I smiled. Kristen and Landon. It wasn’t an odd combination, since Kristen was a grade-A knockout. I just hadn’t expected it. I’d never seen them have a conversation. Which didn’t mean much, since the end of the night was absent from my brain.

“He said Jeremy drugged my drink.” I fell back on the bed, closing my eyes as I inhaled Aleksandr’s clove scent wafting from my pillow.

“Yeah. I can’t believe Scott would even bring that frickin’ psycho.”

“You can’t?” I asked. I didn’t believe Scott brought someone to hurt us intentionally, but I wasn’t surprised he had those kinds of friends.

“I’m so glad Aleksandr beat his ass.”

“What?”

“He punched Jeremy out. Like, punched him out cold,” Kristen said.

Though I didn’t condone violence, my heart swelled knowing that Aleksandr had punched him for me.

When I heard the rumble of a vehicle pulling into the driveway, I cut the conversation short. “I gotta go, KK. Uncle Rick’s here.”

“Scratch Max’s belly for me,” she replied. “And call me later.”

I paused to put on a bra and sweep my hair into a messy ponytail before trotting out to the living room. I’d assumed the visitor was my uncle Rick, since he came over every weekend with Max, his golden Lab. But when I looked out the window, I saw Aleksandr hopping out of his black Jeep Wrangler. He looked up from fumbling around in the passenger side and winked, before resuming his task. When he emerged again, he closed the door with his hip, as his hands were full; a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a package wrapped in plain brown paper in the other.

“Who is it?” Grandpa asked.

“My client,” I answered. My heart was pounding so hard, it felt like the offspring of unicorns and elephants were banging against my chest cavity.

“Let the boy in the house, Audushka,” he commanded, looming behind me.

I took a few steps back, before Grandpa brought out the mosh-pit elbows on me.

Aleksandr stepped over the threshold and into the house before greeting Grandpa. “Viktor Vladimirovich, is nice to finally meet you. Evgeny Igorovich and Audushka tell me many good things.” After speaking with my grandpa, he took a small step to the side and leaned in to kiss Gram on the cheeks three times. “Mrs. Berezin.”

Points for the Russian: Using Grandpa’s patronymic (first and middle names, which is the respectful way to greet in Russia) and kissing Gram’s cheeks in greeting.

Points against the Russian: His hair. I watched Grandpa’s eyes lock on Aleksandr’s head for a few seconds before he backed away. He didn’t mention it, but I knew he was judging.

Aleksandr must have noticed where Grandpa’s eyes had lingered, because he smoothed a hand over one shaved side and shrugged. “Prank on rookie.”

“Oh my.” Gram covered her mouth, hiding the curve of a smile.

“For you.” Aleksandr didn’t miss a beat, holding out the paper-wrapped package to Gram.

“Thank you,” she said, peeling back the wrapping to reveal a loaf of dark brown bread.

“Is black bread,” he explained, seeing her eyebrows lift in question at the gift.

“Where did you get black bread here?” Grandpa interrupted.

I swear Grandpa was salivating. He’d told me stories of how much he loved his mother’s black bread, but I’d never had it before. My great-grandma passed away before I was born, and Gram wasn’t a baker. A few years ago, I looked up a recipe to make the dark rye bread for Grandpa on his birthday, but immediately filed it under the impossible-for-my-skill-set category. Must’ve inherited Gram’s baking capabilities.

“I make this,” Aleksandr told him.

Six eyes widened as we all stared at him like he was crazy. And a liar.

“I made this bread,” he went on, “but I cannot tell you how this taste. I hope like Babushka’s.”

“You bake?” I asked peeking at him from over my Gram’s shoulder.

“No. I watch Babushka so many times I make this in my sleep.” Aleksandr smiled. “But I can cook.”

“Well, it was very thoughtful,” Gram told him, before turning to give me a pointed look.

I guess it was rude to ask a guy if he could bake.

“Come sit down,” she told Aleksandr, closing the door behind him. “Can I get you something to drink, dear?”

“No, thank you.” He shook his head. “I not gonna stay long. I come to meet you. Tell you Audushka is amazing translator. She, uh, professional and fast.”

Aleksandr handed me the beautiful bouquet of red roses and kissed each of my cheeks, then the left again, just as he had Gram. I brought the flowers to my nose, inhaling the musky scent that reminded me of Gram’s favorite lotion. Holding the bouquet in front of my face masked the color flooding my cheeks, but it wouldn’t stop the thrum as my heartbeat accelerated in my chest.

“I’ll take that,” Grandpa said, holding his hand out for Aleksandr’s peacoat. Grandpa nodded to the couch. “Take a seat.”

A few strands of loose hair fell in front of Aleksandr’s eyes as he settled on the couch.

Grandpa kept glancing at Aleksandr’s head as he hung his peacoat in the front closet. He hated Aleksandr’s hair.

“Let’s put those in some water.” Gram motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen. I nodded, though I was uneasy about leaving Aleksandr alone with Grandpa.

Gram and I set to our tasks in the small kitchen. She unwrapped the bread and set it on a cutting board, as I grabbed an empty vase from the cupboard above the sink and filled it with water. I separated each rose with care from the extra greenery and arranged them in the vase. Eleven roses. I counted again. Still eleven. Jerky florist gypped the guy from a dozen roses.

“Audushka tells us you are from Serpukov.” Grandpa’s voice boomed from the living room. Then I heard the distinct creaks as he lowered himself onto his worn, gray recliner.

“Yes,” Aleksandr answered.

Hurrying to the living room, I set the vase of flowers on the coffee table and scooted around it to sit next to Aleksandr on the couch. Sitting next to him didn’t mean anything. We had a good working relationship. We were friends.

Friends. Keep telling yourself that, Auden.

“How often do you get to go home?” Gram asked, placing the bread on the coffee table in front of Aleksandr and me. She’d set a small ramekin of butter and a knife next to the now-sliced bread. Gram took a piece, buttered it, and handed it to Grandpa before doing the same for herself. “Your parents must miss you.”

“My parents, they killed in car accident. But I have many aunts, uncles, cousins. Never enough time for these visits when I am home.” He smiled.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” Gram told him, her eyes soft with empathy. No doubt in my mind, she’d already started saying the rosary for him in her head.

“I have my parents eighteen years. I miss them, but I come here like I planned. I just hope I make them proud, yes.”

“This bread is wonderful, Aleksandr,” Gram said, looking from Aleksandr to Grandpa. “Isn’t it wonderful, Viktor?”

If Gram was doing a quick subject change, it meant she was about to cry. And Irish Catholic Catherine was just as stoic as Russian atheist-turned-Catholic Viktor when it came to crying. They rarely let loose in public.

“Very good,” Grandpa answered while still chewing. He’d already motioned for a second piece, so I believed him.

“Thank you,” Aleksandr told them.

The conversation went on from there, but I tuned out because I couldn’t take my eyes off Aleksandr. His blue eyes were bright, highlighted by the cute wrinkles surrounding them. He wore an easy, genuine smile during a conversation in which I’d expected him to be stiff and uncomfortable. He seemed anything but uncomfortable. Should the power go out, we could’ve used the glow of happiness radiating from him as a generator.

This confident, sometimes arrogant, man just wanted attention and praise. I kept forgetting he left everything familiar back in Russia to start a new life here. He’d made a huge transition, and I needed to cut him some slack.