Page 40 of Nothing More

Someone, she decided, needed to explain to him that you couldn’t justsay thingslike that. If you were going to flirt, you had to learn that it was a dance, learn all its steps and pitfalls. It was about being coy, and skirting around what you really meant. It was all very dry and rote. It wasn’t supposed toshockyou.

She could acknowledge she had a very bloodless, corporate idea of flirtation.

Could also acknowledge that the combination of his look, and his voice, and his suggestion had pierced her straight through. She might even be bleeding.He fancies you, a traitorous, juvenile voice chimed in the back of her mind. It sounded far too like Cassandra for her liking.He fancies you, he fancies you, he fancies you, and that’s why he’s cooking for yoooouuuu. And you fancy him back, don’t you? Oh, Mum would hate him, and you couldn’t take him anywhere, and he has no manners, but his fingers are long, and they’d feel so good tangled in your hair, wouldn’t they? He won’t do it the way all those other dandies do; he’ll be rough. He’ll make you feel it.

With an internal scream of alarm, she slammed the door on that awful, girlish, whining,wantingvoice. Took a measured sip of wine. Said, “So you are. I’d say there’s hope for you yet.”

Slowly – oh so slowly, one modicum at a time – his expression smoothed, and a small, crooked smile graced his mouth. It was more of a smirk, really, and didn’t show any teeth. He couldn’t be said to look happy – no, never that – but a gleam came into his dark eyes, and it wasn’t merely a trick of the light. He was pleased, she decided.

One hand still toasting the rice in the pan, he reached with the other to hook the stem of the glass she’d poured him with two fingers. Lifted it to his lips and drank, brows jumping lightly afterward in a movement that showed clear appreciation of the vintage.

Who are you?She wanted to know, wildly, desperately.Who is Anatoly Kobliskareally?

“The next test,” she said, with a lightness she didn’t feel, heart thudding heavy in her chest, “is to see if your cooking’s actually edible. You don’t want to give a poor, unsuspecting dear food poisoning.”

He took another sip, gaze fixed on his work as the rice grains rasped along the bottom of the pan beneath his spoon. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

~*~

She didn’t have a wok, which earned her a raised-brow look of disapproval from his position crouched in front of the cabinet where she stored the pots and pans. He did find a cast iron skillet, though, and pressed the cooked rice down into it with heaps of butter, until the steam required use of the too-loud vent hood, and the rice tipped out crispy on the edges, full of peas, pancetta, carrots, and scrambled eggs.

Raven had finally torn her gaze from that tantalizing strip of toned stomach between his borrowed sweats and shirt so she could raid the crisper and throw together a quick salad of carrots, broccoli, and sugar snap peas tossed in rice vinegar and soy sauce. Bennet wandered in with a declaration of, “Something smells good enough to eat.” Raven called Cass, and then Miles, hunched over his laptop in the guest room like a vulture. When she returned, she found that Toly was setting the food down on the rarely-used dining table, and she went for forks and napkins.

It struck her, when she was seated at the head of the table and the platters were being passed around, that this felt a lot like a family dinner – and not simply because two of her actual family members were in attendance. The table, the sharing of food, having stood in the kitchen and helped prepare it – a little, anyway. Toly seated down at the far end, across from her, like they were bookends, Mother and Father, children ranged between them. Hopelessly domestic. More soothing than she would have ever expected.

She caught his gaze, across the bowls of hydrangea blossoms, and then didn’t want to look away. His hair was dry, now, shiny and soft-looking on his shoulders, falling over one eye where it was razor-cut in the front. Did he cut it himself? It was easy to imagine him in front of the mirror, frowning at his reflection, ruthless with the scissors. Or did he go to the barber shop, sit broodily in the chair and glare at himself while the barber worked to keep him looking like he’d just walked off the set of a nineties grunge video? Did he know what he looked like? That, in the scattered, diamond light of her three chandeliers, sleeves pushed up to show his ink, eyes still smudged with the kohl he’d worn at the office, that he was unspeakably lovely?

She was learning all sorts of things about herself, and what were apparently repressed tastes in men.

“Toly!” Cass exclaimed, breaking the moment, drawing his attention. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

“Men can cook, you know,” Miles put in.

Cass snorted. “Men can. You can’t.” She turned back to Toly, expectant.

He didn’t return her gaze. Shrugged and said, “Here and there.”

Raven didn’t know what it said about her that she felt a pulse of satisfaction, but she did all the same. He’d talked to her – at least a little. And that felt like a victory. As did the way he glanced back at her, briefly, before focusing on his dinner.

The thumping in her chest got a little heavier.

~*~

“Give me a hand, Cass,” Raven said when the meal was over. “We’ll do the dishes.”

Toly stood, and she waved him back down.

“No. Chefs don’t have to wash up, afterward. Mother’s rule.”

Cassandra snorted. “Yourmother never washed a dish in her life.”

“No, but the chef didn’t have to, that’s the point.”

“Toly,” she heard Bennet say, as they toted plates to the kitchen, “you’re not a Bills fan, are ya?”

Raven didn’t want to bet on the odds that Toly watched American football.

Cass scraped the plates and then passed them off for Raven to slot into the dishwasher. Then Raven filled the sink with hot, soapy water and started in on the pans.