“I know.”
“I mean it. You already bought my ticket. You already...” My face heats, and I look away. “You’ve already done enough.”
Roman’s hand rests near mine on the blanket. Not touching. Close enough that I notice every inch of space between us. “Perhaps I want to.”
That’s worse.
That’s so much worse.
I look back at him.
There is no teasing in his face now. No amusement. Just that calm, unsettling focus, the kind that makes me feel as if he can see through the pretty manners and the careful words to the reckless woman underneath.
“You don’t know me,” I whisper.
“No.”
“And I don’t know you.”
“No.”
“That should matter.”
“It does.”
“But not enough to stop you?”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then returns to my eyes. “Not nearly enough.”
I should tell him no. I should remind him this is one night, one flight, one impossible mistake between strangers who will part ways when the plane lands. I should protect myself from the way his certainty makes the future feel less empty.
“The river first,” he says. “Early, before the city gets too loud. Then Red Square, if you want the obvious things.”
“I do.”
“Good. Obvious things are often obvious for a reason.”
I smile. “That sounded almost romantic.”
“It was not.”
“Of course not.”
He continues, as if he has not noticed what he’s doing to me. “There is a place near Patriarch’s Ponds. Good pastries. Quiet tables. You can sit by the window and stare at snow like a tourist.”
“I will be a tourist.”
“No. You will be with me.”
“You make it sound beautiful,” I say.
“It is beautiful.”
“Even in winter?”
“Especially in winter.”
I look back at the window.