The Bucket List

15.2 The Signature Drink

Nicholai may be a terrible bartender, but he's an excellent runner.

"How—much—farther?" I gasp, each word punctuated with a staggered breath.

The path we're taking is a winding one, riding the coastline for some untold stretch. Los Angeles is home to a number of early birds eager to squeeze in a morning run. I commit each face to memory to pass the time, to distract from the burn in my legs and in my lungs. There's the young mother pushing a stroller, a set of twins slumbering inside; behind her a pair of women with silver hair and ankle warmers; a bald man sporting turquoise sunglasses and canary yellow running shoes that somehow strikes me as familiar, and I'm thinking maybe it's because he reminds me of my seventh grade history teacher; a trio of boys, younger than we are, laughing loudly and carrying on a perfectly normal conversation despite the grueling pace they're setting. I imagine what their lives are like, concocting wild stories.

Anything to pull my thoughts from the concrete path—and Nicholai, running just ahead of me. He moves effortlessly, the muscles of his broad back rippling beneath his shirt. There are long stretches when we find ourselves alone, with nothing but the ocean to our left and stray gulls whirling overhead. In those moments, I commit the shape of him to memory. The shape of his arms. The slope of his shoulders. The curl of his hair...

He tosses me a grin over his shoulder. "Ten minutes."

He's enjoying this. At least one of us is.

We veer off the path at the pier, shoes slapping against pavement as we leave the ocean behind and cross into the shelter of the city. I let out a gasp of relief when Nicholai slows to a walk, bracing his hands on his hips.

"Finally," I huff, the word strangled.

We pause to catch our breath at the next light, the both of us sticky with sweat. Nicholai is still grinning. "I didn't think it was real."

I cast him a dubious look. "What's real?"

"Runner's high."

"Lies." Across the street, the light turns. I force myself forward, Nicholai a step behind. "I feel nothing but pain."

"Come on." His arm brushes mine with every step. "It wasn't that bad."

"You're right. It was worse."

He laughs outright. "Noted." His fingers skim my lower back before I can ask what the hell that means, gently nudging me toward a quaint cafe lined with red brick. Bailey's Beachfront Cafe is posted above the door, the letters embossed in gold. "Two birds, one stone."

The list. Of course. We still have work to do.

Nicholai follows me inside, shadowing my steps. His proximity brings to mind other, far more inappropriate thoughts. When I steal a glance at his face, the faint trace of a smile curling his lips tells me he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

We both smell of sweat and deodorant and the faint trace of sunscreen, but the cafe is close to bursting this early in the morning, forcing us to huddle close together as we join the others in line, everyone eager to get their fix of caffeine before work. I can feel Nicholai's breath on the back of my neck, a constant reminder of his presence.

"You're standing awfully close," I mutter, stepping forward as the line shifts.

Nicholai steps with me. "I enjoy being close to you."

"You definitely enjoyed it last night."

"Enjoyment," he whispers, startlingly close to my ear, "is an understatement."

We shift forward another few steps. Only four people separate us from the barista behind the counter. I turn my head and feel a thrill when he doesn't move away, his lips brushing my cheek.

He smiles against my skin. When the line moves again, I reluctantly draw myself forward. It's indecent, the hold this man has on me.

"Your brother," I say, to distract us both. "He came here often?"

"Often enough." Nicholai's voice is low and close. "He liked to run this route and usually ended up here."

"Hence the signature drink."

"The spisok vedra." Nicholai snorts. "Can you guess what that translates to?" At my incredulous shrug, he smiles. "It's Michail's idea of a joke. Spisok vedra. Bucket list. That was his signature."

"Your brother liked his jokes," I murmur, repeating his earlier observation. "But why did he want you here, now? June 27th, nine o'clock. That seems oddly specific—"

"Next in line, please."

The barista peering out at us is young, twenty-something, her large brown eyes framed with square-rimmed glasses. The name Kennedy flashes on the badge at her collar.

Nicholai's grin is dazzling. "Two spisok vedra."

Her tentative smile vanishes. There's an awkward stretch of silence as her overlarge eyes dart between our faces—back and forth and back again, lingering on Nicholai in a way that's far more speculative than it is appreciative, as is the norm for most women caught in his orbit. Just when I'm about to ask for something else—a latte, a water, anything to drag her attention away from us and keep the line moving—she flits off, green apron swirling madly about her thighs.

"That was weird," I whisper, leaning into him. "Right?"

"Very," he confirms, brow furrowed in thought.

Kennedy returns wielding a pair of to-go cups, steam curling above the styrofoam rims. She slides the mysterious beverages across the counter—and beneath them, a white envelope, slightly wrinkled and coffee-stained.

"On the house," she murmurs, avoiding eye contact. A clear dismissal.

Nicholai and I share a look before grabbing our drinks, Nicholai tucking the envelope under his elbow with a discreet sleight of hand. As we wind our way to the exit, I sniff at the lid of my drink, curious. Not a latte. There's the bitter aroma of coffee, but something else. Warm and chocolatey.

I'm about to take an experimental sip when Nicholai grabs my elbow. "Wait for it to cool," he cautions, reaching beyond me for the door. "Or else you'll burn your taste buds right off."

I roll my eyes, impatient, but heed the warning anyway. "What's in the envelope?" I ask, exiting the cafe. My knees are still weak from the run, but with the sweat on my back now dried, it's easier to appreciate the beauty of the day.

"Let's find out. Hold this, please." I take his drink and watch him rip into the envelope, producing a single sheet of paper.

I try and fail to peer around his broad shoulder while he reads. "Well?"

His expression is carefully neutral. "It's a letter from my father."

"To who?"

"I don't know." Abruptly, he stashes the letter in his pocket. "I have a meeting."

I stare at him, perplexed. "Now?"

"Yes." He drags a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, eyes locked on the pavement at his feet. "I'll have a car pick you up and take you back home."

"Nicholai—"

Before I can object, he's bolting down the sidewalk, moving at a far faster clip than our morning jog. I stare after him, bewildered as I stand alone at the entrance to the cafe, left with nothing but two lukewarm drinks and the knowledge that somehow, something just went terribly wrong.