Page 7 of Sweet Dreams

Looking forward to hearing from you,

Yuri

He hit send before he could overthink it, then leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. What was he doing? Online dating? International online dating, no less. His best friend Nik would have a field day with this.

As if summoned by the thought, Yuri's phone buzzed. Speak of the devil.

"Da?" Yuri answered.

"Tell me you're not still moping in your apartment," Nik's voice crackled through the speaker. "It's Friday night, for God's sake."

Yuri glanced at the clock. 11:00 p.m. At one time, he'd just be starting his night at this hour. Now, he was in his pajamas, scrolling through dating sites. How the mighty had fallen.

"I'm not moping," he defended weakly. "I'm... networking."

Nik snorted. "Right. And I'm a Russian prince. Come on, I'm outside. We're going out."

"Nik, I'm not really in the mood—"

"Wasn't asking, Your Highness. You've got five minutes before I sing Vysotsky at the top of my lungs. Your neighbors will love that."

The line went dead. Yuri stared at his phone, torn between annoyance and amusement. That was his best friend, Nik–stubborn as a mule and twice as loud. With a resigned sigh, Yuri stood up to change. Maybe a night out wouldn't be so bad.

Just then, a 'ping' from his computer made him pause. A new message. From Beth.

Yuri's heart did a little skip as he sat back down, opening the message:

Beth:Hey there, International Man of Mystery!

Greetings from not-so-snowy Stanford! (That's in New York, by the way. Not the fancy university one.) I'm impressed–most guys lead with a cheesy pick-up line, but you went straight for the baked goods. A man after my own heart!

To answer your question, my signature bake changes with my mood. Today, it's "My-Boyfriend-Cheated-So-I-Stress-Baked-100-Cookies" chocolate chip. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe "I-Entered-A-Baking-Competition-What-Was-I-Thinking" sourdough?

Medovik, huh? Color me intrigued. I might need that recipe... for research purposes, of course. And hey, mixing drinks is an art form, too. Maybe we could trade skills sometime? I'll teach you to frost; you teach me to flambe. (Is that a thing bartenders do, or am I thinking of fancy chefs?)

Your turn, Mr. Minsk. What's your story? How does one go from running a nightclub to browsing international dating sites? I sense there's a tale there...

Sweetly yours,

Beth

P.S. What's a babushka? Is that like a balaclava? Because if so, I agree. Nobody looks good baking in a ski mask.

Yuri found himself laughing out loud, Nik and his threats of public singing forgotten. He cracked his knuckles, ready to reply, when his phone buzzed again. This time, it was accompanied bythe distant strains of "Koni Priveredlivye" floating up from the street.

Torn, Yuri glanced between his phone and the computer. The responsible thing would be to go out with his friend. To try and recapture some of his old life.

"Yuri!" Nik's voice carried through the open window. "I'm on verse two! Don't make me do the whole song!"

With a groan, Yuri made his decision. He quickly typed out a response to Beth:

Yuri:Apologies, moye solnyshko, but duty calls. My friend is threatening to serenade the entire block if I don't join him for a night out. Raincheck on that fascinating story and cultural exchange? I promise it's worth the wait.

Sleep sweet, Baker Beth. Dream of sugar plums... or whatever it is you baker's dream of.

Dosvidaniya for now,

Yuri

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