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And every single one of them looks up as I pass. They smile and wave like they expected me to be here today. Like they aren’t surprised in the least to see a woman in a slinky black dress teetering down the hallway on high heels at the ass crack of dawn.
Maybe they actually aren’t surprised. If all of these people were in the house last night, there’s no way they didn’t hear something. Didn’t see something.
Oh, God help me.
I’m barreling through the house towards an exit—or maybe a balcony to mercifully throw myself over—when I hear his voice.
“Good morning, solnyshka.”
It’s the fifth time someone has said that to me in as many minutes—minus the Russian pet name that I don’t know the meaning of but still makes my insides go squiggly every time I hear it—but it’s the first time I’ve felt the baritone rumble of the words in my bones.
Yakov is standing in a white marble kitchen with a towel over his right shoulder and a spatula in his hand. I can’t decide what looks more delicious: him or the caramelized pancakes he’s making.
“You cook,” I blurt. His brow arches and I drop my face into my hands. “This is why I don’t socialize before coffee. Or a shower.”
He slides a steaming mug across the island towards me. I lunge for it with the little bit of grace I have. Which is to say, none at all.
“I meant to say, I’m surprised you cook since you have a full household staff here first thing in the morning.”
He picks up the frying pan and flicks his wrist. Like it’s nothing at all, a thin pancake sails out of the pan, flips in mid-air, and then lands back in the pan where it sizzles in butter. “Was that supposed to be the more tactful version?”
“It’s the best I’ve got this morning, apparently.” I shrug. “Some of us don’t wake up ready to model for magazine covers and flawlessly flip pancakes.”
He looks momentarily confused. “I haven’t even showered.”
I groan. “Don’t say that. It makes it so, so much worse that you still look this good. I just paraded my walk of shame in front of everyone who works for you.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about them.”
“Why? Are they used to this kind of thing?” The question is out before I can stop myself. I immediately shake my head in shame. “Again, ignore me. Not enough coffee in my system for subtlety. Please don’t answer that. Just carry on and?—”
“My staff isn’t used to anything,” Yakov says, talking over me. “If they work for me, it means they’re discreet. Your secrets are safe with them.”
Is that what I am? A dirty little secret?
Lord knows Yakov has enough of them already. Like what he does for work that he can afford to fund hospitals and keep a full household staff.
But I’m not in any position to demand answers from him. So I shift to safer topics.
“Do you make pancakes often?”
“Blinis.”
I raise my brows. “Excuse me?”
“They’re called blinis. My mother and grandmother taught me to make them when I was a little boy back in Russia. Like a crepe, but better.”
“I’ve been told everything is better in Russia.”
It’s a desperate throwback to our conversation last night. I want to be subtle, but I also wouldn’t mind hearing that Yakov has changed his mind. He now thinks at least one blonde, American woman with no flirt game and smudged mascara is better than any woman he has ever had.
I’m waiting for some kind of recognition from him, but there’s nothing. He just carries on cooking until my stomach lets out a long, loud growl.
“Here.” Yakov slides a plate of blinis towards me. “Eat.”
He doesn’t want me to starve. That’s a good sign, right?
I shove a bite in my mouth before I can say anything else stupid. I should eat and leave. If he wants to talk to me again, he’ll make it happen. I’m not going to throw myself at him.
