Mabel Shot Part 2

I look at the door of the house I’m approaching and see the large porch without any lights on, thinking that the smartest thing to do would be to leave the painting there, leaning against the porch pillar. I could run to the gate and press the intercom. I’m wearing sneakers, so I’m fast enough to make a getaway. Before he even opens the door, I’d already be rounding the corner. I have paper and a pen in my bag, maybe I could leave a note, thanking him for his time but explaining that I’d regained my senses and realized this whole thing didn’t stand a chance.
"Maybe it’s better not to write anything," I say, thoughtfully, becoming unsure about the note. "Screw it, I’ll just leave the painting and go!"
I hurry up the steps and lean toward the pillar, adjusting the painting in my hands, feeling like a criminal tiptoeing through the night, praying the house owners don’t wake up and catch me red-handed. I let out a low sigh and smile with joy when I slowly rest the painting against the pillar, setting it on the ground. I quickly turn and head back to the stairs.
"Going somewhere, little bird?"
I close my eyes tightly and bite my lip, freezing in place as soon as I hear the man’s voice on the porch. The light turns on, and the sound of heavy footsteps follows, creaking the wood.
"Actually, on my way here, I remembered I had another appointment, can you believe it?" I open my eyes and straighten my posture, running my trembling hands over my overalls. "It’s a shame I won’t be able to stay longer, but your painting has been delivered."
I smile, nervous, pointing to the painting before quickly heading down the stairs again, clutching my bag under my arm. I stop walking when I see the large gate closing, locking me in on the inside.
"Come back up!" he says casually but with enough intensity to ensure his authority isn’t overlooked.
I shrug and let out a breath through my mouth, slowly turning around. I raise my head and see him standing at the top of the stairs, watching me, with his arm raised, holding a remote. I should have suspected something when the gate opened by itself. I’m knocked out right away, floored by his brown eyes. Maybe the reason for my unease is his outfit, making him irresistibly sexy. Dark jeans and a black shirt never seemed so charming on a man before. His brown military boots match him perfectly, giving him an even more dominant air. This rigid, determined posture really suits this Russian, not as if it’s an acquired attitude, but something he was born with, a characteristic embedded in his chromosomes.
I’m screwed!
My mind warns me, already knowing before I do that I’ve gotten myself into big trouble. His eyes study me for a long time, leaving me unsettled, my heart racing, trying to understand why it couldn’t have been someone else. Why did my treacherous body have to respond so obediently to him? It could have been a shorter guy, so I wouldn’t have to practically break my neck to look him in the eyes, or someone less muscular, maybe a scrawny guy would make me feel less defenseless and agitated than this man does with just one look. He puts his hands behind his back and steps aside, gesturing for me to come with a nod. Miserably, like a stubborn puppy caught in the act, trying to escape to the street, I sulkily walk toward him, tail between my legs, obeying my master’s command. I climb the stairs step by step, stopping only when I stand in front of the door and see him stretch out his arm to grab the painting, tucking it under his arm.
"Good evening, Miss Shot. I’m glad you came to deliver my painting," he says in a teasing tone, stopping beside me.
"Good evening, Mr. Gregovivk." I turn my face, my field of vision filled with his chest.
I try to hold my breath as his cologne hits me, beginning to intoxicate me and alert my senses.
"How was your day today?" He walks past me and opens the door to the house, holding it for me to enter.
He’s blatantly mocking me, surely imagining how the rest of my day went after his visit.
"It was fine," I answer as I walk inside the house, lying to him. I will never admit that I spent the afternoon like an anxious and euphoric teenager.
The contrast between the owner and the house is striking. His home is bright, with few partitions, with a large window running the length of the far wall, showing a large illuminated lawn with a pool, steam rising from it. It’s a house that has a sophisticated yet classic touch at the same time. I look up and see the hallway that I assume leads to other rooms, with a white ivory staircase. The wall to the left catches my attention, where I see various African masks, from different cultures of the people living in Africa.
"Come with me!" he politely asks, stretching his hand toward me, watching me. "And feel at home in my house," Czar says seriously, walking toward the archway where two large doors stand open.
I follow him slowly, leaving some space between us. I’m lost as I look around the large room filled with books, with shelves covering the three main walls from top to bottom. On the center wall, a large rustic fireplace with white ivory stands out. I glance around, quickly scanning each corner of the library, my attention stopping on the large painting above the fireplace. I tilt my head to the side and silently study it, seeing the image of a dark forest with dead trees. But it’s not the dry branches that catch my attention, but the large satyr leaning against one of them, playing a flute. The depiction of a half-man, half-goat creature with horns on its head and hooves instead of feet makes me walk over, stopping in front of the fireplace to look at the painting. It conveys a sense of loneliness, with just the flute in its hands, blowing into it with melancholic eyes.