"Is Russian wisdom." She taps her temple. "Also is just good cooking."
She turns to check something in the oven, and I'm left standing next to Victor, both of us holding dumpling wrappers and the weight of our ridiculous situation.
"So," I say quietly. "Exploding dumplings."
"She's exaggerating."
"Are you sure? Because she seems very convinced."
"They exploded once. One time. Because I was twelve and trying to prove a point."
"What point?"
"That I could fold them better than my brothers." He pauses. "I was wrong."
I do laugh then, and Victor's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile.
"Here," he says, demonstrating the dumpling fold. "You put the filling in the center, fold it in half, then pinch the edges. Like this."
His hands are surprisingly deft for someone who runs a billion-dollar company. His fingers are long, his hands large enough to swallow mine and they move with a fluid, careful competence that's strangely—and annoyingly—attractive.
I look away and focus on my own dumpling, which immediately falls apart.
"Too much pressure," Victor says.
"Thank you, that's helpful feedback," I mutter, trying again.
"You're pinching too hard."
"I'm not—" The dumpling explodes filling all over my hands. "Okay, fine. Maybe I'm pinching too hard."
Victor reaches over, and suddenly his large hands are covering mine, guiding my fingers into the right position. His touch is warm, steady, and completely casual in a way that makes it feel decidedly un-casual.
"Like this," he says quietly, and I can feel his cool breath against my hair. "Gentle pressure. You're not trying to kill it."
"Got it," I manage, trying to ignore the way my pulse has decided to stage a full rebellion. "Gentle. Not murder."
We fold three more dumplings in silence. Well, near-silence. Babushka is humming in the background, and Rasputin is making unsettling noises from somewhere behind the refrigerator.
"Harper," Victor says finally, not looking up from his dumpling. "We should talk."
He sets down his dumpling and turns to face me, and as if sensing that dumplings are being ignored, Babushka calls from across the kitchen, "Vitya! When you want real wedding? I thinking spring. Maybe May. Is good month for weddings. Not too hot, not too cold."
"We're not?—"
"June also nice!" she continues, undeterred. "But harder to book church. Everyone wants June."
"Babushka—"
"Or we do winter wedding! Very dramatic. You get married in snow, like scene from Zhivago!"
I press my lips together to keep from laughing again. Victor looks like he's contemplating whether jumping out the window would be worse than this conversation.
"I'll check the church schedule!" Babushka says cheerfully, pulling something out of the oven.
The second her back is turned, Victor grabs my elbow and steers me toward the tiny balcony off the kitchen.
"We need to talk," he says urgently. "Now."
