“You’re mocking me.”
“I’m not actually.”
“What kind of book?”
I tip my head against the comfortable cushions on the love seat. “A cookbook.”
The sound of padding feet precedes her scrambling onto the couch, all long legs on display as?—
My eyes widen as she grabs the hem of my sweater, drags it up, then scurries underneath it.
She ignores the creaking of the cashmere seams. “Are you teasing?”
I take in the hamster-shaped bundle under my sweater. “No. I’m not.”
With a sigh, she tucks her arms around my waist and she settles her head on my chest. “What style of cooking?”
“Russian, of course!”
At my faux outrage, she giggles.
And I release a soft breath, knowing she’s calmed down.
“Do you cook?”
“Sometimes.”
“How can you write a book about it if you don’t cook?”
“Because I pay people right now. I wouldn’t if we lived in a shack in Montenegro.”
“Wait, a shack?”
“Does my princess prefer a palace?”
I feel her grin bloom against my shirt-covered pec. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s only right you know your worth.”
Her shoulders straighten some. “Whose recipes, then? They can’t be your own. Not when you don’t cook.”
“Nikolai’s wife, she publishes cookbooks.”
“So, you’re going to plagiarize hers?” she squawks.
“You’re asking for a spanking?”
She tries and fails to pinch my abdomen. “Shut up.”
“I mean, I can…”
“No. Okay. Don’t shut up. Just stop teasing me. Explain. Please.”
“My grandmother raised me. When she died, my life went to absolute shit. I was thrown into an orphanage like an unwanted bag of bones. To go from her love to the barrenness of the children’s home…” I shake my head. “It was difficult to adapt.”
“Oh, Maxim. I’m so sorry.” Her arms threaten to suffocate me, but I accept the hug. “What happened to her?”
“She was old,pchelka. Nothing suspicious about her passing. Nothing suspicious about her. She was ababushka.That meant love was handed out with wooden spoons to the back of the head if I spoke out?—”
