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Finally.
I pin Art with a challenging stare. “You started to tell me about the business we’re here to discuss.”
“I don’t break traditions,” he says. “We’ll finish eating, then talk.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Superstitions are not traditions.”
He just sips his tea, annoyingly unmoved.
Ugh. Why did I have to choose him, out of all the sexy, athletic men out there, to fixate on? “Fine. Tell me about you, then. For instance, are you Latvian or Russian? You sure have a lot of superstitions that suggest the latter.”
He cocks his head. “Are you asking because of my last name?”
“Yes,” I say, and it’s not a complete lie. I have an inkling of what he’s talking about. When I looked up “Art Skulme,” the results were about a famous Latvian painter. After that, I re-ran the search with “Artjoms” in it.
He looks thoughtful now. “You know, I’ve never given it much thought. I was born in the Soviet Union in Riga, which is the capital of Latvia. But my parents moved to Moscow when I was a toddler, and I have no memories of Riga. So am I Russian or Latvian?”
“Do you speak Russian or Latvian?”
“Russian. But that’s true of many people in the countries formed after the collapse of the Soviet Union.”
“What about your superstitions? Are they Russian or Latvian?”
He steeples his fingers. “Russian, but I’m pretty sure they have the same ones in Latvia.”
Hmm. “Can’t you go by the famous scientific theory related to ducks?”
His lips quirk. “You mean use ironclad logic like, ‘If I talk like a duck, I’m Russian?’”
“Is that wrong?”
“It’s very American,” he says.
“Touché.”
“See? Now I can claim that you’re French. Think about it. You just spoke the language, and the French have a dish called Duck à l’Orange. Lemon and orange are both citruses. Coincidence?”
“You have a point.” I sigh heavily. “I guess I’ll think of you as Latvian.”
He laughs, a low, delightfully masculine sound. “It’s okay. Until further notice, you can consider me Russian.”
Score. He’s still The Russian then. Take that, Blue. “Okay, so what are Russians allowed to talk about over miso soup?”
He dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the remote to my panties.
With a devilish smirk, he says, “I’d like to learn more about this device.”
