My stomach did an actual flip. Like I was in high school again and the scary hot guy just looked at me with actual amusement instead of looming menace.
Which was rude, by the way.
I dumped in the garlic and immediately realized the pan was way too hot. Smoke started curling up like my shame made manifest.
“Control the flame,” he said smoothly, that smirk still glued to his face.
“Thank you, Chef Volkov,” I huffed, frantically adjusting the heat like I had any idea what I was doing. “Next time you want dinner made, just hire someone who knows which end of the spatula is up.”
He tilted his head. “Who would that be? You?”
Oh, that was rich.
“Do you have any idea how hard this is?” I snapped, elbow-deep in regret and scrambled egg fragments.
He leaned in—too close. The kind of close where you could feel someone’s body heat and lose your entire train of thought.
“Maybe if you stopped whining and concentrated…”
I looked up at him, spoon halfway to disaster. “Maybe if you stopped smirking.”
“I can’t help it.” His eyes glinted. “It’s like watching a toddler with crayons.”
My mouth twitched. Betrayal.
“At least toddlers have better hand-eye coordination,” I mumbled, trying (and failing) to flip the egg in one smooth motion. It flopped back into the pan like it had a personal grudge against me.
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed again, watching me like this was his new favorite reality show.
“Perfect form,” he said, voice warm with laughter.
I hated that I grinned.
Just a little.
Okay, a lot.
The onions hissed in the pan like they were judging me.
I stirred with what I hoped looked like confidence, even though earlier I’d basically murdered an egg and dropped garlic like I was trying to summon a demon. But now? I had a system. Kinda. Sort of. Mostly.
“Not too much heat,” Nikolai said, leaning in close—close enough that I caught a whiff of his cologne or maybe it was just him—clean, fresh, woodsy, and unfairly calming.
“You want them soft, not charred,” he added, voice deep and smooth and way too casual for someone who just casually owned a kitchen.
“Right,” I muttered, trying to focus on the onions and not the fact that his voice basically wrapped around me like a weighted blanket dipped in aftershave.
How was this happening?
How was the Russian Reaper—yes, the guy who collected penalty minutes like they were Pokémon cards—now calmly teaching me how to sauté vegetables like he hosted a YouTube channel called Slavic Stir-Fry with Nikolai?
I stared at the onions and let their sweet scent lull me into this weird… domestic twilight zone.
This didn’t make sense.
Wasn’t this the same man who turned me into a bet? Who stood across the ice from my then-boyfriend and basically said she’s mine now like he was claiming a parking space?
So why did his hands feel steady when they guided mine? Why did his laugh actually sound like something warm instead of cold steel?
