Page 89 of Taken By My Grumpy Pakhan

I cleared my throat. “You’ve been gone three days.”

“I texted you.”

“Three words at a time isn’t a conversation, Genevieve.” I stepped past her before she could decide whether to let me in. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you. Very kind.”

Her apartment was spacious and filled with light. As far as I knew, she had moved after becoming my assistant. Good. And the same telecast I’d watched on the flight to Moscow was playing on the centrally placed TV screen—a detail I would’ve appreciated more if I hadn’t been feeling the heat of her seeping into my skin.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know. Stomach’s been off. Headaches. I’m just tired.” She wrapped her arms around herself, a small, unconscious gesture that made her look smaller than she already was in those clothes.

Wait a minute, why were they so big on her? Did they belong to an ex? Maybe a current lover? Did she—

“It’s probably nothing. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Genevieve’s voice might have distracted me from my thoughts, but it didn’t shake off the realization that had dawned on me.

I lowered myself onto her couch. If there was a man in her life, he was bound to show up and I would be waiting.

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“No,” I said flatly. “And why are you standing awkwardly by your door? Expecting someone?”

She let out a sigh, walking into the kitchen. I followed after her partly because I was curious, and more because I was scared she might fall.

“Have you seen a doctor?” I asked as she began pouring what looked like orange juice into a glass.

She went still, just slightly, a hesitation so brief I would have missed it if I hadn’t spent years reading smaller tells than that across negotiating tables. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like doctors,” she said evenly. “But I took some painkillers.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I didn’t push. It surprised me, the restraint, because pushing was usually the only tool I reached for, but something about the rigid set of her spine told me this particular door needed a different kind of key.

“Have you eaten?” I found myself asking.

The words surprised me as much as the expression on her face, if not more.

“Sorry?”

“You look barely alive,” I replied, mostly because it was easier than repeating the initial question.

“Apples.”

“Chort voz'mi,” I swore under my breath as her unsteady hands lifted the glass.

“Sit. You look like you’re about to fall over, and I’d rather not catch you.”

She gave me a look that suggested she wanted to argue, purely on principle, but exhaustion won out and she settled onto a stool at her small kitchen counter, watching me with open suspicion as I rolled up my sleeves and started opening cabinets.

“What are you doing?”