The Diplomat's Wife by Pam Jenoff Read Free Book Online Page B

small stump of a candle and lights it. The air glows flickering orange around us.
    “Th-that’s better,” I say, my teeth chattering.
    Paul’s brow furrows. “You’re soaking wet.” He opens his backpack and pulls out a coarse brown blanket. “Here.” He wraps the blanket, which smells of smoke and coffee and sweat, around my shoulders. As he brings the edges of the blanket together in front of me, I am drawn nearer to him. We stand, not moving, our faces close. Suddenly, it is as if a giant hand is squeezing my chest, making it difficult to breathe. What is happening here? I wonder.
    He reaches down and takes my hand underneath the blanket and for a second I think he means to hold it. But he brings my hand to the edge of the blanket, placing it where his own had been to keep it snugly wrapped around me. Then he steps back, clearing his throat. “I wish we had some dry wood for a fire,” he remarks.
    I drop to the dirt floor, holding the blanket close. “Probably better if we don’t draw attention.”
    Paul reaches into his bag and I expect him to bring out another blanket or perhaps a towel. But instead it is the flask again. He opens the cap and takes a large swig.
    It is not, I decide, the time for a lecture on drinking. “Can I have a sip?”
    His eyes widen. “Do you want some? I mean, I’m sorry, I just didn’t think that you would…?”
    “Drink?” I smile, remembering nights with Jacob and Alek and the other boys from the resistance. We would meet for long hours into the night, planning operations, arguing about strategy. Someone always found a bottle of vodka, and many shots were poured and drunk to the traditional Polish and Hebrew toasts of nazdrowa (to your health) and l’chaim (to life). “Not often,” I tell Paul now as he drops to the ground beside me.
    As he hands me the flask, our fingers touch. I jerk my hand back, sending the liquid splashing against the inside of the container. Whiskey, I note, as I raise the flask to my lips. The fumes are strong against my face as I take a sip, tilting my head backward like Jacob taught me so I don’t taste the alcohol as much. I feel the familiar burning in my throat as I swallow, then my stomach grows warm. “Thanks.” I pass the flask back to Paul and his hand brushes mine once more. This time I do not pull away. His fingers linger warm atop mine. Suddenly I notice that his sleeve is dripping water. “You’re soaked, too,” I say.
    “I guess I am.” Paul looks down, as though noticing his wet clothes for the first time. He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.” It occurs to me then that he has given his only blanket to me.
    “Here.” I pull the blanket open. “It’s big enough to share.”
    He hesitates, then moves toward me, taking the edge of the blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. Trembling, I slide closer along the ground, bringing him farther inside the blanket. “May I?” He lifts his arm, asking permission to put it around me. Before I can answer, he draws me close. “Is this okay?”
    “Fine,” I reply, hoping that he cannot feel how fast my heart is beating.
    “I’m sure the rain will stop soon. Then we can head back.”
    But I do not want to head back. I look up at him. His face hovers above mine and his eyes dart back and forth, as though searching for something. Then he lowers his head. His lips brush mine, questioning, asking permission. My first kiss. I am too stunned to react. His hand rises to my cheek and his lips press full and warm on mine. I respond, heat rising in me. Suddenly I freeze, putting my hand on his chest. “Wait…”
    He pulls back. “I’m so sorry. I thought you wanted…”
    “I do.” I pause, trying to catch my breath. “I mean, I thought I did. But you have a fiancée.”
    “Had,” he corrects me. “I think it was over before I left. I mean, we were high school sweethearts. Getting married was what everyone expected us to do, but I’m not sure we were meant to be together,