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I meet his glass with mine. “Why thank you, Sebastian. Maybe someday, when I have a social life, I’ll have a trophy husband onmyarm,” I say with laughter.
Again, his expression falls. “Or, you could have me.”
I pull back in my chair and stare at him. “We’ve known each other a whole ten days,” I chuckle. “How can you say things like that with a straight face?”
“If one listens very carefully and watches for certain signs…you can learn all you need to know about a person in the space of one conversation. As a businessman operating within a very competitive environment, I must practice this skill on a daily basis to survive,” he says sternly. His smirk slowly returns. “You and I have had at least ten in-depth conversations, suffice to say, I know all I need to know about you.”
I raise a brow at him. “All?”
He chuckles. “All the important things. Regarding the minor details, that’s why we’re here tonight, so you can fill in the gaps.”
I sit back and cross my arms over my chest. “Well, maybe I need to know more about you. In the hospital, you mentioned that you are a hedge fund manager working with many wealthy clients. How did you enter the field?”
His gaze lingers upon me for a few seconds before he responds. “As you likely know, I graduated at the top of my class from Cornell University with an MBA. I was recruited to work for Goldman Sachs as an investment banking analyst but quickly moved into the private wealth management division where I made several key contacts. After eight years there, I ventured out on my own to become a Hedge Fund manager.”
I nod perceptively and reply, “So you’re not a mafia prince?”
A grin spreads across his face. “How many mafia members attended Ivy League universities and worked for one of the most prestigious financial services firms?”
I shrug. “Probably all of the successful ones anyway.”
His burst of laughter surprises me and his eyes light up beautifully. “Wall Street brokers and gangsters, it’s all the same to you, eh?”
I smile. “Let’s just say, I think they’re all cut from the same cloth.”
He’s still grinning as he nods slowly. “I’m really glad we’re getting this opportunity to know each other better.”
“Is that what we’re doing? I thought we were here so you could thank me,” I say.
“The evening is still young, Madison,” his grin turns wolfish, and his voice drops an octave. “I’d like to thank you like you’ve never been thanked before.”
A nervous laugh escapes me as I envision all the tantalizing ways he could thank me. Each involves us tangled in his sheets. I clear my throat.
“Dinner will do quite nicely.”
“I’m afraid it won’t.”
“And why not?”
“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he waits for my gaze to return to him. “Or what we’d be like together.”
Another nervous laugh as I scramble for a response and my next breath. Thank God the waitress is back with our appetizers.
“Here is your bortsch,” she says, placing two bowls before us. “And your pelmeni. Would you like to hear tonight’s specials, or should I come back?”
Sebastian slips her a few more bills and orders her not to return until he indicates that she should do so. Her face flushes with embarrassment. “Yes, of course, Mr. Petrosky,” she says before beating a hasty retreat.
He gestures for me to pick up my spoon.
“Borsch, huh?” I say, dipping my spoon into the soup. He’s eagerly watching me as if my response to the soup is symbolic of my response to him. OK, I can have fun with this. I maintain his gaze I lift the spoon to my mouth, part my lips, and slip it in. I close my eyes and moan softly as I swallow it down.
“Mmm, so good.”
His eyes darken, and he shifts in his seat. “Wait until you taste real Russian.”
“I thought this was authentic Russian cuisine.”
He looks askance at me. He starts to say something but instead spoons some into his mouth. He nods noncommittally. “Next time, you’ll come to my home, and I’ll cook dinner for you, then you’ll judge for yourself.”
