Soldier Mine (Sons of War #2)(27)

He winks.

My face grows warm. His father was right. My instinct leaving the community center was likewise correct.

Petr likes me.

And that baffles me, as much because I have no idea why as because I don’t know what to do about it.

We pass an uber-formal dining room and continue walking. I almost sigh. I don’t know a salad fork from an entrée fork, and I’m not about to embarrass myself by choosing the wrong one. I’d probably skip eating and starve to death so Petr didn’t think worse of me for not knowing.

He leads us into a sunroom whose three walls and ceiling are glass. Natural light cascades into the room from the gloomy outside. The space is filled with two small Christmas trees, a single round table and a buffet table along one side overloaded with food as promised.

Petr’s father is waiting for us, already nibbling on what appears to be a small, thick pancake and sipping coffee from his spot at the table.

“Omigod.” Todd’s face lights up when he sees the spread.

“Welcome,” Petr’s father booms and stands. “Come!”

Petr places a hand at the small of my back and pulls out a chair for me. It takes a split second for me to overcome the thrill working through me at the sensation of his warm hand on my back to realize his father is talking.

“… American and some Russian.” He gestures towards the buffet. “I am Anton Khavalov.” He reaches out to shake Todd’s hand, Maya’s then mine. “It is good to see you again, Claudia.” His eyes were twinkling.

“You, too,” I murmur awkwardly.

I take my seat, and Petr sits beside me. Todd and Maya approach more shyly.

“What’re you waiting for?” Anton booms. “Eat! If there is food left, the cook will cry.”

I smile and stand when Petr does.

“Okay, I’ll give you the quick version of the Russian food,” he says as we all head towards the food. “Russian pancakes with a toppings bar, vatrushka – which is basically a Danish – gingerbread in various forms, baked apples, and the rest you should be able to identify.”

The food smells fantastic. Todd puts a huge scoop of everything from mini omelets and bacon to a stack of the Russian pancakes on his plate while Maya picks and chooses. I follow Todd’s lead in trying everything. Pots of coffee and creamer, freshly churned butter and homemade jams and croissants are on the table already.

We eat in relative silence. Anton and Todd do most of the talking, while I listen. Petr seems unusually quiet. His appetite appears to be intact, though, and he manages to eat almost as much as my brother, which is no small feat.

The food is even better than it looks. I’ve never had anything that tasted so fresh or high quality, and the textures … my god. How Petr isn’t four hundred pounds, I don’t know. I’d never stop eating if I had food like this anywhere near me!

I eat until I’m uncomfortably stuffed. The others slow as well, and when even Todd is done, I speak up. “Anton, this is incredible,” I say to Petr’s father. “I’ve never had food this good.”

“Then you will not be disappointed when I say the chocolate turkey broke in transfer,” he says in approval. “So I cannot give it to you for Petr’s dowry. You will have to take a gingerbread Santa Clause instead.”

I laugh. Todd gives me a weird look. Petr is smiling, though there’s a shadow in his gaze.

It bothers me not to see him happy.

“Come, children!” Anton says and stands. “Let me show you the house.” He motions for Todd and Maya to follow him.

Todd grabs a small plate and loads it with two more of the Russian pastries before trailing. I sip coffee that tells me Anton has every right to snub the diner’s coffee and lean back in my seat.

“We barely made a dent,” I observe, gaze on the buffet.

“Plenty of time to snack on it today,” Petr says. He smiles, and the sadness in his gaze lifts. “Want to see our tree? It’s huge.”

“Bigger than the one in the foyer?”

“Much.”

“That’s not possible!”

“Come on!” He stands with a wolfish grin and holds out his hand.

I freeze, not too sure what to do. With some uncertainty, I slide my hand into his as I get to my feet. He squeezes in encouragement, but I avoid his gaze. It feels … wrong.

And oh-so-right to be in contact with him like this.

Hand in hand, we walk down a hallway to a much plainer, narrower set of stairs leading to the second floor. I try not to admire the width of his shoulders or the way his torso forms a perfect triangle with his narrow waist. He’s muscular, just over six feet tall, and sweet. The perfect combination shouldn’t exist. Watching him move, it’s easy to forget he’s missing a leg. I can’t help wondering if his prosthetic limb ever hurts him or if the pain is over with now.

“The first floor is mainly for entertaining,” he explains. “The second floor is the family’s space and guest rooms.”

I say nothing, feeling both comfortable with him and very out of place in a mansion.

We emerge onto the second floor at one end of a long hallway broken up into two wings. He takes me to the central space, and I gasp at the tree at least one and a half times the size of the one in the foyer. This one is less conservatively decorated, the colors brighter, and I spot more than one ornament that appears to have been handmade when Petr and his siblings were in school.