Page 9 of Marrying the Silver Fox

See? I’m still the same person I ever was.

I rub my thumb over the ring on my finger and try not to think too hard about just what it represents. That I’m someone’s wife—that this, whether I want to admit it or not, is really happening, and I need to find a way to wrap my head around it.

I sigh, stepping out of the bathroom, where the attendant is already waiting for me with a glass of wine. “Here you go,” she tells me, smiling sweetly in my direction.

I almost feel guilty, having someone fussing over me like this, but I guess I should try to get used to it. I mean, the way Nikolai has been talking, it’s clear he’s used to having every little thing catered for him. But I’m normally the one doing that catering, and it’s going to take me a hot second to figure out what it means to be on the other end of it.

“Thanks,” I murmur, and I pluck the wine from the tray and take a long sip as I make my way back to the seats in the small cabin in the center of the plane.

As I sit, I feel the engine start to rumble below me, and I bite my lip. Well, any plausible deniability I’ve been clinging to is well and truly out the window now. I am going to fly to Russia, whether I like it or not.

After a few moments, the sliding door to the cabin opens, and I look up to see Nikolai standing before me. He eyes me for a moment, gaze flicking to the wine in my hand. “Glad to see you’re making yourself comfortable,” he remarks, and my cheeks flush.

I suddenly feel like I’ve been caught in the act, though I know I haven’t. “She asked if I wanted anything to drink⁠—”

“Have whatever you like,” he replies with a shrug, leaning back into his seat and casting a gaze out the window and toward the dimming sun outside.

“Have you ever flown before?” he asks, as he notices the way I tense when the plane starts to move down the runway.

I shake my head. “Uh, not internationally,” I reply.

Truth is, I have never flown at all. I mean, I don’t do destination weddings, only events that are taking place in the city, but I’m not sure I want Nikolai to know that. I feel as though I would be making myself a little too vulnerable if I confess to him just how much of this is new to me, as ridiculous as that sounds.

I don’t want him judging me for how different my life has been from his, how different, no doubt, it has been from the woman he was actually meant to marry. Natalie has probably taken a million vacations just like this, flying out in her father’s private jet to a beautiful resort with her friends and family.

But me? I’m new to this. Every part of it.

“Well, let’s make your first trip memorable,” Nikolai remarks, and he presses a button on his seat. A moment later, the attendant appears in the doorway once again, looking down at the two of us expectantly.

“Bring us some champagne,” he orders her. “And something to eat.”

“Of course,” she replies. “Would you like—um, would you still like to have the wedding menu you planned?”

He nods. God, of course—I actually had a hand in putting this together, making sure the caterers were arranged to provide for them as they went off on their honeymoon. My mouth waters when I recall the menu, that honey-roast ham served with roasted vegetables and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

By now, I would normally be back home, massaging my feet after spending the day in tight shoes and ordering some Thai takeout from the place down the street. But normal has well and truly gone out of the window, and the sooner I come to terms with that, the better.

The food is served in a flurry of activity, a bottle of champagne chilled in a bucket of ice and popped between us. I can feel Nikolai watching me, and I glance up at him for a moment, wondering what’s on his mind, if I even dare ask to find out. I get the impression that he’s not used to explaining himself to people, not used to having to make the case for his own desires, and I’m not going to be exempt from that just because I have a ring on my finger.

I sip on the champagne, the bubbles rushing across my tongue. God, that’s good. I reach for the food, suddenly realizing that I’m starving, and begin to tuck in as he observes me from the other side of the table.

He can stare at me all he wants, it’s not going to keep me from eating.

“Good?” he asks, as I take a bite.

I let out a groan and nod. “So good,” I reply through a mouthful of food. “I remember putting this on the menu when I was working with the caterers a couple months ago, just didn’t think I was going to be able to taste it myself.”

“You don’t try everything before you put it on the menu?”

I laugh. “They’re not really in the habit of giving out free samples to anyone they aren’t trying to impress,” I reply. “So no. I just have to hope I pick the right thing when it comes down to it.”

He begins to eat himself, and I can’t help but notice the way his tongue slides over his lower lip as he catches a drip of honeyed sauce where it escapes his fork. Everything he does seems so considered, so careful, and it’s hard to believe that someone like this would be so willing to jump headfirst into something as reckless as this.

“Well, it’s your wedding night,” he remarks. “If there’s any time to indulge, it’s now, isn’t it?”

I pause for a moment, a flutter in my chest. Maybe it’s the wine, or the champagne, or the private jet, or the fact that he has indulged me in a way nobody else has for so long, but the mention of our wedding night draws an entirely different idea to my mind.

“I guess so,” I agree, darting my gaze away from him, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks and hoping against hope that he doesn’t notice it.