Theresa sighed. “Yes.”
Ilya shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Theresa gathered the papers she’d spread out in front of them both shortly after arriving, before Ilya had waved them away and told her flat out he wanted more money and written promises regarding the plans for Go Deep and the quarry property. She put them neatly into the folder she’d brought along, then closed it and slid it across the table toward him. He gave her a look.
“I’ll take the requests to them,” she said. “But you should realize this isn’t a negotiation. They’ve settled with Alicia for her major share, and they’re going to move ahead with the project no matter what.”
“Screw them,” Ilya said evenly. “And you know what? You, too.”
That was it; she was done.
Theresa got out a pair of twenties—all the cash she had in her wallet. All the cash she’d have for the next couple of weeks until her commission check from the first part of the sale cleared. She tossed the money on the table and stood. She didn’t bother saying good-bye. Her heart was pounding, her throat closing, her eyes burning. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was give him the benefit of seeing her get upset—and how familiar did that feel? Years had passed, and the difference now was that instead of Ilya teasing her about the posters on her wall or stealing the last slice of pizza, holding it above her head so she couldn’t reach it, he was actively pushing the point of something sharp into her soft places in order to get a reaction out of her.
Outside in the parking lot, she gave herself a few seconds to breathe in the night air, fresh with the promise of spring. At her car, she opened the trunk to sort through a few of her bags, looking for her pajama pants. At the sound of a male voice behind her, she jumped, hitting her head on the edge of the trunk and letting out a cry.
Blinking against the pain stars blooming in her vision, she whirled. Pepper spray, dammit, where is . . . oh. “You scared the hell out of me!”
Ilya had backed off a step, hands held up. “Sorry. Shit, Theresa, ease up.”
She took in a breath and put a hand on her head, rubbing away the sting. “What do you want?”
“I was hoping you’d give me a ride home.”
“After what you said to me?” She laughed harshly. “You must be drunk.”
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t need a ride. And I’m sorry,” Ilya said in the tone of a man for whom apologies had always worked in the past. “I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean it, really. I know you’re just doing your job.”
She hesitated, wishing she could tell him to screw off. There weren’t any ready cabs in this rural town. None of those phone-app car services. There was no way he’d be able to walk home, and that meant risking his deciding to drive himself if she refused. She didn’t want that on her conscience.
“I know it’s out of your way,” Ilya said while she was weighing her answer. He shuffled his feet in the gravel and had the grace to look at least a little bit embarrassed—that earlier put-on charm dissipating. “I’d owe you. Not enough to agree to that deal. But I’d owe you.”
Theresa sighed. “Fine. Get in.”
She realized too late that the passenger-side seat sported her cosmetics case, pillow, blanket, and—oh, there were her pajama pants. She bent across the center console to start moving things into the backseat so he could get in. Ilya helped, then slid into the seat.
“What’s up with all this stuff? Your landlord still fixing the ducts or whatever he was doing before?”
She’d forgotten she’d told him that lie a few weeks ago when she’d been staying at his house after Babulya’s funeral. She shrugged, not looking at him. “I’ve been on the road for a while. For work.”
When he snapped on the radio, she didn’t say anything. It was better than trying to make conversation. She felt him looking at her but kept her eyes on the road.
“Was your hair always that curly?” Ilya asked.
Theresa’s brows knit. “Huh?”
“Your hair.” Incredibly, he reached to touch it. “It’s so curly. And soft.”
She burst into laughter, shivering at the touch of his fingers and pulling away as best she could while keeping the car on the road. “You’re drunk.”
“It looks good,” Ilya said. “I like it.”
She frowned at that. “Okay, well, thanks. I’m glad to know that my personal appearance is up to your presumably high standards.”
Ilya laughed, low. “Salty.”
She didn’t answer that. Again, she felt his stare on her, but she didn’t look at him. They drove in silence for the next few minutes until she made the last turn onto Quarry Street.
“Still wigs me out sometimes,” Ilya said as they pulled into the driveway. “All the houses.”
Theresa peered through the windshield, turning on the wipers to swipe at the faint drizzle that had misted the glass. “Things changed, for sure. That’s what they do.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what they do.”