Page 3 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

Chase’s assistant stuck his head in my little cave and told me it was time to line up.

“Like for a firing squad,” Chase said when I met him in the hall leading to the main dining area, still mostly swathed in drop cloths and strewn with tools and ladders.

“Like the help meeting visiting aristocracy on the front steps,” the sous chef said.

Nobody was happy; no one liked change, and I felt a stab of guilt again. We had no idea what was going to happen, but that was no reason for this poor guy to face a row of scowls. I was about to muster some sort of pep talk when Chase whistled under his breath.

“Well, hello, new boss,” he said, turning to grin at me.

I peeked around him and had to stifle a gasp, or I would have never heard the end of it. Mikhail Fokin was a real-life Adonis, standing with the confidence of a god in the middle of all the construction chaos.

A suit even my country bumpkin butt recognized as high-end and completely tailored, molded to his tall, muscular frame. There should have been no way to know this guy was ripped while wearing a suit, but that was just how perfectly it fit every inch of him. And there were a lot of inches. I was a little shorter than average, so I often had to look up at people, but not that far up.

His dark blond hair was swept off a smooth brow, only slightly furrowed as he looked over the place as if he didn’t yet notice us as we gathered in a huddle by the newly built bar. He turned to the side, looking up at the ceiling, where large, ornate tiles had just been installed.

I could only see his chiseled bone structure, the way his hair brushed against his crisp suit collar. Somehow, that slightly long hair made me breathe a bit easier. If he skipped regular haircuts, maybe he wasn’t as much of a perfectionist as the suit signaled.

“Your type?” Chase whispered, catching me staring. Actually leaning forward to see what color those assessing eyes were.

Exactly my type, as if I’d taken a description of the perfect man to Central Casting here in the city of movies and make-believe, and ordered him to be brought to life.

But attraction wasn’t something I had time for, even if I hadn’t sworn off those dangerous kinds of feelings. Really, it was more like they had been snuffed out, and it was shocking to feel the slightest tremor, no matter how damn gorgeous he was.

‘Everyone, this is Mikhail,” Emerson said. He gave her a quick side hug, finally casting his eyes over at us. “Mik, I’m sure you can let everyone introduce themselves.”

With that, she waved at us and took off to her blissful vacation.

“Who’s on construction?” he asked, instead of coming over to shake our hands or ask our names.

The two crew members who were present that day raised their hands, and Mikhail pointed to the bar. “That’s got to go.” His finger swiveled to where the bandstand was currently slated to be built. “We’re putting it there.” Next, his finger pointed straight up at the ceiling tiles. “And those have to come down.”

One of the builders cleared his throat. “Those are from a historical mansion in Santa Barbara.”

A terrifying brow raised on that handsome face, somehow making him all the more handsome. “And that would work if we were moving forward with the original theme. But we’re not.”

He slid forward, finally reaching out his hand to the sous chef. “Andre Slovak?” he asked.

Oh my God, oh my God, he didn’t even research who his chef was. Terri’s face flooded with color when she explained that Andre wasn’t in that day.

“Call him in,” the tyrant commanded. “We need to discuss the menu. At least I think that’s important.”

Chase and I exchanged looks. He had gone pale under his spray-on tan, and I must have looked similarly hopeless. But I was also getting a little hot under the collar.

“Excuse me, Mr. Fokin,” I said, pleased my voice didn’t waver much.

“My friends call me Mik,” he said, nearly knocking me down with the force of a smile.

“Well, Mr. Fokin,” I said, making Chase snicker. “We only learned about the change of ownership this morning.”

He was suddenly too close, towering over me. His eyes were blue, not that it mattered, but I couldn’t help noticing, as they were staring down at me. “And you are?”

“Laurel Harris, sommelier.”

“Well, Laurel Harris, we also have a lot to discuss.” He snapped his fingers and ordered the builders to either start dismantling the bar or take down the ceiling tiles. The sous chef took off to call Andre in, and Chase and his assistant melted away before they came under fire.

“Start with the tiles, please,” I said to the builders, and Mikhail’s eyebrow shot up again.

“A sommelier manages the wines, correct?” he said, not bothering to wait for my answer. “You don’t also manage the construction staff, do you?”