I slide the pan into the oven. Set the timer.
Twenty-five minutes until they’re done.
Twenty-five minutes until I prove to myself that I’m more than just someone waiting for a man to come home.
I’m Mary Catherine Sullivan.
And I’m going to be just fine.
My throat’s dry. All that flour in the air. I turn toward the sink, reaching for a glass—
Dima’s already there. Hands me a glass of water. Filled. Cold. Like he read my mind.
I take it. “Thanks.”
He nods once.
We both turn to look at the island, where Jasper is currently circling Lev like a shark that has just spotted prey.
“You have incredible bone structure,” he says, tilting his head. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
Lev blinks. “What?”
“Your jaw. Your cheekbones. The symmetry.” Jasper’s eyes narrow, assessing. “You’re wasting this face on… whatever it is you do.”
“I kill people.”
“Perfect. Very brooding. Very editorial.” Jasper pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. “I have a campaign coming up. Menswear. Dark, moody, Russian mafia aesthetic. Which, let’s be honest, you’re already living.”
“I’m not a model.”
“You could be.”
“I’m a—”
“Killer, yes, we’ve established that. But you could be a killer who also models.” Jasper shows him something on his phone. “Look at this. Tell me you wouldn’t look incredible in Prada.”
Lev leans closer. Squints. “Is that guy wearing a dress?”
“It’s a tunic.”
“It’s a dress.”
“It’s high fashion.”
“It’s a dress.”
I’m trying not to laugh. Failing.
Jasper looks at me. “Help me out here.”
“Don’t drag me into this.”
“You’re already in this. You’re standing right there, covered in flour, watching this beautiful man waste his potential.”
“I like my potential,” Lev says. “It involves guns and not wearing dresses.”
“Tunics.”
