“What’s that?” Dimitri asks.
“A Chihuahua.”
We watch Nina rummage through a few boxes, keeping the dog in the crook of her left arm. She takes out a leash from one of the boxes, clasps it to the collar, and sets the dog down. It starts running around her legs, letting out strange hamster-like barks.
“Let Varya know about the dog. She’ll be very... excited. Send someone to buy some dog food,” I say and turn to head back to my office.
I spend an hour walking Brando through the house and garden, so he could get the feel of the space. He’s a bit jumpy because of all the new people, but he finally settles down into his bed in the corner of my room and goes to sleep.
Passing the kitchen, I grab an apple from the bowl and head to my workspace by the library. There are still several more hours left of natural light, and I plan on using them to work on the remaining five pieces for my exhibition. I should probably call my manager, to tell him to send the courier for the finished paintings. Mark likes having as many of them as possible a few days before the event so he can organize the photographer and catalog printing.
I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and give Mark a call while I rearrange the finalized pieces along the big window.
When he answers, I chirp into the phone, “Hey, love.”
“I know that tone,” he groans. “You’re behind schedule again.”
“Of course, not. I would never do that to you.”
“Damn it, Nina. How behind are you?”
“A few days. But the big guy is done. I have five left. Can you send someone for the others? I’ll send you the address.”
“You moved?”
“Yup. Long story.”
“Will you be able to finish on time?”
“I’ll try my best, babe.”
There is some grumbling, and a sigh. “Send me a photo of the big guy.”
“I’m not sending you a photo, you will have to wait and see for yourself, Mark. Bye.” I put the phone back in my pocket and reach for one of the blank canvases.
“Who the fuck is Mark?”
I jump and spin around to find Roman glaring down at me.
“Why do you call him babe?” he demands. “And what kind of photo are you sending him?”
I blink at him and take a bite of my apple. “My pimp. All of us girls call him babe. And I’m sending a photo of my boobs.”
He narrows his eyes on me but doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Roman. Mark is my manager and the owner of the gallery where I’m having my exhibition. He wanted photos of the paintings.”
“Why do you call him babe?”
“Everybody calls him babe. Including his husband.”
Roman’s stance visibly relaxes, and his eyes lose their murderous gleam. Is he jealous?
“Can I see the paintings?” he asks.
So, it looks like we’re just going to ignore his strange behavior. Works for me, because I don’t want to dwell on the fact that I like the idea of him being jealous.
“Yes,” I reply. “Just don’t touch, some aren’t dry yet.”