Page 41 of Cashmere Cruelty

“I—Yes. Of course. Just a second…”

I unlock the chain at the door. It takes me an embarrassing amount of tries—damned butterfingers. But in the end, I manage, and the sight that greets me is…

Unexpected.

Because there Matvey is, tapping his foot with mounting irritation, towering over me in all his mob bossy glory?—

—and pushing afood cart.

I step aside to let him through. If he taps his foot any harder, I’m afraid there might be victims. “Come on in.”

Matvey rolls the cart forward. Somehow, he manages to do even that in an intimidating way. I’m suddenly feeling sorry for his secretaries.

“What, uh…?” I babble, racking my brain for a conversation topic. Anything to dispel this awkward silence, really. “What brings you by?”

I cringe. I sound like the corny neighbor on an 80s sitcom that didn’t get renewed for a second season.

“Do I need a reason to come to my own penthouse?” Matvey ponders without looking up from the trays he’s setting on the table.

I want to smack myself. At the same time, I want to smack him. Who even has that kind of attitude?

I’m debating whether to give him a piece of my mind when?—

“Evening, boss,” Grisha calls from the doorway. “I trust everything’s up to standard?”

Aaand they’re speaking in code again.

“Everything’s fine,” Matvey says, which tells me absolutely nothing. I’d try reading his expression, but I’d have more luck with the Easter Island statues. “You can go, Grisha. I’ll take it from here.”

Grisha gives a small bow. “I’ll be on standby downstairs. Ms. Flowers,” he adds courteously, taking his leave from me as well.

I feel my hands twitch as the door closes behind his back.Don’t go!I want to whine like a goddamn toddler.Don’t leave me alone with the scary hot man!

Despite myself, I was starting to feel at ease around Grisha. At the very least, he was someone I could read. Calm, approachable, always with a joke on his lips.

But Matvey?

He remains a mystery wrapped in Tom Ford.

“Should I bring you a chair over there?” Matvey asks sarcastically.

I shake myself back to reality. In my stupor, I completely forgot about the covered trays he just carted in. He uncovers one now, and the smell is…

Well, the smell is heavenly.

My belly gives a loud rumble. I pray he didn’t hear it, but as soon as I look up, I can see the ghost of a smirk playing on his irritatingly handsome face.

Oh, whatever. I’m pregnant. I get to be twice as hungry as everyone else.

I slide into the seat in front of him. “Thank you,” I murmur, staring at the feast in front of me.

“Here,” Matvey says in a clipped tone, handing me a single-sheet menu. “I instructed the chef to avoid anything unsafe for pregnancy, as well as mustard and celery. But you should check just in case.”

I accept the menu with unsteady hands, my mind reeling. It must have taken a lot of work to do something like this. Above all else, that’s what strikes me first: a tremendous amount of care.

My second thought is that I never told him about my allergies.

Deep breaths, April. So the scary mobster’s got his hands on your medical records. So what? He isn’t using them tokillyou.

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