“Roman…Roman,” Dmitri’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Are you still with us, brother?”
I blinked once, my eyes sweeping across their faces.
“You seem lost,” Yulian added, reclining in his chair, his green eyes pinned on me.
My brother, Demyon, laughed lightly. “She’s distracted by the beautiful waitress,” he teased, then quickly added, “Oh, here she comes.”
I shifted my attention back to her as she approached us, her heels clicking against the floor—soft and rhythmic. “Gentlemen, I apologize for the delay.” She halted at our table, a tray of dishes balanced on her hand.
“No worries,” Demyon said, shooting a quick look at me.
“Here you go.” She served each of us our plates with a polite smile on her face, seemingly unaffected by who we were.
Most waiters and waitresses often trembled when serving us at any restaurant. But not this one—not this petite blonde who exuded an air of confidence. She either didn’t know who we were or didn’t care at all. Either way, her bravery was remarkable.
When she looked at me, I noticed how her hazel eyes shifted between gold and green under the chandelier’s soft light. Beautiful.
The scent of her perfume drifted into my nostrils—nice. Cheap. But nice. Beneath it, the air carried the aroma of seared butter, grilled steak, and the sweetness of grazed carrots.
While she was still serving us, something caught my attention on the wall at the bar across. An oil painting: a sweeping landscape of deep blues and pale fields, framed in gold.
“I’ll never understand your obsession with art,” Dmitri said after tracing my gaze. “That one, for instance, is just a bunch of colors thrown together.”
I leaned back in my chair. “That, cousin, happens to be a Monet.”
He raised his brows, unimpressed. “And I’m supposed to know what that is?”
“Impressionism,” I said simply.
He paused for a second, a glint of confusion in his eyes. “Yeah, perhaps if you spoke English, I just might understand you.”
“Actually,” the waitress chipped in, her voice soft and gentle. “It’s Renoir. Not Monet.”
For a moment, the table fell silent, and all my brothers shifted their gazes to me. The waitress had the guts to correct me? That’s a first.
I turned to her, my pride slightly pricked. “Is it now?”
“Yeah,” she answered. “You can tell by the brushstrokes. You see, while Monet’s style was looser—more about atmosphere—Renoir paid more attention to the light and the people in it.”
Her explanation was flawless, seamless, like she knew exactly what she was saying.
I should have been bothered by her interruption or by the fact that she corrected me in front of all my brothers. But I wasn’t. Instead, I was impressed.
“Most people mistake that piece for Monet,” she added. “It’s a common assumption.”
“You sound so sure of yourself,” I said, eyes fixed on her.
She glanced at me. “I am.” Her voice was low and steady. “Studied Arts History in college.” She paused, her gaze lingering on me for a few more seconds. “Matter of fact, I finished my final exams today.”
“Fresh out of college,” Dmitri said, a cocky grin playing on his lips. “Congrats.”
“Thank you,” she answered.
My gaze sharpened as I watched her in silence, her hands moving with practiced ease while serving our food and drinks.
“Gentlemen,” she said, straightening her spine. “Enjoy your meal.”
Demyon and Dimitri gave her a curt nod, and with that, she turned around and left our table. While they ate, I couldn’t bring myself to take my eyes off her completely. This petite blonde had awakened a newfound interest within me.
