Page 79 of Sinful Blaze

Maybe it’s because Conrad’s parents are a lot more like my parents. Controlling, obsessive over the weirdest and worst details, micromanaging their son’s life as if his relationships are transactions rather than human connection. I wasn’t a future daughter-in-law to them—I was a pending purchase. A broodmare. In their perfect world, a trophy wife.

“So, tell me all about you.” Asya doesn’t even seem to mind that her mouth is still full with cake. Instead of gross, I find it endearing. She seems more… real that way. Still angelic, but less otherworldly. “And start from the beginning. Spare no detail!”

What do I say? Where do I start? I’m also trying to maintain a certain amount of anonymity, especially now that the dots have officially connected between Pasha and my sister’s exposure, and the subsequent family downfall. He doesn’t know I’m a Hamish. And if he doesn’t know, his mother definitely doesn’t know.

“I’m an events coordinator at an art gallery. Bloomington Brothers? Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Asya nods between bites of her cake. “Pasha mentioned it, back when he was planning to go to that auction. Some modern artist, I think? I took a look at the brochure and it’s just not my cup of tea.”

I snort into my own literal cup of tea. “Yeah. That would be my ex.”

“A-ha! I don’t blame you for dumping him. I know art is subjective, but that was just atrocious.”

God, I think I love this woman. “It’s certainly an… acquired taste. And I never acquired it.” I don’t want to keep talking about my ex-fiancé with… well, whatever Pasha is to me, whatever this arrangement can be labeled as, she’s still his mother. “What kind of art do you like?”

“Oh, I’m a classical lady.” Asya beams at me like she’s just shared a juicy secret. “Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Rembrandt… Levitan is a personal favorite, of course.”

This is a conversation I can have any time of day. I brighten and flash her a grin. “I love his Autumn Day, Sokolniki. It’s almost like a photograph, but the colors are just so lovely.”

Asya looks at me for a long, silent moment, that smile unwavering on her face even as she continues eating her cake and drinking her tea.

Did I say something wrong? Shit—did I pronounce “Sokolniki” wrong? Her accent makes me think she’s bilingual; the last thing I want to do is insult her by slaughtering her language.

“What do you like to cook?” she suddenly asks. Apparently, we’re done discussing art.

And now, we’re on a subject I’m a bit more ashamed about. “I, ah… I don’t really know how to cook.”

“No? Pasha has told me all about the meals you’ve made for him.”

“YouTube is a godsend,” I confess. My cheeks feel hot; I’m sure I look beet red. “I’m trying to learn more. I just, um… so… I didn’t get to learn. Growing up.” I glance up at her and am surprised to see genuine interest in her eyes. Not judgment or pity. “My mother doesn’t cook. I don’t know if she even knows how to operate a microwave, and that’s not even a joke, really. We have—had—cooks, and I was never really allowed in the kitchen. So when I went off to college, I just… I ate out a lot, or found stuff I could heat up in the oven or whatnot. But now that I’m having a baby, I want to be able to do more. I want to be able to make her homemade cookies and her favorite meals and just spend more time with her. To teach her, you know? And while I’m at it, I kinda want Pasha to think I’m a halfway decent cook who won’t poison our kid.”

I don’t realize I’ve been blabbering until the silence settles in. Asya blinks at me, still smiling, her plate now empty.

And then she’s hopping off the bar stool, whisking away our dirty dishes, and guiding me to my feet. Before I can get another word out, she ties an apron around my waist and hands me a bowl.

“Come, docha. You want to learn to cook? I will teach you. And believe you me,” she adds with a playful nudge, “if my son isn’t falling to his knees for you after he takes a bite, he doesn’t deserve you.”

30

DAPHNE

An hour later, Asya and I are busting up laughing while I utterly fail at stuffing the dough for meaty pierogies. I’m either overfilling or rolling the dough too thin, because the membrane keeps breaking no matter how delicately I handle it.

“You’re doing much better than I did when I first learned!” Asya exclaims while watching me struggle with joining the seams of my second attempt. “The trick is being able to measure a balance with your eyes. And better a thick dough than a broken one, yes?”

“So what do I do with this… this… whatever the hell this is?” I laugh as I hold up my sad attempt at international cuisine.

She plucks it from my hand and lays it out on the counter. “Take it apart and try again. Smaller meat, thicker dough.”

“But what if it looks bad? Or it’s too small compared to the others?”

“Then we eat it as a tester. Always test your cooking before serving, moya docha. Better a fat chef than a skinny husband.”

I damn near choke on my own spit when she says that. Husband?! But maybe she meant it as a saying she heard somewhere. A general statement. Nothing to do specifically with Pasha and me.

Yeah. That’s what she meant.

I roll the dough again and try for a slightly thicker spread this time, glancing at Asya for her approval. She smiles and nods, but she’s been smiling and nodding even when I royally fuck up the process and make a mess, so I take it with a grain of salt.

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