DAHLIA WESTBROOKE
"What did you think of dinner with my family?" Viktor asked out of the blue, his attempt at cutting through the comfortable silence that had fallen between us while he worked on the food.
"They were fine."
He took his attention off the stove for a second, arching a brow at me. "Just fine? Give me something to work with, sweetheart."
My ears burned, still unused to his casual use of the endearment. For some reason, things like that came really easy to him, while I still internally battled if I was going to be addressing him by his name now that I knew it, or if I'd be sticking to Tarasov to keep that little bit of distance between. Not that it'd matter to him, I was sure. Like I said, it was all in my head.
"Your aunt was really nice," I finally answered. "She said she loved my dress."
"I did tell you it was beautiful."
"Yeah, yeah." I rolled my eyes at the smug look he threw my way, mildly pleased. "Aleksei was nice, too, but the other guy–" Mikhail, I think? "–he doesn't seem to like me very much."
Viktor swore under his breath, a flash of annoyance shining in his eyes. "Pay him no mind. Misha is–"
I cut him off with a shake of my head. "You don't have to explain it to me. I didn't expect everyone to be welcoming all at once." I shrugged. "It's not like he knows me that well. It's okay to be wary."
Viktor wasn't appeased. In fact, he looked even more displeased. "He'll come around. You're family, and you aren't going anywhere. He's just dealing with some... issues at the moment, but that doesn't mean he gets to take them out on you. I'll have a word with him."
"Viktor, it's fine. Really." I held his gaze, so he could see how sincere I was. "And thank you for inviting me for dinner," I added, softly.
The skin around his eyes softened, and the tension in his shoulders slowly eased. "I like when you say my name," he muttered, shaking his head at himself. "A little too much, I think."
"I knew I shouldn't have said it," I teased, drawing another throaty laughter out of him.
"Come here for a sec."
I hopped off the stool without thinking, like my brain had forgotten to be wary of this man. I closed the distance between us in a few steps, coming to stand next to him as he scooped some sauce onto a spoon, blowing on it before he held it to my lips.
"I think it needs a little more salt," He stated. "What do you think?"
I let him slip the spoon between my lips, the warm liquid coating my tongue in the process. "Yeah, I think it does need a little more salt."
"I knew something was off." He sprinkled some salt into pan, stirring it before he offered me another taste. "Good now?"
"Yes. It's like a perfect balance of sweet, savory and sour at the same time." And somehow, none of the flavors were clashing, that was how well he'd perfected the sauce.
He chuckled. "Okay, Gordon Ramsey."
My mouth hung open, ready to ask him how he knew Gordon Ramsey, but I promptly swallowed my words when his long fingers cupped the side of my face, his thumb swiping at the corner of my lips. With his eyes locked on mine, he sucked his thumb into his mouth, the mundane action somehow transcending into something equally heated and seductive.
The air between us thrummed like a live wire, and I mindlessly inched toward him, my eyes flicking from his eyes to his plush lips. I briefly wondered if they were as soft as they looked. Would they be pliant and welcoming if I pressed mine against them, or would they fight back, angry and searching for dominance? Would he taste as good as he smelled?
My mind buzzed and my breath picked up as the errant thoughts ran through my head, corroding my common sense and self-preservation. At the last moment, just before I caved in and actually sought an answer to all of my unasked questions, I cleared my throat, breaking away from the spell of his stormy, blue eyes.
Being next to him was dangerous, and I hoped he didn't realize it was a power he wielded so easily any time soon. It was too early to give him ammunition against me and my tethering willpower.
"Sweet indeed," he said into the quiet, a firm smugness teasing at the corners of his lips. "Thanks for providing your expertise." He softly nudged me toward my seat. "But I'm afraid it's no longer needed."
"Ungrateful!" I shot back, swatting at his arm just before I pulled away, going back to reclaim my seat.
I spent the last few minutes of him putting the finishing touches to dinner—or breakfast, really—watching him work with a tiny frown etched between his eyebrows. He was the perfect picture of concentration, but at this rate, he was going to need Botox very soon for his wrinkles.
I told him as much when he placed a steaming plate of pasta in front of me, and he burst into laughter. "You worried about me, sweetheart?"
"If you mean I'm worried you'll get ugly, then yes. I like pretty things, remember?"
Another deep chuckle that tucked itself under my skin. "Ah, yes. I apologize. I'll stop. Can't let go of myself around you. We can't have another man swooping in to steal you from me."
I giggled. "You're melodramatic, but yes. I'm as vain as they come."
He pulled back a stool next to me, lowering himself onto the cushioned surface. "I don't think so. You wouldn't be able to look me in the eye otherwise."
The comment was made casually with no underlying hurt beneath his words, just in a matter-of-fact way that tugged at my heartstrings when I realized he was talking about the scar on his face.
"Well, normal is boring these days. You need an extra flair to stick out when everyone's just looking so similar, you know?"
He propped his chin on his palm, his irises glowing with mirth. "And pray tell, would my scar be this extra flair you're talking about?"
I ticked a shoulder up. "It might be unconventional, but it works."
He half-smiled, shaking his head at me. "Eat your food before it gets cold, Dahlia."
I picked up the fork on the side of the plate, staring down at the contents of the plate---a sizeable portion of pasta, some pan-seared chicken breasts, and a heap of sautéed vegetables on the side. Everything looked and smelled really good, causing my stomach to rumble with excitement. "Thank you. I didn't think you'd know your way around a kitchen."
"Why, because I'm a 'brute'? I'm hurt you'd buy into these harmful stereotypes, Dahlia."
I snorted, choosing to ignore his very obvious teasing, opting for taking a bite of my food instead.
"And as for why I know my way around a kitchen, my father used to watch all these cooking shows when I was younger, and he'd recreate all of these asinine recipes that didn't always turn out as good as he wanted. He claimed the way to a woman's heart was through her stomach." There was a soft fondness in his distant gaze as he recalled the memories. "I was a kid, and I didn't have a lot of friends, so of course, I stuck to my father like glue when he watched all of his shows. We barely watched any other thing aside my mother's occasional reality TV shows."
"So, that's how you know Gordon Ramsey."
A boyish grin took over his lips, transforming the hardened planes of his face. He didn't look like that initially scary man I'd met at the hospital. Instead, he reminded me of a little boy fawning over his latest toy. It was adorable.
"I used to idolize him, much to the chagrin of my mother. I was convinced I was going to be this world-renowned chef, and when my parents weren't around, I'd experiment in the kitchen myself. Almost burned down the kitchen one time, and my mother blew a gasket."
I joined in his laughter, something about this huge man recalling his childhood dreams of becoming a chef equal parts charming and amusing. I wouldn't have guessed that in a hundred years. "And your father?"
"He was chill, but he had to be fake mad at me for the sake of my mother. She ran things in the house, and he was scared of her. We were in the south of France then, and my father had taken me on a tour in his friend's winery as compensation later. She was none the wiser."
"You said you were in the south of France then," I noted. "Did you guys move a lot?"
"Oh, definitely. My parents were convinced they were nomads in their past lives." He rolled his eyes. "They never stuck to one place for longer than three months. Six months max. That's how I have my dual citizenship. My mom's water broke in a mall in LA while she was shopping for travel outfits. Apparently, they had plans to birth me in Tuscany, where my grandmother had given birth to my mother."
"They sound like fun people." I laughed. "Very spontaneous, too."
"In concept, yes, they're fun, laid-back people. In reality, not so much," he said with a wry smile.
My smile slowly withered. "Oh. What was it like for you growing up? Having to move around so much must have been exhausting."
He put on a smile I could tell was forced, shrugging his shoulders casually. "I got used to it. It was hard at first, but overtime, I learned not to get attached. Everything was always temporary."
Without thinking, I reached for his hand across the counter, squeezing lightly. "You don't have to pretend with me, Viktor. My mother and I only moved once, and it was hard. I can't imagine having to do it over and over again without even being able to put roots down the last time. Kids need structure, and while your parents might've been objectively good people, it's okay to be a little mad at them for not letting you have that."
Viktor's eyes bored into mine with a fierce intensity that made my insides jittery, but I held his gaze nonetheless.
He looked like he was about to speak, a flurry of conflicting emotions darting across his midnight eyes like shooting stars, but he shook his head at the last minute, a tiny smile that didn't reach his eyes playing on his lips. "It's fine. Compared to my cousin, I wouldn't say I had a fucked-up childhood."
I drew in a tight breath, pressing my lips into a thin line before I nodded. Of course, he didn't want to unpack his childhood trauma or family drama in front of me right now. It was understandable. We were still strangers getting to know each other, even though he had it in his head that I was his soulmate and whatnot.
"Dahlia," he called out gently to draw back my attention after I'd broken eye contact with him. "It's fine, really. I'm not losing sleep over it."
"Okay."
The tightness in his jaw abated, but a mask had fallen over his eyes like a shield, letting me know prodding was off the table for the rest of the night. "So, how's the food?" He drew his plate nearer to himself, finally taking his first bite. "I did good?"
"Compliment fishing? I thought you were better than that, Tarasov."
He shook his head once. "Never. So? What's the verdict? C'mon, I'm on the edge of my seat here."
I rolled my eyes so far back into my skull I probably saw some brain matter, before muttering under my breath, "Yes, you did good."
"I didn't hear you. Louder, please."
"I said, you did good, Viktor," I hissed through gritted teeth. "Happy now?"
"Only if you say my name again." His eyes twinkled, a mix of glee and anticipation.
I pretended to think about, heightening his burning anticipation before I shook my head, causing him to groan loudly. "We'll see if I'm feeling generous in the morning."
"You're killing me, woman." His eyes shone with unbridled longing and desire, sending that same rush of power from earlier through my veins. It was addictive, and it filled my mouth with a sweetness that had nothing to do with his delicious sauce.
I smiled sweetly at him. Good. My mother did say it was good to keep men on their toes.