I shook my head at her teasing, then led Lauren upstairs, though of course she could have figured out where the bathroom was. She had been here before.
When I turned at the top of the stairs, she was grinning.
“What is so funny?”
“How obsessed you are with me. Following me around the country. My number one fan.”
I grabbed a couple of towels from the cupboard. “Here you are. Enjoy your shower.”
She laughed again. “Obsessed.”
When she came down again, she was wearing sweats and had dried her hair with the hairdryer I left on the bed. She looked fresh and rested.
“Feel better?”
“Much. Thank you.” Her gaze landed on the kitchen table where I had set two places and a bottle of Cabernet. “What’s going on here?”
“Would you like to have dinner with me?”
“What about your dad?”
“He is playing his puzzle. It is best that he does not sit with us as he would expect a second dinner.” He sometimes forgot that he had already eaten.
“I don’t want to interrupt any of your routines, Alexei.”
“He isn’t far, and I will hear him if he gets agitated.” I pointed at the baby monitor.
“That thing? Works for good and evil, you know.”
“Yes, the authorities—meaning Franky St. James—may be listening.”
She laughed, a sound that warmed through me. “I’d love some of this famous mac n’ cheese, if there’s any going.”
“Good. If you would like wine, go ahead.”
“Perfect with the Kraft macaroni.” She set to work opening it while I carved out servings of the not-Kraft macaroni onto a plate and heated it in the microwave. In a pan, I fried some Panko crumbs to top it off, then set two bowls on the table. I poked my head around the door to the dining room.
“Okay, Papa?”
“I am fine,” he said definitively, one of his coping strategies. If he was unsure or confused, he often asserted with confidence that everything was as it should be.
“How about you? Are you okay?” Lauren asked when I sat at the table.
My instinct was to say yes, but putting on a front was so exhausting. “Not really, but I’m glad to be spending time with him.”
She raised her glass. “To the moments you can’t get back.”
“And the moments you can.”
Her brow wrinkled, but she didn’t say anything. After a sip of her wine, she picked up her fork.
“Better be good, Nazarov.” It was, if her satisfied moan was anything to go by. I had no problem imagining that moan in other contexts: my hands cupping her tits, my tongue between her thighs, my cock driving deep … “How did you get it so creamy?”
I blinked away the multitude of X-rated images the word “creamy” conjured. I was that twenty-one-year-old kid all over again. “Gruyere. It is the best cheese for this.”
“This is not good for me, is it?”
She could just as easily have been speaking of our situation. “It is good for me. That is all that matters.”
