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“Clearly,” I stammer. “You’re Russian? As in. You lived in Russia and you know Russian?”
With what sounds like perfect inflection, he responds in full Russian—accent bold and forefront. Then. Then he shrugs without so much as removing his hands from his pockets. “What part do you find so surprising?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I’m supposed to know these sorts of things about you. What’s your favorite color?”
A pure moment of absolute incredulity passes over his face. His brows knit. He looks toward the forest floor, then sidelong at the trees. Lifting a hand out of his pocket, he rubs the back of his neck and rustles his short hair. “Favorite…color.” Sheer baffle laces the murmur. “Is this what humans consider getting to know someone?”
“It’s pretty standard, yes.”
“How come? Do you believe it is indicative of something…like a horoscope? I tell you blue, and you say I have mommy issues with a side of generational trauma, low self-esteem in spite of ample cockiness, and a penchant for controlled chaos?”
“Is all that factual?”
“No, it’s actually green.”
I stare at him for a long moment.
He flashes me a dimpled grin.
My heart jumps in response. Rolling my eyes off him, I clear my throat. “Real cute.” Face going hot, I step closer to him and lift my hand. “Could we…?”
He glances at my open palm. “If you want me to hold your hand, that’s not a command.”
“Do you want to?”
Lifting his arm, he positions his fingers just above mine, close enough I almost swear I can feel their warmth. “Still not a command, sunshine.”
“I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
“Where it concerns you, my want is never in question.”
I wet my lips. “Do I need to phrase it in a certain way so you aren’t just trapped holding my hand forever?”
“No.”
I suck in a breath. “Hold my hand, Ollie.”
He laces his fingers with mine, and heat flushes through my chest. Strength lines his every slender muscle as his grip closes around mine. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more secure. Clearing my throat again, I say, “What’s Russia like?”
“Cold.” He starts walking again, taking me gently with him. “My brother Markov once took down a moose by himself. Blood on snow is especially chilling to see.”
I glance at Ollie’s profile. “A moose?”
“Big as cars, those things.”
“And I’m assuming your brother was…not a chihuahua?”
A humorless smile curves his lips. “A respectable gray wolf, actually. Just like the rest of my family.”
“Interesting. Is a sweet little arctic fox not respectable?”
“When the rest of your family is a pack of gray wolves in the taiga, being a sweet little arctic fox is not exactly respectable, no. Especially not when a neighboring, and weaker, pack of them populate the tundra north of the forests your family claims.”
“Political intrigue…?” I ask.
He runs his thumb across my knuckles. “More like a bunch of bigger dogs barking back and forth with a bunch of smaller dogs in order to relay a collective message of get off our lawn.” His eyes roll. “There are many reasons why I don’t fit in with my family very well.”
“If not acting like a deranged animal is one…I am failing to see the bad part. Apart from the emotional damage, of course.”
