Page 157 of Nine Months to Bear
“When did you last eat?” he asks.
“Um. Lunch, maybe? I don’t remember.”
“Come on.” He takes my hand. “Babushka said you cooked.”
“That’s generous of her. I’d say I helped. Actually, I’d say I mostly just chopped things badly and tried not to throw up.”
“Well, that’s not nothing,” he says with a small smile. “Let’s go.”
He keeps hold of my hand as we go downstairs. With every step, the smell of beef stroganoff fills the air more and more. Less nauseating now, more like… comfort. Home.
Stefan stops in the kitchen doorway. The table’s set for two, candles and everything. Babushka’s nowhere to be seen.
“She’s not subtle,” he mutters.
“She’s sweet.”
“She’s meddling.”
“Same thing, in grandmother language.”
He pulls out my chair. I sit, watching him move around the kitchen like he belongs there. Which he does, I guess. It’s his house.
Our house?
No. Too soon for that thought.
He brings two plates to the table. The stroganoff looks perfect, creamy sauce over egg noodles, tender beef that falls apart at the touch of a fork.
“This was my favorite,” he says quietly. “When I was a kid. Babushka made it every Sunday.”
“She told me.”
His eyebrows rise. “She did?”
“While we were cooking. She said you’d refuse to eat anything else. Kept up the hunger strike for a whole month once.”
“I was a stubborn boy.” But he’s smiling. Actuallysmiling. Not smirking or leering. Just… smiling. “Drove her crazy.”
“She loves you.”
“Yeah.” He takes a bite, closes his eyes. “Goddamn. It tastes exactly right.”
“She did most of the work.”
“But you helped.” He looks at me across the candles. “You cooked for me.”
“I… Well, yeah, I guess I did.”
“Why?”
I push noodles around my plate. “I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For—”God, where do I start?“For everything. For the investment meeting. For defending me to Jonathan Madison. For… for the article.”
“Ah.Thatarticle.”
