The Bucket List

12.2 The Cookbook

Nicholai carves an impressive path of destruction through the kitchen. Spice canisters and measuring cups cover every surface, along with a variety of plates, bowls, and a ridiculously large saucepan simmering on the stove.

"Where did you get all this stuff?" I wonder, peering into a nearby bowl.

Nicholai waves the spoon in his hand. "Chester."

Chester. Of course. Head of security and errand boy extraordinaire.

I start to stand. "Let me start washing some of this—"

Nicholai jabs the spoon in my direction. "Sit."

"But—"

"Sit."

I sigh and fall back into my seat. "Fine." I drum my fingers against the counter. "Are you going to tell me what you're making over there?"

His eyes are still locked on the saucepan. Flour dusts his black t-shirt and the tip of his nose. "Here." He grabs the cookbook and deposits it in front of me. "Page 263."

I flip through the book, entranced. My stomach rumbles at the colorful array of dishes. Until, finally—

"Cheese ravioli!" I exclaim, hugging the book to my chest with a groan. "God. I'm so hungry."

Nicholai is trying not to smile. "It's almost done."

"You made the pasta from scratch?" I ask, impressed.

"Felice walked me through the process once. I was bored. And she was impatient," he says, smiling at the memory.

I'm bouncing with impatience by the time Nicholai shuts off the stove and grabs a pair of paper plates. Chester isn't infallible, after all. "This was my brother's favorite," he says quietly, sliding a serving of ravioli across the counter. "He insisted on eating it at least once a week."

I hesitate. Family seems to be a touchy subject for him. "Was your brother terribly out of shape, by chance?"

He laughs, startled. "No," he says, a devilish grin on his face as he slides into the seat next to mine. "He made sure of it. He loved to run almost as much as he loved pasta."

"A Russian heir with a penchant for Italian food and self-inflicted torture," I mutter, spearing a ravioli with my fork. "That's a lot to unpack."

"You don't have any siblings?" Nicholai asks. He's certainly mastered the art of deflection.

I shrug, sampling the ravioli with ample caution. The pasta is a bit doughy, but it's better than anything I've been able to make. "No. I'm an only child."

"Yikes." Nicholai gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "That explains a lot."

I flash my middle finger. He ducks his head, grinning.

Neither of us broach the sibling subject again. I practically inhale my food, and don't hesitate to go back for seconds. Nicholai tries to hide it, but I can tell he's pleased I didn't toss it straight down the garbage disposal.

"I didn't realize you could cook," I admit, drying the last of the dishes once we've both finished. I glance over my shoulder. Nicholai stands at the fridge, carefully tucking away the leftovers.

Setting aside the sauce pan, I hoist myself onto the counter and dangle my feet in the air, eyes half-lidded with the sleepy sort of contentment that only a warm meal can provide. Nicholai closes the fridge, thoughtful. We watch one another in silence.

"Yes. Well. My mother liked to cook." The words are unexpected. He pushes away from the fridge, closing the distance between us. "I don't remember much about her. But I remember that."

"Oh."

He pauses in front of me, eyes somewhat guarded. "I take it you like my cooking?"

I nod. I don't trust myself to speak and not make a complete fool of myself.

He takes another step forward. Close enough to touch. "I should cook for you more often, then."

I nod again, swallowing down my nerves. Speak, you moron. "If you have time in that busy schedule of yours," I say, trying to keep the tone light. Conversational.

"For you?" He steps between my legs. "I will make time."

I open my mouth to say something clever, only to realize I have nothing clever to say. I'm blushing, flustered by his nearness, like a schoolgirl on her first date with her crush. I should look away. I should laugh or shrug or bolt for the elevator doors. But rather predictably, my body betrays me. I find myself leaning forward, lips parting. To say...I'm not sure. That I want this. Whatever this is.

His hands slip around my waist. I lean into his touch, circling my legs around his hips as his lips find mine, and all the little doubts in my head dissipate, like they were never there at all.

The kiss is gentle, despite our frantic breath. Hesitant. He pulls back, waiting for me to say no. I twine my fingers through his hair and pull him against me.

Yes. My answer is yes.

"Amara," he murmurs against my lips. I recapture his mouth, not wanting to miss a second of this, not wanting to miss a second of him.

He moans in approval against my mouth, hands slipping beneath my oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt. I gasp when his fingers brush the swell of my breasts, the bite of his rings welcome against my overheated skin.

His hips flex against mine. I can feel every considerable inch of him through his sweatpants. No wonder he's such a smug bastard.

"Please," I pant, and I hate that weakness, but it can't be helped. He brushes his thumb over the hard peak of my breasts, eliciting another plea from my lips.

He plants a series of kisses along the column of my throat, moving his hips against mine in a steady, maddening rhythm, brushing against the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs. And goddamn it all, but at that moment, I don't care about the contract, or the shiny new car, or the world of pain I'll be in if this frantic, heated thing between us doesn't work out. Because I want this. I want him.

And I want him now.

I'm slipping my fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants when the soft chime of the elevator brings our fevered collision to a sudden, breathless halt.

"Mr. Ivanov?" Patrick calls, uncertain.

Nicholai pants against my throat, hands tightening around my middle. "I might have to kill that man," he mutters darkly.

I choke on a laugh. "Um. Nicholai—"

He leans back. "Will you stay?"

I slide off the counter, still somewhat breathless. Now that the heat of the moment has passed, the little voice of reason—the one I usually ignore—is starting to make itself known in the worst possible way.

"I...I don't think that's a good idea," I force out. I retreat to the center of the kitchen, putting some distance between us. His hands fall away, stealing the warmth from my skin.

"Will you stay?" Nicholai repeats, eyes dark with need. He stretches out a hand, waiting for my answer. Waiting for me to say yes.

I drag my fingers through damp hair. I want to say yes. I want so badly to say yes, to step back into the circle of his arms, to pick up right where we left off on that kitchen counter.

But I know that's a mistake. Because this deal of ours isn't just about some shiny new car. I have debts to pay. And screwing my boss...well. That's a surefire way to screw up a lot of other things in my life.

I shake my head. Frustrated tears sting the back of my eyes. "I can't."

"You won't," Nicholai corrects softly. His hand drops. He won't force me to stay. That much is clear.

I turn my face just as Patrick rounds the corner. "Ah, sir. There you are."

"Here I am," Nicholai intones lifelessly.

I gather my things in silence, distantly aware of the conversation in the kitchen. Clutching my dress in one hand and my heels in the other, I finally make my escape, cursing myself for a fool.