Page 51 of Cashmere Cruelty

“Evening,” Matvey greets, the picture of perfect courtesy. He’s wearing a tailored anthrax gray jacket and a crisp burgundy shirt. His cologne wafts through the air with every step, nearly overpowering the delicacies on the tray.

God in Heaven above, one question for ya: why did You make Your biggest asshole so fucking hot?

I shake myself. This is not the time to be ogling the enemy. “Hi,” I offer back, polite but distant.

Matvey arches an eyebrow at me. Then he motions for whatever poor waiter he plucked from his shift downstairs to push the cart inside. The victim in question isn’t quite shaking, but I have a feeling I’ll hear the cutlery rattle soon enough.

“Thank you,” I say, hurrying to commandeer the cart. “I can take it from here.”

The waiter shoots me a grateful look. Then, once Matvey finally nods, he can’t duck out fast enough.

“You don’t have to do that.” Matvey frowns. “It’s his job. He’s paid to do it.”

“And I’m paid to take measurements and make suits,” I counter, gliding by with our trays. “But I think we both know customers can overstep.”

Matvey stops just shy of aTouché.There’s an amused glint in his eyes, but I force myself to pay it no mind. If I start appreciating all the little ways he’s secretly charming, I won’t survive the night.

Then he pulls out my chair. I die a little inside.

“How was your day?” he asks, settling across from me. To think that, just hours ago, it was me and Elias here, having tea and pouring our hearts out…

Fat chance of that happening. If Matvey has a heart at all, he has yet to show the symptoms.

“Good,” I say, spying the menu for the night. I’m a girl of simple needs… and, apparently, a way finer palate than I imagined. I can’t bring myself to splurge on anything fancy for lunch—though the salads here will make you cry for the opposite reason than most salads do—but part of me was already looking forward to this.

For the food, of course.

Certainly not for the company.

“How was yours?” I ask before digging into my smoked salmon risotto with asparagus cream. The lemon zest on top practicallymelts in my mouth. I swear, I’ve never had to try this hard not to moan.

Well.Almostnever.

“Good,” Matvey echoes.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. It’s not fair of me to expect it—I was the first to choose the hermit life—but man… if this is gonna be the level of conversation, this family dinner thing is gonna be even more awkward than I feared.

“I never had family dinner before,” I find myself blurting out. “Or, well, not at the table.”

Matvey’s eyebrow shoots up. “How’s that?”

Great job, April.Way to trauma dump.“We weren’t really… traditional.” It’s not completely true: at least one half of my family is traditional to a fault. So traditional, in fact, they used to send the bastard daughter to cook with the help.

It’s why I don’t do this anymore—it just brings up shit I’d sooner forget.

But I’m not about to tell a stranger that. Because that’s what Matvey and I are: strangers.

Who just happen to share 50% of our genes with the same baby.

Instead, I pick the least traumatic of the two halves of my family history. Which is saying a lot, all things considered. “My stepdad usually ate on the couch. You know, like the Romans,” I add, attempting to lighten the mood.

Matvey frowns harder.Attempt failed.“And your mother?”

“She preferred… the liquid variety,” I say vaguely. If there’s anything Eleanor actually likes in this world besides Charlie, it’s things that come in dark, corked bottles. But again—not gonna tell him that.

“I see.”

If he didn’t think you were trailer trash before, he certainly does now.“What about you?” I ask before I can connect my brain-to-mouth filter. “Did you have family dinner a lot with your mom?”

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