Exposed (16 page)

As they worked, the sunlight grew hazy and indistinct. Twilight fell over the valley and the evening birds sang over the distant rush of the river. The day’s warmth was chased away on a mountain breeze. The dig-plant-dig-plant fell into a sort of mind-freeing labor, and June had almost forgotten about Ivan when he cleared his throat.

June swung her head around to look up at him. His shirt was stained with streaks of soil, and the setting sun streamed against his chest where he’d unbuttoned the top of his shirt. June had to cough to cover the way she stared. Just two mornings ago she’d felt that hard chest pressed up against her.

“Can you help me for a moment?”

“Oh!” June wiped dirt off her hands and pushed up to stand. Her shoulders burned, and she stretched her neck side to side. She only had the rosebushes left to plant. She hadn’t realized she’d done so much.

June crossed quickly to where Ivan held what had once been a roll of chicken wire. Now, it was fashioned into a simple, graceful arch. Ivan handed it to June without a word and lifted a giant bag of potting soil onto his shoulder. He motioned at the large terracotta planter and June got the idea.

“Just,” he grunted, keeping the bag of soil from shifting. “Hold the end of the trellis still and I’ll fill the pot.”

“Like this?” It felt good to talk. Ivan had a wonderful voice. Deep, and a bit rough around the edges, with a burr of an accent sneaking into his tone every once in a while.

Ivan nodded and dumped the soil into the pot. Arms straining, he positioned the pot at the edge of fence. Working together, they filled the second pot and planted it with verdant green seedlings, the shoots tender and wiry. The near-naked trellis arched over the back gate. June lifted her brows in question.

“Sweet peas,” Ivan explained. “They grow quickly and are good climbers.”

June used the break to take a long drink of water and then handed the cup to Ivan. Water was shiny on his lips when he pulled the cup away, and he darted his tongue along his full lower lip.

“You’re good at this,” June said.

Ivan paused, frowned.

“Flowers, plants. It makes you happy.”

Ivan dropped the cup back into the bucket of cold water and turned his back to June. He heaved another large pot into his arms and positioned it next to the garden then started gathering together a range of bright flowers and tall greens for the container. 

“How do you know what makes me happy?” He kept his back turned away as he knelt at the pot, but inclined his chin toward June.

“You can’t hide it in your face, even though you try.”

Ivan froze for a breath of a moment. Then he shook his head and started planting. Silently, June knelt back in the dirt beside Ivan. She nearly put a hand on his shoulder. Nearly. But instead, she pressed her fingers into the soil. What did Ivan feel when he did the same? 

“Have you ever considered selling your family’s flowers and produce at the general store?”

Ivan’s movements turned suddenly jerky. “We did, yes. It would have been bad for business, apparently.”

June screwed her lips over to one side. “When was that?”

Ivan rocked back onto his heels and stared at June, annoyance pulling his features tight. “Does it matter?”

“It does if it was my father who said that.” A growing sense of guilt threatened to overpower June. Did her own father deny the Sokolovs because of who they were?

“It was when we first moved to the valley ten years ago.”

A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding rushed out of June. “That was the manager before him. He was terribly rude to most people.” She smiled up at Ivan. “You should try again.”

He didn’t answer.

June pressed her lips together for a moment before speaking again. “I’ve heard what people are saying. I’ve seen how they’re not buying from your family anymore at the market. It’s not fair, Ivan. But maybe, if you sell in the store …. At first, they wouldn’t know, and by the time they do things will have gone back to normal.”

He paused, his fingers still against the vibrant leaves of an anemone. “Maybe.”

Maybe
from Ivan Sokolov was a victory.
Maybe
would have to be good enough for now. June let her smile stretch wide and returned to her work.

Something happened as the world around them softened into a quiet night. Ivan softened along with it. June saw it in the curve of his shoulders and the contentment in his jaw. And June softened too. It was comfortable, working like this, side by side with Ivan. She felt relaxed in her own skin, even though she was wearing dirt-stained clothes and hadn’t a lick of makeup on her face. 

There were only two rose bushes left to plant when Ivan spoke up. His voice was rough from lack of use.

“I saw you the other day, with the preacher girl.”

June looked up, surprised. “You mean Ruth.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with someone like her.”

June swiped her hands together, wiping off cool, clinging soil. “Maybe you don’t know everything about me, Ivan.”

Ivan quirked one eyebrow in response.

June waited a beat then smiled. “We’ve been friends since childhood. She’s had a …,” June considered her words. “Her father isn’t an easy man, but Ruth is a strong woman. Brave, in her own way.”

“You’re brave. The way you use your power even when it hurts.”

The surprising compliment warmed June to the core and left her unsteady. She felt like a coward most days, hiding behind a false smile. 

June shook her head. “I’m not brave.”

One side of Ivan’s mouth hitched upward in a smirk. “And I’m not kind.” 

And then one of his rare smiles spread like sunshine across his face. It creased his cheeks and showed straight, white teeth. June melted under the heat of that smile.

Emotions rollicked through her, making her chest feel tight and her head light. But he’d called her pathetic. June wanted to ask—needed to know if he really thought that of her. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to hear his answer, this man who didn’t shy away from harsh truths. Instead, she grabbed for the last rose bush to be planted.

Pain lanced up her hand, and she winced. When she pulled her hand to her face, blood welled in her palm.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ivan

Ivan’s hand wrapped around June’s before he’d given it a second thought. 

The feel of her skin on his again seared through him, the white hot lightning of a summer storm. Violent and beautiful. June gasped just the tiniest bit, and Ivan’s heart soared into his tight throat. He had to clear his throat to trust himself to speak.

Ivan sat on the ground before June and pulled her hand gently into his lap. “Let me see,” he said, not daring to meet her eyes.

Beads of crimson blood welled from two pricks of her palm and one on her finger. Ivan fished a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away the blood. He swaddled her hand in the cream linen and held her hand between his own to stop the bleeding.

“What do the letters stand for?” June’s voice trembled at the corners, low and unsure. And close. So close. Close enough to kiss.

It took Ivan a second to understand what she was asking. Then he noticed the embroidered initials on his handkerchief.

“Oleg Ivanovich Petrovsky,” he said, his own voice a low timbre that rumbled in his chest. He didn’t trust anything louder, not when June was this close, this kissable. “My grandfather’s name.”

Ivan looked up and met her eyes. They were wide and a caramel brown under straight, light brown eyebrows. This close, with their heads bent together, he caught a smattering of freckles peppering her small, upturned nose. Her lips turned up in a smile and she blinked, a fringe of light brown lashes that matched her eyebrows. She was stunning this close, even more beautiful than from afar. 

“Are you named after him?”

“Hmm? Yes, him and my father. Ivan Abramovich Sokolov.”

“Ivan Abramovich Sokolov,” June said, trying out his name. He liked the sound of it on her tongue. “It’s very, uh, Russian.”

Ivan arched one eyebrow. “
I’m
very Russian.” 

It only hit him after he’d said it that she hadn’t called him Soviet. That warmed him. 

So often, people seemed to only think of the Sokolov family as “those Soviets,” like they were as far from American as possible. It didn’t matter that Ivan had been born in the United States. It didn’t matter that his own father had worked for the American government—gave them Soviet secrets. No one in Independence Falls could see past his name. 

But maybe not
everyone
. Hadn’t June shown him that? He looked hard at her, daring her to look away. His forehead inched closer to hers, the breath slipping past his lips mingling with hers. She smelled sweet, yet that spice lingered underneath. He wanted to explore her, find the source of that spice and lap it up.

What was this woman doing to him? It was like she was chipping away at the shell that had hardened around him. What was more, she seemed to truly want to discover the man underneath—the real Ivan. It was a person he’d hidden away under years of anger. Could Ivan truly still be that caring person who laughed easily? He didn’t know.

June held Ivan’s gaze for a long moment, then looked past him, over his shoulder to the waiting garden. “You’re sure you can’t ….” She wriggled her fingers again in his palm. 

The tickle in his palm seemed to send electricity suffusing his body. He stirred at her touch but covered it with a laugh. A laugh that came easier than he could have imagined. 

“You mean like …,” Ivan pressed the fingers of his free hand into the soil and let tendrils of his power tunnel through the earth. It reached and twisted until he felt the pulsing life of the sweet peas. June kept her hand in his and watched him work, her mouth open in awe.

The tender shoots of the sweet pea grew fat and strong, turning vibrant with life as they climbed up the trellis. Flowers bloomed, dusty pinks and pale purples, and the honeyed scent tickled at Ivan’s nose. Next to him, June sighed and closed her eyes. Ivan stared at her greedily. Somewhere beyond her in the darkening woods, movement caught his attention, but he only had eyes for June.

In the soft silence, Ivan unwrapped the handkerchief. The pricks from the rosebush were nearly invisible. He held her fingers lightly between his and turned her hand over. There was dirt under her fingernails, and her careful manicure was ruined. A sprig of leaves clung to the rolled cuff of her shirtsleeve. It made him want to kiss her all the more. Bring her fingers to his lips, kiss her wrist, her shoulder, her neck, her mouth. He pulled her hand closer, just the tiniest bit. June stared at the spot where their hands twined together.

Into the quiet connection of their hands, doubt took seed. Ivan didn’t know where it came from, but the roots went deep. What if June was using him? What if he was simply a means to get her mother off her back?

Ivan tugged his hand away and stood abruptly. “I should go.”

A frown worried at June’s forehead.

“I need more flowers,” he lied, casting about for an excuse to get away. He suspected June—suspected everyone—of the worst. And he hated it. He hated that he couldn’t let himself trust her.

June pushed to her feet and brushed soil from her dungarees. She twisted her hands in front of her stomach and took a few tentative steps closer. “Ivan, I ….”

Ivan turned away. “I’ve had a nice time.”

“Ivan,” June said again, more confident this time. Her hand brushed against his arm. “Wait. I want to help,” she said to his back. “Please, let me come with you.”

Ivan turned to her, looked down at her upturned face. He only saw hope there, and kindness. But they both knew she was a good actress. “You don’t need to do that.”

“But I want to.” She smiled, and he melted. “Please?”

June was all around. She invaded Ivan’s truck, filled it with her presence, and Ivan knew it’d be a long time until he could forget the scent of her. 

Ivan tried to ignore the way she ran a finger down the leather stitching of the bench seat, the way she toed at clumps of dirt littering the floor. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in the marching cadence of an old Russian folk song and concentrated on the road. 

Dusk painted Independence Falls in dove grays and muted greens, blues, and pinks. They drove past the matching homes in June’s neighborhood and joined the main road just south of the town square. The asphalt rolled on past the older homes south of town, the gabled Victorians and early-century craftsman bungalows. 

“I used to live just down there,” June said quietly, almost to herself. 

Ivan couldn’t help but slow down, crane his neck to look down the side street where she’d pointed. These weren’t the grand old mansions of Highledge, but the neighborhood homes were lovely and shaded. 

“Why’d you move?”

June circled her finger against the window pane, making lazy designs. “My mother insisted. She wanted something new. If I stay in town, I’d like to move back to these old homes.”

Ivan pressed his lips together, but said nothing. He had always been able to count on the sanctuary of his family, of his farm. Even if the world outside their property was harsh, he could escape. It hit Ivan like a punch to the gut that June didn’t have that. Where could she be herself?

The mistrust that had consumed him back in the garden sifted away the farther from town they drove. It remained there—indistinct—but Ivan relaxed. 

The houses fell away, replaced with set-back ranches and old cabins surrounded by outbuildings. Near the end of the valley, where the road started its long climb up and over the single pass out of town, Ivan slowed and swung the truck onto a narrow dirt road. They drove straight west toward the mountains, the last fingers of golden light making Ivan squint. But he knew this road, knew the furrows and sudden bumps.

The truck jittered and bounced over rocks and ruts in the path, and the going was slow. Finally, they crested a small hill, and the Sokolov farm appeared before them. It sat snug in the arms of a shallow valley, the main house at the center of a wheel spoked by a big, red barn, another smaller shed, and a collection of three long hothouses. The small fields surrounding the house were neat and tidy, rows of every shade of green with the tiny orchard at one end. Ivan’s stomach growled as they drove closer to the house.