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Erik chuckles, the sound grating in the serenity of my vacation home. “I thought you’d appreciate it. I’ll be flying back to Chicago tonight,” he informs me.
“Dimitri will be—” I start, only to get cut off by a crash from downstairs. It’s the distinct, reverberating clang of metal on stone – as if someone dropped a cast-iron skillet on a marble floor.
“What the—?” The unexpected noise startles Erik too. “Is that a fucking gunshot?”
“No, that’s not—” I start, only to get cut off by another louder crash.
“Bloody hell, Luka. Is your place under attack or something?” Erik’s tone is a mix of concern and amusement.
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “Nothing so dramatic. More like…domestic disturbances.” I say.
For fuck’s sake!
“Speak tomorrow,” I say, disconnecting the call and leaving Erik in the dark as I head toward the kitchen.
She’s at the oven, her back to me as she attempts to navigate the territory. The clattering of pans and the mutterings under her breath are a clear sign that she’s out of her depth. I lean against the doorway, feeling amusement swirl.
“Did the pans offend you in some way?” I taunt. She whirls around, cheeks flushing a bright red. “It sounds like a war zone in here.” I observe the chaos. It’s a shitshow.
“I can manage!” she retorts, turning back to the countertop, her brow furrowed in concentration. The sight is oddly endearing.
“No, seriously,” I push off from the doorway, approaching her. “What are you trying to make?”
“Lunch.” She sighs in resignation. “I- I want to make us some sandwiches,” she admits.
“Quite the experiment you had here for some sandwiches,” I laugh. Her cheeks flush even deeper, and she opens her mouth to respond, but I beat her to it. “Sit, watch, learn.” Before she can protest, I stride over to her, moving her out of the way firmly.
“Hey!” she yelps, but I only smirk in response.
“Your reign of terror in my kitchen ends here,” I say. She lets out an indignant huff, folding her arms across her chest as she hops up onto the stool I indicate.
My smirk deepens as I get to work. My fingers fly over the garlic, finely mincing the cloves with practiced ease. I can feel her gaze on my back, her curiosity piqued.
“You’re…you’re cooking?” she stammers, her voice filled with disbelief as she watches my hands.
“Seems like it, yes?” I reply nonchalantly, finishing up with the garlic and moving to the onion. “Didn’t take you for the judgmental type.”
“You-you just don’t seem the type,” she shoots back, a sarcastic edge to her words.
“Quite the stereotype you have there,” I respond. With a casual stride, I head to the refrigerator and yank the door open. I rummage through the shelves, spotting a package of meat I’ve asked the housekeeper to get for today’s visit.
“What’s in there?” she asks.
“A body,” I respond.
“What?” she squawks. Her horror makes me laugh out loud.
“Relax. It’s just minced meat. I’ll fry it up and cook it with some macaroni.”
“Macaroni and mince? Wow, and here I was thinking you were the next Gordon Ramsay,” she quips, the sarcasm in her voice as thick as syrup.
Yet her words do little to mask her growing curiosity. She’s still rooted to her seat, watching my every move. The small twitch in her lips every time I make a swift cut, the quiet hum of interest when I toss the minced meat into the hot pan – she’s intrigued, no matter how much she pretends otherwise. Or maybe she’s just checking out my ass. Either way, I’m not complaining.
After a moment of silent observation, Sophia finally breaks the silence. “You’re pretty good at this,” she notes. “Doesn’t exactly align with the image, though.”
“And what image would that be?” I cock an eyebrow at her. I’m certain I can guess.
She swallows hard. “The, um, unfeeling, relentless – mafia boss, you know?” Her voice drops as if just saying the word “mafia” might shatter the strange peace we’ve established.
