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He picks up my utensils and cuts up the duck for me into small, delectable pieces. “You’re allowed to handle your own fork and knife. Just let me fill your plate and cup.” Matching actions to words, he fills my glass with something that looks like sangria. “Russian-style compote,” he explains.
“Thanks.”
I start with the rice. Sweet and savory, it’s mouthgasmic. Next, I put a tiny piece of pear in my mouth. Wow. Even better than the rice. I sip the drink. Double wow. This could replace my Mountain Dew addiction. I attack the duck. Triple wow. Even sweeter and with enough umami flavor to please a Japanese foodie, the duck makes my eyes roll into the back of my head in pleasure.
“Do you like it?” Art asks.
It takes an effort of will not to quack in response. “I don’t like it… I love it.” I stuff more of everything into my greedy mouth.
Art grins widely. “I’m glad. Is it sweet enough?”
Since my mouth is too full, I nod.
“No sugar,” he says proudly. “It’s all from the fruit.”
I chew and swallow, enjoying every second. The only worrisome thing about this meal is related to the old proverb: “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” If that works on women too, my heart could be in serious jeopardy.
“So,” I say when I’ve taken the edge off the worst of my hunger. “Did you go to culinary school or something? This is not a meal an average person can just make.”
“Self-taught.” He grabs himself another serving of the salad I’ve been pointedly ignoring. “Early in my career, ballet didn’t leave much time for any other pursuits, but more recently, I’ve gotten into cooking and investing. What about you? What did you study in college?”
This isn’t my favorite topic. Some people with DNA identical to mine are highly educated, whereas I’m… not. “I didn’t go to college.” I grimace. “I guess I’m self-taught also.”
It’s true. I’ve masturbated for as long as I can recall, and if they gave out degrees in it, I’d have a master’s at least, or maybe even a PhD, considering how much I’ve written on the subject.
If Art looks down on my lack of schooling, he shows zero signs of it. If anything, his nod seems approving. “That reminds me,” he says. “What is it that you do?”
My heart does a backflip. This situation is my fault. I should have foreseen this coming up when I asked him about culinary school. So stupid. Maybe I can still salvage this?
“Hold up,” I say. “You didn’t tell me what you studied in school.”
His narrowed eyes remind me of Hershey’s kisses. “You’re dodging my question, aren’t you?”
Skunk. I put my fork down. “Or it’s you who doesn’t want to tell me about your college education.”
He sighs. “I attended a university back in Russia, but they gave me my grades based on my ballet fame, not merit, so I don’t consider my Economics degree to be worth much. When it came to investing, I had to learn everything from scratch.” He looks at me expectantly.
I stare back guilelessly. “I put that movie list together for you. Want to see?”
He reaches across the table and playfully grips my chin—which makes something in my panties short-circuit. “Tell me what you do for a living.”
“No.”
He drops his hand and makes puppy eyes at me—and this time, the short-circuit is in my brain. “Please?”
On the one hand, it’s flattering that he wants to learn all he can about me. Makes me feel like he cares. On the other hand, once he learns this, he’ll run.
The puppy eyes don’t go away.
I heave a sigh. “Do I have to?”
His face turns serious. “They’ll ask us these questions at the interview.”
Oh, skunk. I forgot about that. He’s not just casually getting to know me because he cares. It’s all just a means to an end to get that green card.
“Fine,” I say. “But you’ll regret marrying me, for sure.”
“Doubt it.”
