Ava
“What’s your favourite Colour?” I blurt out.
Nikolai raises a brow at me, the corner of his mouth twitches as though he’s holding back a grin.
We are currently facing each other on the couch and my legs are curled under my butt. Our sushi order is spread out on the coffee table in an uneven arrangement, the boxes of rolls slightly askew, and a pair of chopsticks precariously resting on the edge of the table.
The tub of ice cream and the rest of the snacks I’d devoured during my Emilia in America marathon now sat discarded in the trash along with my hopes and dreams of James being revived for a season four.
So far, Nikolai and I have both had a turn and while I’ve been faithful to the rules and answered his question about my favourite colour without a moment of hesitation- it was pink, by the way – his lips had remained shut when I questioned him about his most embarrassing moment.
But then again, I suppose a man of his calibre doesn’t just hand out such information easily. A bottle of Sake, along with two shot glasses, sat on the coffee table beside the sushi.
Nikolai pours himself another shot and I scowl in his direction.
“Brown” he answers before tipping the glass back and downing the content in one fluid motion.
I narrow my eyes at him, frowning ” Really?”
He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who preferred neutral colours.
“Given your very colourful profession and outfit selection, I assumed you were going to say something like black because it” I curl my fingers in air quotes “hides blood well or some cliche like that”
He lets out a laugh, the sound reverberating through the dimly lit living room. It’s low and rich, wrapping around me like a cadence. It’s strange, but with how little the man laughs I would expect that my body wouldn’t have acted so instinctively.
Yet here I am with my pulse quickening and heat blooming in places I’d much rather ignore simply because he laughed. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, rolling my eyes at him before dragging my gaze to the half-empty sushi platter in front of us.
I grab one, the delicate fish sitting atop a small mound of rice, and bring it to my lips.
I wasn’t a fan of sushi but I didn’t entirely hate it. It had its qualities. For instance, it goes pretty well with soy sauce.
“Black does hide blood well” he states matter of factly, his eyes never leaving mine.
Of course, it does.
“It’s my turn, da?” (yes) I nod.
“Why do you love to paint so much?”
Oh. I hadn’t expected him to ask me that. It’s actually a pretty good question.
“My mother used to be an artist,” I say, looking at him. “Growing up, I watched her paint almost everything, but she especially loved to paint the flowers in her garden. She used to say that the ability to create out of nothing was often overlooked and a skill not many possessed”
He listens intently as I speak, his gaze steady and free of the pity I had grown so used to seeing whenever the topic of my mother arose.
I don’t remember much about my mother. I don’t remember how she looked or how she smelled. What I do remember is her love for the arts. Maybe it’s why I clung to it so much. Because it was the only thing that made me feel connected to her.
“You paint because it reminds you of her.” It was more of an observation than a question. I shrug my shoulders, placing my hand in my lap.
“At first, it did,” I say, remembering how my father hadn’t initially been opposed to the idea of me painting because I had picked up the hobby shortly after my mother died. He knew that art was one of the ways I intended to keep my mother’s memory alive, and he understood it. At first.
He stopped understanding it when I told him that I wanted to make a career out of it.
“But now I mostly paint for myself. Which is strange because I never fancied myself an artist the way my mother was. I actually wanted to become a dancer as a child.” I let out a nervous laugh. As a child I threw fits so that my parents would sign me up for ballet class. I attended classes until I was six and then quit after my mum died.
“Looking back now, I don’t think I would’ve made a pretty good dancer.”
He lifts a brow, his lips turned downwards,
“Why would you say that?” he asks, his voice low and measured, with an edge that hinted at something else.
I wasn’t ready to tell him about the scrutiny I faced at the hands of my ballet teacher or the bullying and taunting my peers dealt out on the odd chance they found out how my mother had died.
I shake my head, willing the less-than-pleasant memories away.
The corners of my lips hike up into a smile “Is that your third question?” I ask tilting my head to the side. If he senses that I’m trying to avoid the question he doesn’t show it. He simply leans back against the couch, assessing me with a questioning look in his eyes then shakes his head.
“Nyet” (no) he says.
“Okay. So it’s my turn then”
I pour myself a clear glass of sake. The clear liquid shimmers in the glass as I lift the glass to my lips.
I’ve never been a fan of alcohol but the way Nikolai has downed the liquid so effortlessly in the last couple of minutes made me wonder if it’s any good.
It isn’t.
The heat from the alcohol spreads tightly across my chest as I take a sip. The bitterness coats my tongue like a dark cloud on a sunny day.
“This is terrible, by the way,” I say, wrinkling my nose. He barks out a laugh as I place the shot glass back on the coffee table.
“I figured you’d say that” He shakes his head and pops a piece of sushi in his mouth. Despite the neatly wrapped chopsticks that came with our meal, it was clear to both Nikolai and me that we preferred to use our fingers.
My gaze drops to my lap and I have to fix my posture before toying with the hem of my blanket. “Can you tell me about the nightmare you had last night?” I ask carefully, not wanting to meet his gaze as I swirl my pinky finger on the star-shaped pattern.
I could sense that the topic of his mother was a bit of a sore spot for him, but I had to know if what happened last night was something that occurred frequently and if he knew what was causing it.
He swallows, the sound surprisingly audible despite the beating of my own heart.
“Nyet,” (No)
Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.
“Why not?”
A smirk curves at his lips, “Is that your next question, Solnyshko?” he asks, repeating the words I threw at him earlier.
Tall about being an avoidant Asshole.
“Why do you always call me that?”
“Solnyshko?”
I nod. At first, I thought it was an insult, but that thought slowly faded away after the first couple of times he called me that. I’d noticed that whenever he called me Solnyshko it was usually out of habit or with a hint of affection I never thought a man like him could possess.
Nikolai leans back in his seat, throwing an arm over the couch. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he studies me.
“Do you not like it?”
I hesitate, my fingers faltering on the invisible path I’ve mapped out on my blanket. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it. If anything, I liked it too much.
“It’s more like I don’t understand it.”
He watches me for a moment, his eyes sharp and calculating, as though deciding how much of the truth to reveal. “It means ‘little sun,'” he says finally, his voice lower, softer.
I figured as much.
“Why call me that? It seems kind of shortsighted, don’t you think?”
“No, I think it suits you perfectly”
“Of course you would. You’re the one who gave it to me remember?”
“I call you that because the moment I saw you standing there on the altar everything seemed brighter… warmer somehow than it had been in years”
His words settle over me like a heavy blanket, leaving me unsure of how to respond. I search his face for any signs of sarcasm or amusement, but there’s none. Just raw, unfiltered honesty that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
I force out a laugh, hoping I’m not showing how his words affect me. “That’s a lot to pin on someone you barely know, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. But I’m never wrong about these sorts of things”
I draw my bottom lip between my teeth ignoring the way his words send tingles racing down my spine.
“Have we met before?” I clear my throat adjusting under the intensity of his gaze “I mean before the wedding.”
Something flickers in his eyes, and for a moment, I wonder why the thought of us meeting before the wedding seems so plausible.
When we first met I remember sensing an air of familiarity about him and since I’ve been with him the feeling has only grown
Which makes me think that we’ve met before.
“I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to forget a face like yours if we’ve met before Solnyshko.”
The ways he says it, makes me wonder if I’ve only been imagining this connection between us. Maybe so.
“Right”
Besides, where would we have met? I had no idea who he was until he crashed my wedding with Antonio a month ago and there’s no way we would’ve met before then.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid.