“You’re quiet tonight,” he says after a while, his tone low.
“I’m…nervous,” I admit. “You’re not exactly easy to read, Dmitri.”
He glances at me then, eyes catching mine for a heartbeat before returning to the road. “That’s because I don’t want to be predictable.”
I laugh softly. “You’re succeeding.”
He looks over again, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Good.”
A comfortable silence settles between us, charged with something I can’t quite name. Actually, he makes me feel a lot ofthings that I can't define. And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to run from the unknown.
Finally, the car slows and turns into an underground garage of a sleek high-rise. Dmitri steps out of the car and circles around the front to open my door. He holds his hand out to me with a chivalrous smile that does something to my stomach.
I have so many questions, but I slide my hand into his, choosing to trust him fully. The elevator doors open straight into a penthouse. My breath catches as we step inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the city, its lights reflecting off the glass. The place feels quiet and deliberate. No clutter, no softness, just clean lines and shadows that match the man beside me.
“Welcome to my home,moya kukolka,” Dmitri says, making a small sweeping gesture with his hand.
Something twists in my stomach at how nicely the Russian words roll off his tongue.
It's so…sexy.
“Your home? You live here?” I repeat, instantly feeling foolish for asking something so obvious.
He nods once, setting his keys on the counter. “Most of the time.”
I’m still looking around when he adds, “I hope you’re not disappointed we’re not going to a restaurant.”
“Disappointed?” I turn back to him. “You have a penthouse with this view, and you thought I'd prefer a crowded restaurant?”
His mouth curves into one of those fleeting warm smiles that always gives me butterflies. “I don’t like restaurants,” he says,shrugging slightly. “Too much noise, too many eyes. I wanted to talk and actually hear you. So I thought I’d cook instead.”
“You cook?”
He lifts an eyebrow, already loosening the cuffs of his sleeves. “You’ll see.”
My heart skips at the promise in his voice, my stomach knotting with nerves and excitement.
Seems like I'm on a wild ride with Dmitri Balshov.
“Sit.” He gestures toward one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He pours a deep red into a glass and sets it in front of me before turning toward the refrigerator and pulling out some ingredients. He rolls up his sleeves, sets a large pan on the stove, then lights the burner with one flick of his wrist. There’s something mesmerizing about his movements. It's almost like watching a hypnotic dance, one that steals your breath away.Along with your soul.
“You're staring,kukolka,” he says without looking away from the herbs he's chopping.
I duck my head. “Maybe a little.”
He glances over his shoulder, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Adorable.”
I smile, feeling my cheeks redden. I continue to watch Dmitri cook, the aroma of his food gradually filling the room. It's warm and rich, luring me deeper into a sense of comfort.
“So tell me,” I say, swirling my wine, “where did you learn to cook like this?”
He doesn’t look up from the pan. “Taught myself. When I got my own place, I decided I wasn't going to be dependent on anyone—not even for a meal.”
“That sounds…very you.”
