you work in the kitchen.”
I frown at the expression. I hope he means that figuratively, but after the last couple of days, it doesn’t sound as farfetched as it should.
“On with dinner,” he says, speaking more to himself than to me as he goes to the pantry.
By the time he returns with his arms full of ingredients, I’ve finished my oatmeal and coffee. I rinse my bowl and load the dishwasher while he whistles an unfamiliar tune.
“Thanks for the breakfast,” I say on my way to the door.
He lifts his head and gives an absentminded wave before continuing to chop the stalks off a bunch of beetroot.
The sound of a vacuum cleaner comes from the front of the house. Making my way over, I spot Lena in the foyer, vacuuming with earbuds in her ears. She looks up as I mount the stairs, but she doesn’t say good morning. In return, I swallow the greeting that was on the tip of my tongue.
For the rest of the day, I explore the house. I find the DVDs and books Tima mentioned in the library and manage to distract myself for a while, but the stories don’t hold my attention. I’m too strung out to let myself get lost in fiction.
When I grow tired of reading, I pull on a T-shirt and yoga pants and go in search of the gym. A guard mans the door, but he steps aside for me to enter. A fancy sound system boasts a variety of music mixes. It’s not complicated to figure out how it works. I select a lively pop compilation, surprised at Alex’s taste in music. I expected him to be a jazz or classical guy, not a pop music fan. Maybe this is just the kind of music he listens to when he works out.
Choosing the treadmill, I set it on a comfortable speed and run until my legs feel like jelly. It’s a good feeling. I ran cross-country in high school and did a few 10Ks on my own in college, but I’ve been working so much in the past couple of years that I’ve let my fitness routine fall by the wayside. Now I realize how much I’ve missed it. The exercise doesn’t expel my turbulent thoughts, but it does lessen some of my cooped-up tension.
Thoroughly exhausted yet satisfied, I pull on a swimsuit, rinse off in the pool shower, and drift in the warm water of the Olympic-sized pool. Condensation runs down the sides of the skylight that lets in the sun. The smell of chlorine reminds me of vacations when I was little. The pleasant association relaxes me further, and by the time I stretch out on a lounge chaise with a view of the indoor garden, some of my level-headedness returns.
Lena surprises me, entering with an infusion that she deposits on the side table before leaving quietly again. I pick up the delicate porcelain cup and sniff the herbal tea. It smells like lemon verbena. A taste confirms I’m right.