“I’ll do it.” Aleksandr threw his door open and walked around to my side. I didn’t move, keeping my hands on the wheel, foot on the brake.

“Are you kidding me? Get back in the car,” I pleaded.

“Move over,” he ordered, scooting into the driver’s seat. I had no choice but to throw the car into park and climb over the console to the passenger side.

Aleksandr reached underneath the seat, fumbling with the lever that slid the seat back. Then he maneuvered my car into a tight space between a Sebring and a Tahoe. Welcome to Detroit: Home of the Big Three. Despite being put off by his tactics, I was impressed with his skills. I hadn’t parallel parked since my driving test.

Aleksandr jumped out of the car and came around to my side to open the door.

“Thanks,” I said as I climbed out.

“Didn’t want to park in the next city. I’m hungry.” Aleksandr slammed the door.

I grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at me. “Is this how it’s gonna be for a month? Pissy with me because I didn’t fall for your stupid-ass pickup line at the bar?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart,” Aleksandr said in perfect but heavily accented English. “I could have a puck bunny every night of the week.”

I released his arm like it was covered in thorns, looking around to see if anyone else heard the stream of perfect English coming out of his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“I said, don’t flatter—”

“You speak English?” My squeaky pitch sounded accusatory rather than questioning.

“I do. And you are the only person who knows that.”

“Why?”

He walked away as if that was the end of the conversation. I hurried after him, pulling open the heavy glass door he hadn’t bothered to hold for me. Guess he lost his manners when he got pissed off.

I scanned the restaurant as I slid into the tattered, green vinyl booth across from Aleksandr. Instead of wallpaper or paint, mirrored tiles covered the wall behind the booths.

Neither Aleksandr nor I picked up a menu. I raised an eyebrow. “No menu?”

“Menu? Who needs a menu here?”

I chuckled because he was right. The art of ordering a Coney Dog is well known to Detroiters—one (or two or five) with everything, says it all. Everything meant chili, mustard, and onions, the makeup of the classic Coney.

When our server stopped at our booth, Aleksandr asked me to order him three with everything. Just one for me. We both got fries.

“I take it you’ve been here before?” I asked, pulling a napkin from the holder on the table.

“It’s my favorite.” Aleksandr slid out of the booth. “Be right back.”

“Okaaay.”

He walked to the back of the restaurant, down the hallway toward the bathrooms and the back door. I scanned the menu until he came back, despite already knowing my order. When he slid back in the booth, the scent of cloves comforted me.

I leaned over the table and inhaled the air around him. I couldn’t hold back my smile. Definitely cloves.

“Did you just sniff me?”

“I like the smell of cloves. Reminds me of my grandma.”

“That’s exactly what every man wants a woman to say after inhaling him.” He winked.

I fumbled with my necklace, then dropped it realizing he might take it as a coy sign that his charm affected me. It did affect me, but I wouldn’t let him know that.

“Tell me about you.”

“What you see is what you get. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Russian translator to the stars.”

“Start with the Russian-translator part. How did that happen?” Aleksandr inquired, looking me straight in the eye.

I stared back, swept out to sea by the tiny matching oceans above his cheekbones.

“Auden?” he asked, waving a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry,” I said, blinking a few times as I came back to shore. Nice work, Auden. Because staring into his gorgeous blue eyes is a convincing way to let him know you aren’t seduced by his looks. “What was the question?”

“You left me.” Aleksandr raised his hand to touch his temple then swept it across the air as if saluting goodbye to my brain. How did he know me so well already?

“I do that sometimes,” I said, spinning my index finger around one of my ears. “Always turning.” Really? I asked myself. Did you really just describe yourself with the universal sign for crazy within the first two minutes?

“How. Did you. Become. A Russian translator?”

I let out a breath, happy he didn’t seem to recognize the sign. I refrained from my first instinct to tell him that he was an ass, which seemed like a good idea since he’d let the crazy thing go.

“My grandpa has been teaching me since I was a kid. He was born just outside of Moscow, so it’s all his parents spoke. He taught Russian Language and Literature classes at Michigan University for, like, forty years,” I explained, as Aleksandr checked out my chest. “Being a translator is a side job, hobby-type thing for him. But it keeps him busy in retirement. I help him translate documents sometimes. This is the first time he’s assigned me to a client. Hey! Eyes up here.” I waved my hand in front of my cleavage and pointed to my face.

“I was looking at your necklace,” he said, raising his eyes to mine and flashing me his sexy smirk.

I put my hand to my neck, fingering the gold chain and charm that belonged to my mother. It’s a delicate owl with two tiny amber stones for eyes. I caught myself drawing his attention back to my chest, so I changed the subject. “Speaking of languages, if you know English, why am I here?”

Aleksandr pushed back against the booth and stretched his arms above his head. “The media wants us to give interviews on the bench. They want us to mike up during the game. Then we curse or chirp, and they blast us in the papers or on TV. What do they expect to hear in the middle of a game?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “When Frank started standing between the benches, it became my least favorite thing in the history of hockey broadcasting.”

Frank LaRue, a former hockey coach who now worked as a TV analyst, broadcasted from between the two teams’ benches during hockey games. During the games! It annoyed me. Players and coaches were paid to worry about the game. They could answer questions after the game.

“Yes.” Aleksandr chuckled. “How are we supposed to think politically correct when we’re in the heat of battle?”

When Aleksandr’s smile was genuine, his bottom lip dipped ever so slightly on the left side, like a kink in a hose. It didn’t dip when he flashed his teasing smirk. The no-holds-barred dip-lip smile was a million times hotter than the sexy smirks. But before I slipped up and told him he had a great smile, I managed to catch myself. Didn’t want to give him the impression I was interested.

“I get it,” I told him in English. Technically, I did. But he needed to suck it up because talking to the media was part of the job.

“Russian,” he corrected. “Always Russian between the two of us.”

I nodded to confirm his request. “So tell me more about hockey. How’d you get so good?”

“How do you know I’m good?” he asked.

“I Googled you while I waited for you to shower,” I admitted. “Seems you’re one of the Pilots’ best players. Spill your secrets.” It was the truth, not just me trying to stroke his ego.

“Years of practice.” He reached over his shoulder and knocked three times on top of our booth’s wooden frame. “I joined the Red Army youth program when I was six. Since then it’s been all hockey all the time. It’s an intense program. Very strict. Very disciplined.”

When our waitress interrupted our conversation by sliding plates in front of us, I was thankful for the break from Aleksandr’s voice. I’d always loved the Russian language, but I’d never been turned on by hearing it. A manual on how to install a garbage disposal would sound hot coming from Aleksandr’s deep, guttural voice.