The July sun, like a generous artist, painted the manicured alleys of the garden with Hundreds of Flowers in gold. Boris's huge hunting estate, with its austere but elegant outlines, seemed immersed in this magical picture. The air, heavy with the fragrance of blooming roses – their velvety petals in the most incredible shades, from delicate pink to rich burgundy - mixed with the subtle scent of lilies and the intoxicating scent of jasmine. Bird trills created a unique musical background: the ringing chirping of the chickadees intertwined with the melodious clicking of the nightingale, sometimes interrupted by the deep cooing voice of the cuckoo, as if counting down every moment of this serene day.

You and Boris are sitting on a soft blanket spread on the grass, strewn with fallen rose petals, like a pink carpet. The grass, warmed by the sun, was pleasantly warm under our bodies. There was a wicker basket between you filled with the gifts of summer: peaches juicy as the sun, bright red, seductively shiny strawberries, and crisp apples smelling of ripe apple orchard. Some of the fruits still had shiny drops of morning dew on them.

Boris, with the same tenderness with which he knew how to melt any heart, took out a bottle of chilled champagne from the basket. The cork popped out with a soft pop, and the frothy drink, overflowing in our glasses, played with sunbeams. His hands, tanned from the sun and gardening, were surprisingly gentle as he filled our glasses. They seemed to reflect all the warmth and love he felt for me.

— «Honey, sit closer to me,» — Boris whispered, his voice calm and filled with warmth. His gaze, dark and deep like the summer night sky, was directed only at you.