The words alarm her even more but with a gesture, Baxter sends her back into the kitchen.
“Doyou have any allergies?”
“Not that I’m aware of but I do have a very limited palate so there’s every chance I’ve got a good one stored up somewhere.”
“The usual word for that is no.”
I flap a hand before busying it tearing into the fresh bread and slathering it with a large helping of butter. “Why use one word when a dozen will suffice?”
His eyes stay on me as I continue to eat, feeling better with every bite. When Grace clears away the plates, she brings out another course.
This time, four large ravioli swimming in a sea of cream and cheeses. At least three different varieties that I can see. When I cut into the corner of the pasta and test it, I taste one more.
“So many carbs. Are you Italian?”
“Because so many Italians are called Baxter?”
“Hey, I’m not being judgemental or anything, but nobody is called Baxter, so that really doesn’t help narrow the field.”
“My parents were Russian. Balabanov means hawk.”
“And what does Baxter mean?”
“General hilarity if your initial reaction was anything to go by.”
I agree with a small snort. “But don’t worry, I’m sure most people are far more concerned you’re about to kill them than they are with laughing at your name.”
“As it should be.”
The conversation falters as we both eat, and I’m happy to see his phone is now face down on the table. “Do you always have staff cooking for you?”
He raises an eyebrow as he nods. “Why?”
“Just wondering. Someone said there usually aren’t this many people about, so I thought it might change depending on how many are in residence.”
“I always employ full-time staff for the kitchen.”
“And your guards are always here?” That draws a more suspicious glance and I hasten to add, “Just adding up the salaries required to keep this place ticking over. This is my only experience with how much money it takes to be rich.”
“Is it something you feel you might pursue?”
I hold up a hand and rock it from side to side. “I’m not convinced, but it’s good to keep my options open.”
“Being dirt poor is obviously a valid option, too.”
“Were your parents oligarchs?”
“No. Do you always ask whatever questions pop into your head?”
“How else would I ever get the answers I need?”
“Maybe by being selective?”
“Is that how you got so rich? By being selective?”
“I got rich by working hard.”
The answer is so lame that I burst out laughing, even around a mouthful of the most delicious ravioli I’ve ever eaten. “Sure. I’ve been working jobs where I’m on my feet for eight hours straight serving the general public, which is the absolute worst kind of public to have, but you workedhard.”
