Page 10 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

I follow him into his sleek kitchen, watching as he moves with a practiced ease. There’s something about the way he commands the space that’s magnetic, but I won’t let myself be swept away by it—or so I forcibly remind myself.

"I didn’t know you could cook," I murmur, settling on a barstool when he waves off my offer to help.

He glances up, a sly smile on his lips. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Zara."

The knife flashes as he chops with expert speed. "Do you cook?"

His question catches me off guard, a shift from our usual art talk to something more intimate. "Enough to survive."

"To survive?" He shakes his head, tossing ingredients into a sizzling pan. The rich scent of garlic and herbs fills the room. "That won’t do. Maybe you need lessons."

I laugh, thinking of my kitchen disasters. "No teacher would last long with me."

He looks up, locking eyes right with me. " I’m known for many things, but quitting isn’t one of them. Perhaps you could try me."

Try him? Oh, there are so many ways I’d love to try him—none of which I should. Time seems to freeze, the insinuation behind his words hanging heavy in the air, and all I can see isthat teasing,highly intentionalhalf-smile that makes my knees weak. He moves closer, purposely, a hunter on the prowl, his scent of leather and spice wrapping around me. My breath hitches as he leans in around me.

Then, the sound of glass sliding breaks the spell. He reaches behind me, his arm grazing the side curve of my breast, and I hear something pour. The whole time, he stands oh-so-close that I could kiss him. "Wine?" he asks, handing me a glass.

“Your favorite Bordeaux,” Abram murmurs, turning toward me. I reach for the glass, our fingers brushing for the briefest moment—a touch that feels like sweet torture.

The fact that he remembered my preference isn’t lost on me. To stop myself from doing something reckless—like kissing him—I sip the wine instead.

His gaze flickers to my lips before he steps away, retreating to the counter.

Did I imagine that moment? The way he looked at me—did he want to kiss me, too? My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful his back is turned. I’d hate for him to see me blush, not with the thoughts I’m having.

I drift toward the floor-to-ceiling windows in the room beside the kitchen, trying to clear my head. The city skyline stretches before me, bathed in the warm hues of a setting sun. It’s a stunning view, but my thoughts are elsewhere—on the man in the other room, whose presence seems to envelop my every thought.

Abram’s gestures linger in my mind. He remembered my favorite wine and crafted this dinner with care. It’s a level of attention I’m not used to, and it sends warmth through my chest. I catch myself thinking of him in ways I shouldn’t—again.

"Zara?" His voice pulls me back. "Dinner’s ready."

I turn to find him in the doorway, his eyes dark with something I can’t quite place. My pulse quickens as I walk toward him, each step heavy with the sense that one misstep could change everything.

***

We sit at the kitchen island, diving into the butter garlic prawns, salad, and pasta Abram’s prepared. He leans forward, the sound of wine sloshing as he refills my glass.

“Enjoying your meal?” he asks.

Mid-bite, I cover my mouth with a quick flutter of my hands, nodding with wide eyes.

Abram laughs, his head tipping back in genuine amusement. I smile, sipping my wine to swallow.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his eyes crinkling with joy. I give him a small smile, shake my head to suggest that there is no apology needed, and dig back into my plate.

He’s the kind of man who will age gracefully—there’s no doubt. His laughter stirs something in me, a warmth and contentment settling in my chest like a soft embrace.

“You’re quiet,” Abram says, his voice low, almost intimate. “Enjoying the wine?”

“I think I’m just feeling… slow,” I admit. “You know that perfect feeling when, after a long day, you’re eating the best comfort food, had a little too much wine, and all you need is a bed?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he replies, his gaze holding mine. “So, you approve of the evening?”

“Very much so.” I give him a lazy smile, casting the salad aside and going straight for the prawns. “It’s been lovely. And this meal? What a treat!” I twirl pasta onto my fork, taking a big bite, eyes closed in contentment.

“Phew,” Abram leans back with a chuckle, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “I was worried you’d be disappointed.”

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