I shrug. “Among other things.”
He doesn’t ask what other things and I’m grateful. Some part of me wonders if he’s having the same problem—lying awake at night, replaying moments that should be forgotten, feeling things that should be impossible.
“I was thinking of making eggs,” he says after a moment. “For breakfast. If you’re hungry.”
I glance at him, surprised. “You cook?”
His ears turn slightly red, which is still the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen. “I can manage eggs. Probably.”
“Probably?” I can’t help the small smile. “That’s not inspiring confidence.”
“I’ve been living on takeout and whatever the cook makes,” he admits. “But how hard can scrambled eggs be?”
Famous last words.
“Oh my God.” I’m trying not to laugh as I stare at the smoking pan. “How did you burn scrambledeggs? They’re literally one of the easiest things to make.”
“I don’t know!” Dimitri unhappily waves a kitchen towel at the smoke detector, which is beeping angrily. “I followed the instructions. Heat the pan, add butter, pour in the eggs?—”
I zero in on his first instruction. “On what setting?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “High. To make it cook faster.”
I do laugh then, I can’t help it. The smoke alarm is still beeping, there’s a pan of completely incinerated eggs on the stove, and Dimitri Volkov—feared crime lord, the man who makes grown men tremble—is standing in his kitchen looking utterly baffled by breakfast food.
“You don’t cook eggs on high,” I explain, moving to open windows. “You cook them low and slow. Otherwise you get—” I gesture at the charred mess in the pan. “That.”
He looks so genuinely confused that I want to do something stupid like kiss him. “How was I supposed to know that?”
I shake my head in disbelief as I near the stove. “Did you never watch anyone cook? Ever?” I take the pan from him, dumping the ruined eggs in the trash. “Your mother? Mrs. Kozlov?”
His expression shutters. “My mother died when I was twelve. And Mrs. Kozlov usually kicked me out of the kitchen when I tried to help.”
Oh. The casual way he mentions his mother’s death makes my heart clench. I knew his mother wasn’t around (that was obvious) but seeing the way he says it like it’s just a fact and not a wound that never healed, makes me want to reach for him.
I don’t. But I want to.
“Well,” I say instead, pulling out a fresh pan and trying to banish the bad memories. “Lucky for you,mymother taught me to cook. And I’m going to teach you, so you never commit this crime against eggs again.”
His lips twitch although he still looks a bit haggard. “Crime against eggs?”
I nod. “Yes. It’s very serious. The eggs are probably going to press charges.” I bump into his hip so he moves out of my way. “Now watch. Low heat.Alwayslow heat for eggs.”
I demonstrate, cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork, adding a splash of milk. He watches intently, and I’m hyperaware of his eyes on me. On my hands as they move. On my face when I explain the technique. On the way I bite my lip when I’m concentrating.
“See?” I pour the eggs into the pan. “Low and slow. You keep them moving, folding them over gently. They’ll cook evenly and stay soft.”
“Show me,” he says quietly, and before I can process what he means, he’s stepping behind me, his chest almost against my back.
My breath catches. He’s so close. I can feel the heat radiating off him and I can smell his cologne—that cedar and smoke scent that makes my head spin. His hand comes up, hovering near mine on the spatula.
“Like this?” His voice is low and right by my ear, and I have to suppress a shiver.
“Y-yes. Just—” I swallow hard, trying to focus on the eggs and not on how his body is nearly flush against mine. “Just keep folding them. Gentle. Don’t rush it.”
His hand settles over mine on the spatula, guiding my movements. And oh God, I can’tbreathe. His fingers are warm and strong, completely engulfing my hand. His chest presses against my back as he leans forward to see the pan better, and I can feel every breath he takes.
This is torture. Sweet, devastatingtorture.
