“Do you remember, Sasha?” — laughs her father. “When Lina was little, she climbed onto your lap and threatened that when she grew up, she’d marry you.”
I hurriedly reach for a glass of water. “I tried to get this man when I was a child? Lord, what a day?”
— “I remember,” the man replies, taking the chair next to me. “It’s been about twelve years, I guess.” I can feel his gaze on me, but I can’t turn around. “Damn it, what dragged me into putting on this dress? It’s… too revealing.”
— “Fifteen, Sasha. Carolina turned twenty two weeks ago.”
— “An excellent age,” Alexander comments restrainedly. “Mark will be nineteen next month.”
Curiosity takes over embarrassment, and I make myself turn to look at the person speaking.
“Who is Mark?” Now that there’s no cloud of steam, I finally have a chance to see him properly. Dark eyes with a rare almond-shaped cut, a clear line of the brows, prominent cheekbones, a forceful jaw… I don’t remember Alexander at all, but I believe my father’s words. He looks like a movie actor—so there’s nothing surprising about the fact that as a child I wanted him to be my husband.
The man’s gaze lingers on my cheek—on the mole there—then returns to my eyes.
— “Mark is my son.”