6
Peter
“She’s not happy, huh?” Anton says quietly in Russian as I take out an oversized carton of eggs he just loaded into the fridge, set it on the counter next to the stovetop, and begin hunting for a frying pan.
“No.” I barely restrain myself from slamming the cupboard door when I don’t find the frying pan there. “But she’ll get used to it.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
I finally locate the pan in one of the pull-out drawers by the stove. “Then she’ll stay f*****g miserable.” Grabbing the pan, I shove the drawer shut, then curse myself when I see a hairline crack appear in the glossy white wood. Renovating the house one helicopter load at a time was a b***h, and I can’t afford to vent my anger on the kitchen counters. Anton’s face at training later today will be a much better target.
“Y
