Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I lay my hand on top of his and, with great reluctance, push his hand off of me.
I feel his eyes on me but don’t return his gaze as the flight attendant comes to us.
“I’m so sorry about that.”
I shake my head. “Unless you’re personally responsible for the behavior of the sky, I don’t think it’s your fault. But thank you.”
Markov says something to her in rapid Russian that makes her laugh. She responds, and he gives her a glimmer of a smile.
An unexpected stab of jealousy hits me straight in the solar plexus. I want to know what he said to her. I didn’t even know the man was capable of humor.
I want to be the one that makes him smile. Or, almost smile anyway.
They continue chattering, and I pick up my book. Fine, have a conversation that doesn’t include me. I’ll just read my book and pine away with unrealistic expectations, no big deal.
“He says to tell you he was only trying to comfort you and apologizes if he was untoward.”
I blink and look up at the flight attendant. “Excuse me?”
She repeats herself. I look over to see him staring straight at me, as serious as always.
I clear my throat.
“Please tell him thank you.” I want to say so much more, but for once, I’m grateful for the language barrier.
I glance at the time, surprised to see I slept through most of the flight. We land in an hour.
“Can I get you a snack?” The flight attendant offers the two of us a basket. I recognize little packets of trail mix and a few candies, but there are other snacks I’ve never seen. Русское Поле, some sort of rye crisp, and a variety of chocolates with names like Коркунов.
“Those are excellent,” she says. “Do you like chocolate?”
“Mmm. Of course.”
“Here,” she says with a smile. “Take a few of each.”
I’m not surprised when Markov declines a snack and drink, considering the fact that he probably subsists on egg white omelets and protein shakes. A man does not carve out a body like that on potato chips and chocolate.
I eat my snacks and comment on them, pretending he can understand me, only because the silence between us feels heavy and weighted. “Mmm. I like the delicate flavor of the chocolate,” I say, like I’m doing some kind of review. “Though the subtle hint of roasted nuts is quite nice. Not quite an M&M, but it will do.”
He just continues to stare straight ahead. What causes someone to be so serious?
I turn back to my book and lose myself in a fake world with fake promises that won’t ever happen in real life.
I wish my father hadn’t insisted I take a bodyguard with me.
Despite Markov’s silence and stony disposition, he snaps into action as soon as we land. I don’t even bother fighting him when it comes to carrying my bags. At this point, I figure I might as well enjoy the bit of pampering, or whatever it is you want to call it. I don’t know how he quite manages it, but he holds our bags, escorts me off the plane, and seamlessly guides me toward the exit.
Though it was a ten-hour flight to Moscow, due to the time difference, we arrived in Moscow midday. It feels strange, honestly, as if we’ve skipped a whole day. The sun hangs high in the clear blue sky in contrast to the inky night we left behind. As we exit the plane, the brisk air of Moscow greets us, a welcome change from the stale cabin air we’ve endured. The hustle and bustle of Sheremetyevo Airport greets us with travelers and locals alike navigating terminals with practiced ease. The diverse mix of accents and languages around us create a lively hum. My body feels weighted from jet lag, but there’s an underlying current of excitement. I’ve never left my country. This is a new chapter of my life filled with promise.
We gather our luggage and head to the pick-up area. “I was told there would be a car waiting for us—um, me,” I amend. I’m not sure how I’m going to explain his presence to the people I’ll be working with. I sigh when he stares at me and pull out my phone to bring up the translation app when I see a driver standing beside a large SUV with a sign that says Vera Ivanova in bold black lettering.
I point. “There, that’s for us.”
Markov gives the man a flinty look and nods, carrying our bags. A tall woman who looks vaguely familiar waves excitedly to me. I realize when we get closer to her that I recognize Professor Irina Kuznetsova with her sharp, intelligent eyes, slender frame, and short silver hair. She’s the woman I did a teleconference with a few weeks ago, the one in charge of the program. Wow. I had no idea she’d come all the way here just to see me.