Page 5 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

The scowl was real; those tiles had to go. And pretty soon, she had one on her pretty face when I said so. But it turned out, she wasn’t upset on behalf of the tiles, but because of the bar. She had no idea I was planning to tear out the wall that was currently behind it, but once I had her in my office, she let loose with a diatribe about how it couldn’t go anywhere else.

At the same time, it was pissing me off that she very distinctly refused to call me by my first name, but I loved her passion for what she did. Her reasoning was clearly well thought out, and I was impressed that she had any input in the dining room design at all.

I wanted to tell her it wasn’t a bad design, just not what I was going for. I wanted to smile at her instead of gazing stonily across the desk, watching her struggle to maintain that sexy professionalism. All while trying not to burst into tears.

She was that damn passionate about where her wine cellar needed to be. Maybe she was even bringing me around to her point of view.

Oh fuck.

I had no time to be distracted by a woman, not even Laurel, my goddess of the grapes. I was a little bit sorry when she finally stopped, assuring me that Nik and Emerson were on board with everything the way it was. I was enjoying watching how bright her espresso colored eyes got as she made her case for keeping everything the way it was.

Sadly, I couldn’t give this beautiful woman whatever she wanted, not if I was going to make this restaurant my own.

“But I’m the owner now,” I said, keeping my lips from quirking up. The quick intake of her breath did something to me. Maybe I could make time for Laurel.

She left, trying not to huff, never being anything but completely professional, but later on, when Andre deigned to show up to discuss the menu I meant to completely overhaul, I noticed that the ceiling tiles were all down, but no work had started on the bar.

Laurel sat behind it, her laptop open in front of her, and papers strewn over the entire length of the formal white marble.

“Not even if you were handcuffed,” I said.

There was that gasp again that had my cock waking up. “What? I mean, I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“You can’t save the bar, even if you handcuff yourself to it,” I explained, finding it impossible not to grin. However, at this point, it was nearing five, and the construction workers were packing up.

Nik might have viewed this place as a fun hobby to throw money at, but for me, it was a business, and I wasn’t interested in paying overtime to win an argument. I let the builders leave, and pretended I didn’t see Laurel’s look of triumph.

On the way to the kitchen, I handed her a copy of my new menu, hoping to get her on board with the changes, and I was proud of what I came up with. While it might have been fun to knock heads with my pretty sommelier, I wasn’t there to have fun. I was there to prove I had what it took to make it in LA.

Andre was surprisingly docile, probably waiting to go over his contract with his lawyer to make sure I couldn’t fire him before going off the rails, and agreed to try my menu. In turn, I told him he could keep a couple of the dishes he’d already created solely for this new place.

I was more surprised that Laurel was still in the restaurant, almost an hour later, and while she was trying to seem preoccupied with her work, she jumped up when I came out of the kitchen.

I strode past her to my office, and she followed on my heels. “Mr. Fokin, can I speak to you?”

“Only if you call me Mik,” I said.

Her full lips disappeared as she pursed them. “Okay, Mik. Thank you.”

She sat down across from me once more and placed my menu on the desk. Her dark eyes flashed up at me before she stabbed her finger into the wine selection. “I thought this was my job.”

“Certainly, I was only creating some pairings I thought would go well with the new menu.”

“If I may be blunt?” she asked, forcing a smile.

“Oh, of course.”

“They don’t go well. They’re…” She shook her head, starting again. If she weren’t so hellbent on being perfectly professional, I would have bet that she was going to call them shit. “You chose this Sauternes for this incredibly heavy pasta dish, for instance.”

“I like Sauternes,” I said.

“Yes, me too, but for a cream sauce like this, you want something a bit more acidic. And…”

She continued down the line, telling me in great detail why every last one of my wine choices was, well, shit. And then, “Listen, Mik, I get that you’re probably amazing at suggesting what beers go best with a ham sandwich, but unless that’s the direction you want to go with this place, I’d suggest sticking to Andre’s menu.”

Ouch. My girl’s claws were out with that sudden tone shift and burst of snobbery. No, not my girl. Not at all.

“And your wine selections?” I asked while opening the drawers of my new desk until I found the folder I was looking for.