Page 54 of Nine Months to Love
I despise the warmth that spreads through my chest at the simple, stupid compliment.What would a strong woman do? Let’s try doing that.
I square my shoulders toward him. “Flattery won’t make me forget why we’re here, Stefan.”
“I wasn’t trying to make you forget.” He moves closer, and the scent of cologne and ocean brine is enough to make me almost moan. “Would you like some champagne? Non-alcoholic, of course.”
“Pass, thanks. Not really in a celebratory sort of mood.”
“Suit yourself.” He half-turns away from me, almost like a dismissal, though I could swear he’s doing it to hide a smile. “Dinner’s ready if you’re hungry.”
“You mean the dinner your chef prepared while you supervised?”
“You cooked?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m Russian. We’re genetically programmed to make borscht.”
“Please tell me you didn’t make borscht.”
Now, he does smile, just a little. “This is supposed to be enjoyable, not torturous. I made Beef Wellington with roasted vegetables. Though if you want borscht, I can probably manage that, too.”
“You made Beef Wellington. By yourself.”
“YouTube is very educational.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. The image of Stefan Safonov, Bratva boss and billionaire, following along with a YouTube cooking tutorial is too absurd. I add a frilly pink apron that saysSmooch the Chefin my mind’s eye and giggle again.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just... you continue to surprise me.”
“Good surprises or bad ones?”
“Jury’s still out.”
He gestures to the table set for two, complete with more candles and a centerpiece of—what else?—white orchids. “Shall we?”
I let him pull out my chair because fighting him on chivalry seems pointless, and honestly, it’s the rock bottom least he could do. The food smells incredible, and my stomach growls loud enough that we both hear it.
“When did you last eat?” he asks as he starts serving me a portion that could feed three people.
“Breakfast, I think? It’s been a weird day.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of a lot of things. You’re definitely one of them, though.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The Wellington is perfect—tender beef, flaky pastry, just the right amount of seasoning. Either Stefan is lying about making this himself, YouTube chefs have really gotten good lately, or he’s been holding out on me.
“This is really delicious,” I admit.
“You sound surprised.”
“Did you not figure that out when I doubted you the first time?”
He chuckles and dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “I know what you think I am. The kind of man, the kind of… tyrant. But sometimes, it’s nice to do things yourself. To know you created something instead of just taking it.”
There’s plenty we could unpack behind those words, much of it relevant to the dumpster fire we’ve found ourselves in, but I’m not ready to dig into it. Not yet.
Because despite everything—the lies, the basement mystery, his criminal empire—I’m enjoying this. Stefan keeps stealing glances at me like he can’t quite believe I’m here and it’s sending a strange sort of thrill racing down the length of my spine.
