The idea of leaving Caterina and the children behind hurts. I’ve missed them every day, wished I could talk to them. We’d agreed it was better if I didn’t speak to Anika and Yelena, since they’re meant to think that I’m on vacation. We don’t want to risk my slipping up and giving something away that might make them afraid or make them worry. As for Caterina, I don’t doubt that she’s been kept so busy that she hasn’t had time to check in with me, aside from doing it through Viktor, who is likely relaying anything to her that she wants to know.
I’ve been told, over and over again, that I need to think about what I want for my own life–that I can’t tie it all up in being a nanny for another family. Being here, in the wide-open space of this estate, with so much room and freedom to explore and be outside, away from the tight, confining feeling of New York, has been the first time I’ve really wanted something else.
And yet, even now, I’m being told this isn’t right for me. That I should wantmore. More than Max, more than this. More freedom, more experiences. But as I walk across the soft grass towards the gardens and greenhouse, all I can think is that I don’t want to leave.
The moon is almost full, illuminating the garden, and there’s soft light coming from the greenhouse. I wander down the path, letting my fingers drift over leaves and petals, wishing away the minutes until Max comes home. I know it won’t be what I wish for, that he won’t come back saying he should have taken me with him, that he won’t pull me into his arms and tell me that he’s changed his mind about us being together.
It’s time you stopped dreaming about a fairytale ending for this,I chide myself, brushing my fingers over the wide leaves of another plant.There isn’t going to be one. Max isn’t going to change his mind. You’re not going to live here together. It doesn’t matter how perfect you are for each other if he loves his past more than he loves you.
It’s not entirely fair to think that, either, and I know it. Max doesn’t love his past more than me–he’s actively set it aside to go in search of the means to keep me safe. But the fact remains that I’d rather be with him and on the run, than apart.
He’ll never accept that, though, and I know it.
“I wondered where you went.”
I spin around to see the dim shape of Art moving towards me, something in his hands. I feel myself stiffen with irritation without meaning to.This huge estate and I can’t find even a moment to be alone tonight?I know he didn’t happen upon me by accident this time–he came looking for me.
“I’m not going to the gallery opening,” I tell him flatly. “I told you–”
“Yes, I know.” Closer to me now, the lanterns along the pathway illuminate him, giving me a clear view of his handsomely chiseled face and carefully tended stubble, his green eyes flashing in the darkness. He grins, and I can see now that what’s in his hands are two wine glasses. “We wouldn’t make it now, anyway.”
“Oh?” I frown. “How late is it?”
“Late,” Art confirms. “But not too late for a drink or two?” He holds up the glasses, and I let out a small sigh.
“Why not?”The time must have gotten away from me,I realize as Art crosses the last steps between him and me, setting a wine bottle that was tucked under his arm onto the stone bench on the other side of the path.
“Here,” he says affably, handing me one of the glasses, and I take it, swirling the rich red liquid around as Art sniffs his own glass. “My favorite of the family vintages,” he adds as he tips the glass up to take a swallow.
It is remarkably good. The Agosti wine is the best I’ve ever had, and it makes me wonder how much more the business might thrive under Max, who clearly has a passion for it. I take another sip, and another, wondering if I could just simply drown my sorrows tonight in the bottle of wine that Art was so kind as to have brought me. I giggle at the thought, and he lowers his glass, looking at me curiously.
“What’s so funny,bella?” he asks, and I flinch a little at the familiarity of the endearment.
“You should just call me Sasha,” I tell him, a touch reprovingly as I take another long sip of the wine.
“Why is that?” Art grins at me again, a disarming expression on his handsome face. “You are very beautiful. I’ve thought so since the first day I met you.”
“You said something very rude the first day you met me,” I tell him, raising an eyebrow. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“What can I do to make you forget?” He cocks his head, taking another sip. “I’ve tried very hard to make up for it,bella.”
“There it is again. What’s wrong with my name?”
“Nothing. It’s as beautiful as you are,” Art adds smoothly. “It’s just meant to be friendly, that’s all.”
“Maybe I don’t need a friend other than Max. Have you considered that?” I finish the glass, scooping up the bottle before Art can try to pour it for me and refill it myself.
“I think you and Max are more than friends,” Art says with a smirk, reaching for the bottle to refill his own glass. “In fact, after that kiss I walked in on, I’d say I’m certain of it.”
“That’s none of your business,” I tell him sharply. “That’s between Max and me.”
“Sure.” Art shrugs. “All I’m trying to do is warn you. I could see your face, when he had you pinned up against that railing.” His eyes skim over me quickly, as if he’s thinking of what it might be like to be in Max’s place, and it sends a shiver of unease over me. “You wanted it–him–so badly. But Max wants something much more than he wants you, and it’s going to break your heart in the end.”
“What’s that?” I can hear a bite of acid on my tongue, but I don’t bother trying to hold it back. Art is overstepping his boundaries, and I’m very close to telling him so.
“His convictions,” Art says simply, taking another drink of his wine. “His feelings of righteousness, of beingbetterbecause he denies himself what everyone else simply admits they want. He wants that more than he wants you. If he didn’t, you’d already be together by now. I wouldn’t have a shot in hell.”
Something uncomfortable twists in my belly at Art’s words. I can’t deny that there’s a ring of truth to them or that I haven’t thought similar things, feeling guilty for it, in the late hours of the night when Max’s rejections have hurt the worst. “What makes you think you do?” I ask sharply, narrowing my eyes at him.