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I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, but I’m not hungry. All my hunger has been overtaken by nerves and the vague hope that something positive will come out of this dinner.
If not, I’m gonna smack Syrah over the head with something heavy.
Thump. Thump.
I spring away from the stove and lunge towards the door so that I can peek around the corner towards the elevator. But there’s no sign of him yet. It’s only then that I realize the thumping sound I’m hearing is coming from upstairs.
Weird.
Dmitri’s been steadfast about his whole “noisy renovation team” explanation, but for some reason, I find it strange. The upstairs penthouse was nothing if not pristine and the idea of trying to improve on it seems almost laughable.
I’m being ridiculous—I know that. It’s probably the combination of nerves and the drudgery of waiting, but I find myself inching towards the elevator, wondering if maybe a quick trip up-deck is justified? I mean… weird though it sounds, I kinda miss the upstairs penthouse. And if I’m caught, I figure I’ll just blame it on the hormones.
Fuck it. A quick walk won’t hurt. As far as I’m aware, curiosity has never killed any cats.
I punch in the passcode for the upstairs penthouse, but almost immediately, the light flashes red. Access denied. Incorrect passcode.
Can that be right? I try again and I’m met with the same message blazing across the thin horizontal screen. Shrugging, I turn away from the elevator. I shouldn’t really be surprised; Dmitri has always been a real stickler for security. He probably changes the codes quarterly.
Ping!
I whirl around as the elevator doors slide open and Dmitri strides through in his linen navy blue suit and white, open-collared shirt.
My first thought is, God, does he look handsome. My second thought is, A little chest hair and you go ga-ga. Embarrassing.
“Hi.”
He looks surprised to see me standing at the entrance. Then his gaze slides down my body appreciatively and his eyebrows arch. “You look gorgeous.”
It’s annoying how fast I blush. “Thanks,” I murmur. “Hope you’re hungry.” I twist around and make for the kitchen, thankful to turn my back on him until I can get my cheeks to stop burning.
By the time I’m facing him again, I feel moderately in control of my face. He takes off his jacket and folds it neatly over the back of one of the bar stools. “Smells great.”
I’m pretty sure he’s just being polite, because I can’t smell anything myself. “Let me just get the pasta on the fire again. Warm it up a little.”
My hands are shaking as I stir the pot. The pasta’s dried up, so I add some milk, cream, and salt to bring it back to life. At this rate, I have no idea if it will even be edible. I’m too distracted, too self-conscious to be in the right state of mind for cooking.
“Do you need some help?” he asks from my left shoulder.
I flinch so hard I knock right into him.
He twists me around, his hand firm on my waist as he steadies me. “You okay, moya devushka?”
“Fine,” I mutter. “Just… um… dinner will be ready soon. You can sit down.”
He backs off with a frown and I manage to get the pasta into a large bowl without any further clumsy mishaps. But by the time it’s on the table between us, I’m wondering how I managed to let Syrah convince me this was a good idea. I’ve gotten needlessly dolled up for what I’m sure is going to be a subpar pasta dish and an uncomfortable, unproductive conversation with a man who has an unnatural hold over my common sense.
“Um—bon appetit.” Why the hell did you have to attempt a French accent? “God,” I cringe, “no wonder the French hate me. I hate me, too.”
He chuckles. “No one could hate you.” Then he quiets for a moment, his face going serious. “Thanks for cooking tonight. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” I insist. “You’ve been doing all the cooking and I wanted to do something for you.”
“Well, I appreciate it. It’s been a while since someone cooked for me who wasn’t paid to.”
I feel my resolve waning instantly. Would it be so bad to just sit together and have a pleasant dinner and not talk at all? Would it be so bad to indulge in a few innocent domestic fantasies, as long as I don’t act on them?
He takes a bite of my pasta and moans in appreciation. “Delicious.” Then he smiles at me and I realize that there’s no way I won’t act on my fantasies—the raunchy ones and the domestic ones alike—if he continues to smile at me like that.
