Page 28 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

We had a pet cat when we were young, a huge orange cat fondly known as Tiny Devil or Tiny for short. Greta is much more cuddly than Tiny was, but I try not to let it go to my head. I’m just a warm body for her to sleep next to when Maxim is doing God knows what.

Maxim, of course, is nowhere to be found. He doesn’t sleep past seven, even when he can.

I open my mouth a few times, dry from the sleep, and displace the cat (she meows in protest but resettles in the warm space I leave) before I drain the rest of the water Maxim left in a cup on his nightstand last night.

There’s chattering of some kind downstairs; sounds like Sasha being noisy, and a woman’s voice that I don’t recognize. I take as quick a shower as I can manage before getting ready. I’ll train tonight.

It’s a cold morning; I can tell because the apartment is extra cozy. I pull down a thick knit sweater of Maxim’s that hangs like a dress halfway down my thighs.

I could buy my own oversized clothes, or have my sister do it for me, but conveniently I share a closet with a massive man who wears suits most days and likely won’t miss a black cable knit for a day.

When I get downstairs, Maxim is leaning on the tall bar counter, listening to Sasha who is talking with his mouth full of what looks like soup.

The kitchen smells delicious, savory aromatics bubbling from a big pot on the stove, and from the pantry bustles out the source of the female voice I heard in the form of a woman.

I’ve never seen her before; she’s got soft blonde hair (the kind that doesn’t require anti-frizz cream) pulled back and a light pink apron.

She’s smiling at the story Sasha is prattling on about but jumps when she sees me standing like a ghost at the base of the stairs.

“Oh!” she says, and Maxim and Sasha both turn to look at me. I clear my throat and pad the rest of the way into the kitchen, stopping next to Maxim, who gives me his usual morning appraisal, his gaze making my neck heat.

“You must be Mary,” the girl says. Well, woman.

She looks around Vanessa’s age, and a good four or five inches taller than me.

She holds out a hand and I offer mine, letting her shake it in hers.

She gives me a smile that’s way too warm and kind for this early in the morning, but I try to reciprocate in my way. “I’m Elise.”

Ah, the chef.

“Right,” I say. “Nice to meet you. The food you make is really good.”

Elise’s smile grows bigger, and her front two teeth have a slight gap that makes her impossibly sweeter to look at. Her voice is light and oh-so cheerful.

“How’d you sleep?” Maxim asks, in a voice low enough that only I can make it out.

“Good, yeah,” I say.

“Mary, you gotta try this. Zuppa toscana,” Sasha says, absolutely butchering the pronunciation, and I’m sure my shock shows on my face.

“I’d love to.” I take a seat on the stool in between where Sasha sits and Maxim stands. The tall chairs make me feel less like the shortest being in the room, but not by much.

Elise ladles a few scoops of soup into a bowl for me, grating some parm over top before placing it in front of me with a genuine smile.

I swear, the girl kind of looks like a Disney princess.

Like she might start singing beautiful melodies that call forth vermin and woodland creatures to do her bidding.

Maxim’s fingers on my wrist pull my attention from the chef, and I look down to see him deftly cuffing the sleeves of the sweater I stole so that it doesn’t hang so low over my hand.

I offer my arm for him to do the other as well, and as soon as he’s done, he’s back to listening to Sasha like nothing happened at all.

The soup is delicious, absurdly so, and I listen as Sasha tells a story about people I’ve never met, Elise cutting in with questions or charming laughter every few minutes while she chops various vegetables on the island.

“Are you an Orlov, Elise?” I ask. It’s clear that she and Sasha work in the same social circles. Elise flushes, like the question embarrasses her, and her eyes flash to Maxim.

“No, I just grew up in the same building as this one,” she points the tip of her knife in Sasha’s direction. “We went to school together.”

“Do you know my sister? Willa?”

Sasha, Willa, and Sean all graduated high school together, at which time Maxim would have been finishing college, and I was, well, ten.

“Sure do,” she says. “Haven’t seen her in years though. How is she?”

“As sickly in love as she was then,” Sasha says. “Now she’s got three kids, though. Hot shot lawyer.”

“Hot shot,” I repeat with a laugh. “You are so right about that. Are you married?”

Elise looks down at her chopping board where she deftly slices an onion.

“No, much to my mother’s agony,” she says. “Max was nice enough to help me find work after I finished culinary school.”

Max?

I turn to my husband who’s already looking at me, watching me eat like he does. Freak. He smiles before looking back down at his phone.

Now, if they’re so friendly, does Elise know this is a sham marriage? Two people who barely know each other thrown together to make a baby and play house?

Does he confide in her?

The thought is unfathomably uncomfortable to me, the image of him making friendly conversation while she cooks meals for him twice a week for who knows how many years? And now for me too?

I’m suddenly not hungry, but I drain the last of the broth and stand from the stool. Maxim abandons whatever email he was sending and looks at me expectantly.

“I told Angel and Artie I would take them out today. Time away from the baby,” I say by way of explanation.

“I’ll come with you,” Maxim says, once again brazenly including himself in my plans without invitation. It’s bold, I’ll give him that. “I’ll drive.”

I’m about to tell him he doesn’t have to, but Elise is watching the interaction, and if I tell him to stay, he’ll just be here with her and Sasha, being friendly and chattering on in the kitchen while she cooks.

“Okay,” I say instead, and find a coat and boots.

It’s rare that we get to drive alone together, but with Samuel having the day off to attend an event for his son, and Sasha off to take care of business at one of the clubs, it’s just us. Maxim drives and I pick at my cuticles.

“Elise is very nice,” I say before I can stop myself. I keep thinking of her gentle hands and straight hair. She’s like Rapunzel, I think. Or Cinderella.

I, on the other hand, am often more goblin than girl.

“Why didn’t you marry her?”

“Marry Elise?”

“Yeah. She’s. . .” I trail off, not sure how to finish and simultaneously hoping he will fill in the blank with something other than perfect .

He is no help, waiting quietly for me to go on, and when I sigh, I swear he’s smirking.

“Well she’s beautiful, good at cooking, and single. Plus, I think she likes you. Max .”

I wasn’t wrong, he really is smiling, mirth dancing in his eyes, and it kind of makes me want to die , so I scoff and look out the passenger window.

“Forget it.”

We’re pulling up to Willa’s house anyway, and I’m about to flee from the car when Maxim locks the doors and grabs my forearm. I stop but don’t look at him. I’m being childish, but it was a fine, reasonable question and he laughed at me.

“Are you jealous of Elise?” Maxim asks.

I sputter and offer my most indignant stare. “Should I be?”

Maxim leans across the center console and there’s nowhere for me to escape when one of his huge hands slides over the side of my neck and jaw, keeping my face pointed toward his.

“Elise is very nice and very pretty, is that what you want to hear?” he asks.

“I’m just saying, if you knew her for so long why didn’t you marry her? She’d have a baby with you, I’m sure of it.”

“She didn’t ask.”

Before I can think through what I’m saying, I demand, “So you would have if she did?”

Very chill. Very not jealous sounding.

Maxim laughs again, the fucker is laughing at me, and it makes me want to hit him or maybe break one of his toes.

“I didn’t marry Elise because I never considered her. I don’t think we’re compatible, even if I had. She’s too. . .” Maxim’s fingers trail through the hair around my ear, “blonde.”

His eyes flicker to my mouth, and mine to his, not because I want to kiss him again, but because his face is close to mine and really the only other place to look is his eyes, which make me uncomfortable with their intensity.

“Are you done worrying about the chef?” he asks, voice low. He’s brought his mouth even closer to mine.

I’m about to close the distance, not because I want to kiss him, just to remind him that even if he had considered the chef, we have a deal, but a string of three knocks on the passenger window startles us away from each other.

Maxim curses something in Russian and I try to calm my heart rate as I see Angel and Artie standing outside the car, giggling in their coats. Behind them, Willa stands in the doorway, holding the baby, eyebrows raised at us.

Maxim unlocks the car doors with a click and I wave at them to get in, only slightly mortified about the whole thing.

If they were younger they’d be singing about us sitting in a tree, but since they’re almost fourteen, they just snicker while they settle into the car.

“Were you kissing?” Artie asks, because he likes to be a shit sometimes.

“Oh my gosh this car is fancy,” Angel says.

“I know right?” I say, and point at her brother. “And no, we weren’t kissing, I was checking his teeth for spinach. Now put your seatbelt on.”

“You said you’re our new uncle so do we get to call you Uncle Maxim now?” Angel asks. “I didn’t think we’d get another uncle.”

“What do you call Nate?” I ask.

“Well we used to call him Mr. G., but now we call him Nate,” Artie says.

“Then you can call him Maxim.” I shrug. “Or Uncle Maxim if you really wanted.”

“There’s a seat warmer back here,” Artie whispers to Angel and they both gasp, clicking buttons much the same way I did when I first sat in the Orlov town car. “Auntie, are you richer now?”

I turn around to tell them not to be rude, but Angel speaks first. “Of course she’s richer. Maxim is a CEO.”

“Nessa is a CEO,” I remind them.

“Yes, but she isn’t in the tablets,” Artie objects.

“The tabloids ,” Angel corrects.

“She was in The Post last year,” I point out. “We had a party about it.”

“But Maxim is richer,” Artie says definitively. “Dad says hotels are lucrative.”

“Very lucrative,” Maxim muses.

“Okay fine, yes!” I say, exasperated, but I grin, part of me thrilled by their banter. I haven’t seen them as often since the wedding, and I’ve missed them. “I’m rich now, maybe the richest person in the world.”

“ That is not true,” Angel says, and we all laugh. When I look back at Maxim, he’s smiling, too.

“Since you’re so rich now, can I get two books today?” Angel asks.

“And chocolate croissants?” Artie adds. My two favorite little shits.

“Bleeding us dry,” Maxim sighs, and my eyes light up like they do any time he makes a joke.

“We’ll see.” I turn and give them an exaggerated wink that I know looks stupid because they both giggle.

I don’t think of the chef again.