He does want me.
There’s no longer any doubt about that.
I take another deep breath, but my heart continues to pound, my palms sweating like crazy. Wiping them on my jeans, I walk around the side of the house, taking in mountain views in an effort to calm my racing thoughts.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Just because Nikolai is attracted to me doesn’t mean anything is going to happen between us. I’m sure he realizes how inappropriate the whole thing is. No matter what Alina said, it was an accident, us bumping into each other. I don’t know why she would imply otherwise. Maybe she thinks I was coming on to him? But no. It seemed almost as if she was warning me away from him, as if—
The sound of voices catches my attention, and as I round the corner, I see Pavel and Slava. They’re standing by a tree stump some fifty feet away, with the big fish laid on top of it. As I approach, I see the man-bear slice it open halfway, then hand the sharp-looking knife to Slava.
What the hell? Is he expecting the child to finish the job?
He is. And Slava does. By the time I get there, the boy is scooping out fish innards with his little hands and throwing them into a plastic bag Pavel is helpfully holding open for him.
Okay then. I guess they know what they’re doing. I’ve cleaned fish a few times myself—my freshman-year roommate, a fishing-and-hunting enthusiast, taught me how—so I’m not grossed out, but it is unsettling to see a four-year-old doing it.
They’re really not worried about him with knives.
Stopping in front of the stump, I put on my brightest smile. “Good morning. Mind if I join you?”
The boy grins up at me and rattles off something in Russian. Pavel, however, looks less than pleased to see me. “We’re almost done,” he growls in his thickly accented voice. “You can wait in the house if you want.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine out here. Do you need any help with that?” I gesture toward the fish.
Pavel glowers at me. “You know how to remove scales?”
“I do.” I’d actually rather not do it, lest I get my only clean clothes dirty, but I want to continue teaching Slava, and the best way to do that is to spend time with him, engaged in whatever activities he’s doing.
In my experience, children learn best outside of a classroom—and so do most adults.
“Here then.” Pavel thrusts a descaling knife at me. “Show the kid how to do it.”
Judging by the smirk on his brick-like face, he thinks I’m bluffing—which is why it gives me great pleasure to take the knife from him and say sweetly, “Okay.”
Taking care not to get any splatters on my shirt, I get to work, explaining to the boy the entire time what I’m doing and how. I tell him what every part of the fish is called and make him repeat the words, then let him try the descaling himself. He’s as good at it as he was at the slicing, and I realize he’s done it before.
When Pavel told me to show him, he was just testing me.
Hiding my annoyance, I let Slava finish the job and put the cleaned fish back into the bucket. Pavel carries it into the house, and Slava and I follow. The man-bear goes straight for the kitchen—probably to prepare the fish for lunch—and I tell him I’m taking Slava upstairs to get changed. Unlike me, the boy has fishy splatters all over his shirt.
Pavel grunts something affirmative before disappearing into the kitchen, and I shepherd Slava into the nearest bathroom. We both thoroughly wash our hands, and then I lead Slava up to his room.
To my surprise, Lyudmila is there when we walk in, presciently laying out a clean shirt and jeans for Slava on the bed.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile. “He’s in dire need of a change.”
She smiles back and says something to Slava in Russian. He walks over to her, and she helps him out of the dirty clothes. I tactfully turn my back—the boy is old enough to be shy in front of strangers. When it seems like they’re done, I turn around and find Lyudmila helping him with the buckle of his belt.
“All good,” she announces after a moment, stepping back. “You teach now.”
I grin at her. “Thank you, I will.” Seeing her gather Slava’s dirty clothes, I ask, “Is there a washing machine somewhere in the house? I need to do laundry.”
She frowns, not understanding.
“Laundry.” I point at the pile of clothes in her hands. “You know, to wash clothes?” I rub my fists together, mimicking someone doing laundry by hand.
Her face clears. “Ah, yes. Come.”
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Slava and follow Lyudmila downstairs. She takes me past the kitchen and down a hallway to a windowless room about the size of my bedroom. There are two fancy washers and dryers—I guess to run multiple loads at once—along with an ironing board, a drying rack, laundry baskets, and other conveniences.