“Aleksandr, I’m glad you came to spend time with us. Thank you so much for the delicious bread. I have to excuse myself to finish up some work.” Gram rose from her chair.

Aleksandr stood. “Is nice to meet you. Thank you.”

She rubbed his shoulder as she walked past him to the kitchen.

Whoa, now! Back off, Catherine!

A minute later she was pecking away on her typewriter. (Yes, typewriter.) As the secretary of her Thursday-night bowling league, it was her duty to put a score sheet together from the previous week.

I waited for Grandpa to make his exit, too. Instead, he pushed back on his recliner, getting more comfortable.

“I think you got gypped at the florist,” I told Aleksandr in Russian, ignoring my nosy grandpa who was most likely listening to every word.

“What do you mean? You liked them, yes?”

“Oh, yeah! They’re gorgeous. But there’s only eleven.”

He smiled, and shook his head.

“Oh my gosh, that was so rude. I’m sorry.” I’d insulted the only person to ever give me flowers over one measly flower. As if I hadn’t put him through enough in the last twenty-four hours. I was a class act.

“In Russia we don’t give even-numbered flowers as gifts.”

“Why not?” Wasn’t something as simple as flowers the same across the world?

“Even numbers are for the dead.”

I paused, unsure how to answer. “Well, then, I’m really glad the florist gypped you.”

“Me, too.” Aleksandr laughed, glancing at his watch. “I need to get going.”

“Oh, okay,” I mumbled, jumping up to retrieve Aleksandr’s coat from the front closet. My cheeks flushed as I watched him pull it up his arms and over his shoulders. His movements were so easy, so self-assured. Leave it to me to get excited over someone putting on clothes.

“Thank you so much, Sasha,” I said, throwing my arms around him. My hug must’ve caught him off guard because he stumbled backward.

“Thanks for letting me stop by,” he responded, recovering from my attack. I pulled back, sneaking a peek at his reaction. He was smiling. A white-teeth-showing, bottom-lip-dipping smile.

“Aleksandr Sergeevich?” Grandpa called just as Aleksandr was about to open the door.

“Yes?” He lifted his head to meet my grandpa’s eyes.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you have a good handle on the English language.” Grandpa minced no words in Russian. He pushed down the footrest on his recliner and stood up.

Oh shit. I put a hand over my mouth.

“I do, yes,” Aleksandr admitted.

“Then why do you need a translator?”

The story of what happened in my first night translating must’ve gotten back to Grandpa. Gram never could keep a secret.

“I don’t like speaking with the media. I haven’t mastered reining in my thoughts, giving the correct answers.” Aleksandr shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Then thought better of slouching and straightened up.

Grandpa was going in for the kill. I could feel it.

“I understand that. You’re young and relatively new in the country. How the Pilots spend money is not my business, but I will not allow my granddaughter to be embarrassed and disrespected by a dishonest young punk. You should consider her services a favor since she is assisting you in a situation you don’t want to be in.”

“Yes, Viktor Vladimirovich.” Aleksandr’s swallow was audible.

“I am changing Audushka’s title and job duties to translator and tutor. We will let everyone, including the media, know that in addition to translating, she will help you learn the English language so you will be able to handle your own interviews. It makes sense as she is only in town for the next month.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea.” Aleksandr nodded.

That glow he just had—yeah, that was gone.

“Thank you. And if I ever hear of you embarrassing Audushka when she is being professional and helpful, I will personally pay you a visit. And believe me when I say, I don’t think you’ll enjoy it.”

Aleksandr nodded. “I’m very sorry, Viktor Vladimirovich. Please accept my apology as I hope Audushka already has.” He studied the floor.

“Please, call me Dedushka.” Grandpa clapped his shoulder before shuffling off to the kitchen.

Call me Dedushka? He sounded like a frickin’ mobster. Viktor Sopranov.

“And, Sasha?” Grandpa turned around.

Aleksandr whipped his head up. “Yes?”

“How about coming over tomorrow to help an old man with some outdoor work?”

Aleksandr nodded.

“Sorry,” I said, lowering my hand from my mouth. “I didn’t know he was going to say anything.”

“I deserved it.” Aleksandr opened the door and jumped from the porch to the grass. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to turn toward the house again, I shut the front door.

All the time I’d spent trying to keep my attraction to Aleksandr under wraps to avoid creating an uncomfortable work situation—not necessary.

Thanks, Dedushka.

Chapter 11

“I’ll help, too. I’m good at home-improvement projects,” I reminded Grandpa, pulling on a pair of Gram’s old leather driving gloves.

Aleksandr had showed up at our front door at noon the next day. Grandpa immediately put him to work scraping the old chipped paint from our garage. My grandparents were getting ready to put the house on the market in the spring, finally abandoning the city they’d called home for over sixty years.

Grandpa lifted his head from his search for something in the top drawer of his toolbox to flash me an irritated look.

I knew he remembered the time I got sick of the dirty old carpet in my bedroom. I’d assumed there was beautiful hardwood flooring underneath because I didn’t know any better and thought all houses had hardwood flooring under the carpet. So one Saturday morning when my grandparents were out of the house, I’d torn the carpet off the staples, rolled it up, and dragged it out to the curb. I was right about the hardwoods. Uncle Rick installed quarter-round molding and painted a coat of stain, and—boom—beautiful wood floors, just like I’d imagined. Which was fortunate for me.

“You can help with the scraping.” Grandpa handed me a tool with a wide, flat metal head.

“Painting can’t be that hard. I mean, it’s a garage, how good does it have to look?” I asked as I began assaulting the paint that had bubbled and cracked over the years. Aleksandr, already armed with a scraper, toiled beside me.

“That attitude is exactly why you are scraping.” Grandpa winked at Aleksandr and went to work on one of the other sides.

“Rolling my eyes would get me smacked,” I whispered to Aleksandr, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Grandpa was out of earshot.

“He’s right,” Aleksandr said, scraping away. “Just because it’s a garage doesn’t mean it’s not important. Should still look good. Dedushka has pride in his home.”

“That attitude is why he already likes you better than me,” I said in my best Viktor Berezin impression.

Aleksandr hip-checked me. “Likes me? He’s punishing me for playing a prank on you, and you say he likes me?”

“You gotta know Viktor.” I laughed and resumed scraping.

Maybe Aleksandr didn’t see it, because scraping the garage was a punishment, but Viktor loved him. If Viktor hated him, I would no longer have been his translator. Despite the “punishment,” I had a sneaking suspicion Aleksandr liked Grandpa, too. I mean, he was twenty years old. He didn’t have to come over. He could have blown my family off.

“I’m really sorry about this. I didn’t know Grandpa would put you to work. You probably think we’re weirdos.”

“Stop apologizing, Audushka. The joke I pulled was stupid and mean. Grandpa was right to put me in my place.” He shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping from his lips. “It’s exactly what my father would have done.”

I snuck a peek at his profile. His mouth turned up, eyes glassy, his nose and cheeks pink from the cold yet sunny December day.