Page 153 of Sinful Blaze

“‘Sweetheart.’”

“Oh.”

… Oh.

Asya, you goddess! Get it!

She’s gone from ghostly pale to bright pink in mere seconds. Arlo, I think she said his name is, leans in close to kiss either cheek. But that’s all he does before he eases himself away.

He gives the table a polite nod, one last lingering look for Asya, then leaves as quickly as he came.

With the way she needs help sitting back down, I think Mama Chekhov has just received the best birthday gift. Bar none.

“So, Mama…” Mak leans in with a conspiratorial grin. “Care to share with the rest of the class?”

“Huh?” Asya blinks a few times, glances around at the table of very curious relatives, then tries to laugh it off with a very unconvincing titter. “Oh! That? Him? He’s, ah… just an old friend.”

“Right. Right. Because old friends show up out of nowhere with roses.”

She grabs her glass of water and practically chugs it down. “They do when it’s my birthday.”

Pasha pokes at an oyster shell on his plate with a fork. “He flew an awfully long way to celebrate your birthday.”

“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

Again, Sofi and I share a look. But she wisely chooses to not join the interrogation and instead pours her mother a hearty glass of wine.

Which Asya starts chugging without hesitation.

Eyebrows are floating to the ceiling around the table, joining the whispers about how “it’s been forever” since anyone saw that man. How Asya “must be pleasantly surprised to see him.” How “it’s a good thing” her dead husband is exactly that: dead.

Only when the main course arrives does the conversation shift to other important things, like whether the stroganoff comes with beet caviar, regular caviar, or a mixture of both. Are beets good for the baby? Of course they are; beets have fed every baby in this family for twelve generations.

And so on and so forth. It never stops.

I smile up at Pasha. He’s pensive, quiet. His foot nudges mine under the table, and I nudge him back.

“Daphne! What are you naming the baby?”

I have no idea who asked the question, but the whole table erupts into a lively debate over who gets to name our baby and who she’ll be named after. My attempts to explain I haven’t chosen a name yet, let alone discussed one with Pasha, are drowned out by the loving arguments between “going old school” and “letting the poor girl have an American name,” so long as “Babushka doesn’t find out.”

I let them chatter; I don’t mind.

I love this. For the first time in my life, I get to see what a real family feels like.

And for the first time, I feel confident in letting Stewart and Ophelia Hamish slide into the part of my mind they should have always been.

Forgotten.

58

PASHA

Paris is barely a step into my office when I stop her with an outstretched hand. “Whatever it is, I’ll take it from here.”

“But… it’s from the board of directors.”

I flex my fingers so I don’t have to look up at her. Breathing around her seems to give her the wrong impression, despite our last discussion. “I can read for myself.”

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