Page 62 of The Beast of Moscow

She took another drag of the smoke, and this time, he forced himself to avert his gaze, so his mind didn’t have yet another snapshot to take with him straight to hell.

“Pretty good—I ran to the tower and back, bought a bear claw from that little shop down the street, and almost rolled my ankle stepping off the sidewalk outside of the house,” she finished dully.

“Does that happen often?”

“Only when I forget my fucking wrap.”

Even the knot in her brow, when her face scrunched a bit in her disgust, was cute. And he immediately regretted that word passing his mind.

Now that he thought about it ...

He couldn’t get it away.

“And you did?” he pressed, not that he had any business to. “Forget the wrap, I mean.”

Vera sighed. “Yeah. Otherwise, I’m good to run three or four times a week.”

“Just no eight-hour practices in pointe shoes, I assume.”

“Basically.”

“Don’t you have a ... friend coming?” he asked.

“Hannah.”

Ah, good.

He’d been sure she told him the friend was a her the day before, but he couldn’t remember for sure. At the very least, his jealousy—a recent thing he couldn’t say he liked—was controlled knowing she would be spending her day with another woman while he walked the apartment’s floors mentally trying to rid himself of his semi-erection.

“I’m going to meet her in a couple of hours. And don’t worry, I’ll pick up any butts, too,” Vera said.

“Spasibo.”

Turning on his heels, he decided to leave he alone again. After all, he’d promised not to be a nuisance while they were there.

“I really did only mean for it to be a joke,” she called at his back.

Vaslav didn’t turn around, but he did stay rooted to the spot when he replied, “Everyone likes to call me different things, and that is only one of them. Nobody ever decided to ask what made me that way, or accept their hand in it, in some cases.”

“Raw nerves,” he heard her murmur.

He smiled to himself, liking that she’d taken that phrase of his to heart.

“One of many for me,” he returned.

“I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

A wise choice.

“Enjoy your visit with your friend,” he said as he headed away. “And for what it matters, your casserole dish ...”

Was Shepherd’s Pie casserole?

Or pie?

Vas wasn’t sure.

It didn’t matter to how it tasted, either. Not that he had the culinary skills to make it himself, anyway.