Page 79 of Masked Seduction
I glance at Abram, surprised. “Did you order ahead?”
He shakes his head and leans back in his seat, completely at ease. “Every Saturday, the chef prepares a special five-course tasting menu. No ordering. You simply trust the chef’s judgment and enjoy.”
“Wow,” I breathe. I’m genuinely impressed.
My eyes drift to the deep red wine being poured into the crystal glasses, a wave of anxiety rising within. I can’t drink wine, obviously, and refusing such a delectable vintage will immediately raise suspicion. My heart pounds faster, nerves twisting into a tight knot in my stomach. Is now the moment? Should I tell him here, at this beautiful table, that I’m pregnant?
I swallow hard, my fingers nervously tracing the edge of my napkin. Abram must sense the shift in me because he places his hand over mine. The warmth of his touch grounds me instantly.
“Everything alright?” he asks.
I lift my gaze to meet his. Those eyes—so intense—always seeing more than I want to reveal.
I force a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah. Just overwhelmed by all of this.” I wave a hand around us, gesturing to the elegant surroundings, the perfectly poised waiter, the wine shimmering invitingly. “It’s a lot.”
He studies me carefully for a long moment, and I swear he sees right through me. But instead of pushing, he simply gives my hand a gentle squeeze, settling back again. “Relax. You deserve a night like this.”
His words ease the tension just enough for me to breathe again, even though I know the truth still lingers between us, unspoken.
Abram chuckles softly, a deep, warm sound that rolls over me like velvet. "Trust me, you'll like everything."
Before he can say another word, the waiter moves in with ninja-like silence, slipping a plate onto the table between us.
I eye the delicate hors d’oeuvre in front of me skeptically. "And this is…?"
"Balsamic bruschetta," the waiter says.
Abram gestures for me to take a bite. "Go ahead."
I lift the small piece of bread topped with diced tomatoes, basil, and glossy dark balsamic glaze, feeling a little unsure. Abramwatches, his gaze intent and confident. The moment the flavors hit my tongue, my eyes widen.
“Oh my God, that’s delicious!” I exclaim before quickly covering my mouth to chew politely. The flavors are incredible, fresh and sweet with a perfect tangy twist.
Abram’s eyes gleam. "I told you. And that's just the beginning."
I can’t help but smile, a warmth blossoming inside me. He’s clearly enjoying my surprise. He sips his wine slowly, his gaze lingering on me as if he's savoring the sight of me enjoying myself. I swirl the wine in my untouched glass, feeling another wave of nerves. Abram doesn’t notice. At least, I don’t think he does.
He leans forward slightly, his voice soft and encouraging. "So, tell me more about your life. I want to know more about you."
I glance down, hesitating. I’ve never enjoyed discussing my childhood. But something about Abram, about the gentle intensity in his eyes, encourages honesty.
“It's nothing glamorous,” I begin quietly, poking at my plate. “I was pretty much raised by the system. My mom, she was always looking for her next high, never had time for anything else. I was in and out of foster homes until I turned sixteen. Then I got emancipated, tried to build a life for myself."
He watches me carefully, sympathy flickering in his eyes but no pity, which I appreciate. He doesn’t interrupt, just silently waits for me to continue.
"It wasn't easy," I say softly, the old ache of loneliness stirring. "But it taught me resilience, how to rely on myself."
Abram reaches across the table and gently touches my hand, his thumb stroking softly. "You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known, Jenna. Your past doesn't define you—it just makes you all the more impressive."
His words send a wave of warmth through me. My throat tightens, but I smile gratefully. "Thank you. That means a lot." I clear my throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "What about you? You rarely talk about yourself."
Abram chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair, one finger tracing the edge of his wine glass. "I prefer to hear you talk."
I arch an eyebrow. "Well, that’s not fair. I’ve spilled plenty of my secrets."
He sighs, looking reluctantly amused. "Very well. I was born in St. Petersburg, Russia. It’s a beautiful city. It’s cold, with harsh winters, but there's a warmth beneath all that ice." His expression softens with nostalgia. "My sisters and I grew up playing in Palace Square, the snow almost as high as we were sometimes. My father was strict, but he cared for us deeply. Family was—is—everything."
I smile, touched by the image of him as a little boy in the snow. "That sounds kind of magical, actually. But how did you end up here? Vegas isn’t exactly the next stop after St. Petersburg."
