MILLIE
I didn’t know what to expect when I detoured to the coffee kiosk. Trying not to dwell on my conundrum with Warren and Caleb, I looked ahead and decided the brisk day called for something hot and sweet, yet what I found at the little corner stand wasn’t a drink at all. There, wearing an olive-colored blazer and a determined look, Vladimir was waiting for me.
Ten minutes later, we were being seated at a modern Italian bistro a few blocks from campus. Fashionable professionals were eating salads and pasta at sleek, black tables. It almost seemed a shame it was the middle of the day. The wine list was extensive.
“Would you like a glass?” Vladimir wondered casually.
“Oh, no,” I insisted, putting the drink menu back on the table. “It’s too early for wine.”
“It wouldn’t if we were back in Europe,” he mused. “I thought it was traditional for Irishmen to drink beer in the morning.”
I smiled. Though I could hardly hear it, I guess the affect in my voice still lingered.
“It’s not unheard of, from what I remember,” I replied. “I think workers after a night shift or farmers who had been up before the dawn would stop in their local for a pint, but I’m no expert. I only lived there for a year for work.”
“Ah, I see,” he remarked, his dark eyes looking up from his menu. “Then, are you from here?”
I nodded. “Grew up in the suburbs just west of the city. You?”
“St. Petersburg for sixteen years,” he explained. “Then, my family and I came here.”
I could only guess that was how his Russian accent was softer than I’d imagined. Maybe my experience was too limited to cheap movie villains doing a poor impression, but Vladimir’s voice was smoother and far richer. Years in America softened some of his accent, too.
The sound certainly didn’t disappoint.
“I read online that you won a scholarship to a big boarding school in West Chicago?” I recalled.
“I had to finish high school, take some English courses before going to Northwestern,” he told me as his face cracked with a surprising low, rich laugh. “But, Millie, you read about me?”
My eyes flitted away to the wine stored against the back wall. Something about his voice and his amused smile made me flush with a newfound bashfulness.
“I… I wanted to know who you were,” I admitted. “One of my co-workers mentioned he’d met you once at an alumni event, though he couldn’t remember your name.”
“I guess there aren’t many Russians working for this university.”
“The only other one works in the Russian language department,” I recalled from my research.
“Oh, how original of him.”
“Her, actually,” I amended gently. “Vladimir, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Vlad, please. My full name makes me think that my parents are nearby.”
“All right, then, Vlad. Why didn’t you stay that morning? Why didn’t you say anything?”
His dark eyes grew serious for a moment, but my answer had to wait. Our waitress arrived with two ice waters, ready to take our order.
“If you like ravioli, it’s always excellent here,” Vlad suggested.
“It’s made fresh each day,” our server agreed. “Today, it’s made with seasonal mushrooms and creamy truffle butter sauce.”
Though I wasn’t used to men telling me what to order, there was nothing about Vlad’s words that felt like a demand, and the dish sounded indulgent and tempting. It was a lot like him.
“I’ll have that then,” I agreed before letting the waitress wander off. “Now, about my answer….”
My voice trailed off as I got lost in that darkened gaze again. On the surface, he was such a foreboding figure. Vlad was by far the largest man in this room with chiseled, angular features strong enough to cut glass, yet I could feel beneath his pressed white shirt beat the heart of a man far more intriguing than a mere brooding businessman.
“Looking at you that morning made me lose my words,” he answered, unfazed and undaunted. “I couldn’t remember the last time that happened to me. None of my English could come to mind.”