JESSA
I have no idea what the hell is happening.
One minute, I was in the middle of making lunch. The next, I’m lying in Anton’s bed while he goes to the kitchen to cook for me.
“The world has turned upside down,” I mumble, turning my face into the pillow. It smells exactly like him, rich and warm. I want to sink into the sheets and never emerge, but I force myself to prop up against the headboard.
I’m already feeling slightly better, though I’m not sure if that’s because my condition has improved or because Anton’s attention is giving me a much-needed high.
As soon as he walks back into the room, I feel myself leaning towards the latter explanation.
“Here you go,” he says, offering me a tall glass of lemonade.
“I should probably go.”
He ignores me. “Drink it.”
I do as he says, and I have to admit the tang of the lemonade does push back that queasy churn that’s settled into the pit of my stomach.
“Not bad,” I say, holding up the glass so I can take a closer look at the contents.
“Believe it or not, I know my way around a kitchen.”
“Do you really?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Of course it does. I mean, you don’t really strike me as the type who cooks. You hired me, after all.”
“Well, I haven’t had to cook for a while now,” he admits. “But when I was a child, I used to.”
“How come?”
He shrugs. “Our mother wasn’t around and our father worked constantly. Most of the time, it was just Yulian and me on our own. And sometimes, we used to break out of our rooms at night and go down to the kitchen. I’d cook. Yulian would mostly just be a nuisance.”
I smile at the image, but I can’t quite picture Anton as a little boy. “Those must be fond memories for you.”
He shrugs. “I don’t think about it much.”
“Why?”
“It was a long time ago.”
I squint at him, trying to figure out if he gets sentimental about anything in his life. But considering the state of his room, I’m guessing not.
It’s a beautiful room filled with beautiful furniture, beautiful clothes, beautiful views of the gardens. But it has the same impersonal spirit as a hotel room. Apart from a few clothes strewn about the floor, there are no personal items on the shelves or pictures hanging on the walls.
The only painting is a huge, black canvas with a splattering of red across the surface. It doesn’t exactly scream “happy inner sanctum.”
“Why wasn’t your mother around much when you were children?” I ask.
I’m not really expecting an answer. But apparently, my employer is in a talking mood. “She and my father divorced when Yulian and I were very young. She left shortly after. Her calls became less and less frequent as we got older.”
“Do you still keep in contact with her?”
“Not for some time now. I have Yulian deal with her when she calls.”
“Deal with her?” I repeat. “You make it sound like a chore.”