“I can’t believe you’re cooking.” I can’t hide the smile tugging at my lips. “And you’re making ravioli?”
He glances over his shoulder, giving me that slow, dangerous grin that makes my stomach flip-flop. “I learned to cook it when I was sixteen. It was my go-to trick for impressing my first Italian investors.”
“Did it work?”
“They signed the deal. And their grandmother offered to adopt me.” He shrugs. “I took that as a compliment.”
We both laugh. It’s nice, hanging out with him like this.
“I learned to cook when I was fourteen, and I was terrible.” I pretend to pout. “My mom was livid. She said I couldn’t be the daughter of a Russian restaurateur and not know how to cook.”
“I’m guessing you eventually learned.”
“I did, but it took years. My grandparents whipped me into shape. They taught me to make my favorite meal, which was one of their signature dishes, and I took it from there.”
“And what is your favorite meal?” He leans in, looking curious.
“I like beef stroganoff. But your ravioli might be my new favorite. It smells amazing.”
“It will be your new favorite, or at least an addition to your list. I wouldn’t want to disrespect your grandparents’ efforts.” He chuckles.
“I’m sure they’d be fine with that. They loved Italian food, too. They wanted the restaurant to provide a taste of Europe. That’s why people loved it.”
“It sounds like they were very wise.”
“They were.”
He returns to the stove, moving with this calm confidence that feels… domestic. Almost intimate. Like this is a snapshot of some alternate universe where we wake up together every morning and do this without thinking.
Knox spoons the ravioli into the pan, and the butter pops softly. “While this cooks, we can enjoy some wine.” He retrieves a bottle of wine from the cupboard.
It’s Russian. And seriously expensive.
“Oh my God, is all the wine you have crazy expensive?” I giggle.
“No, but I like fine things.” He looks me up and down with that spark of desire in his eyes.
“I’ve never even tasted that wine.”
“Krasnostop Zolotovsky. Seemed fitting for the occasion.”
I smile, fascinated by his pronunciation. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he was native Russian. I remember him speaking Russian in the car weeks ago to annoy me.
“Ty vyglyadish' vpechatlyonnoy.” He smiles, saying in Russian that I look impressed.
“Da. Ya vpechatlyón. Gde ty nauchilsya govorit' po-russki?” I answer, telling him I am and asking where he learned to speak Russian.
“My grandfather. He was fluent in ten languages. He insisted we all follow in his footsteps.”
My mouth drops. “Tenlanguages?”
“Uh huh.”
“Butten?”
“He said since our clients were worldwide, we had to speak their language, so they’d be more confident in trusting us.”
“Now, that sounds wise.” I nod.
