Page 11 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

“It’s a Krug Grande Cuvée. One of my favorites.”

She nods, clearly impressed. “It’s amazing. Thank you for this, Mikhail. I have to admit, I was a little nervous about tonight.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

She blushes slightly, and the color is enchanting against her freckled skin. “You’re... you. Successful, charming, clearly very wealthy, and I’m just a barista with big dreams.”

I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine. “Phoebe, you’re far more than ‘just’ anything. Your passion and kindness are rare qualities in this world. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Her fingers tighten around mine, and the connection between us feels electric. “Thank you,” she says softly.

I reluctantly release her hand to serve our first course. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of arranging a menu thatblends Russian and Scottish cuisines. I thought it might be fun to explore our heritage together.”

Her smile seems genuine. “That sounds wonderful. I’m always eager to try new foods.”

We begin our meal, and the conversation flows easily. She grins while she tells me about her latest adventures in Scottish cooking. “I’ve been experimenting with a modern take on Cullen skink. It’s traditionally a smoked haddock soup, but I’m trying to create a deconstructed version.”

I’m actually fascinate, but I’d probably feel the same hearing her talk about anything. “That sounds intriguing. How are you approaching it?”

“I’m thinking of doing a smoked haddock mousse, paired with crispy potato chips and a leek foam. Maybe some puffed wild rice for texture.” She pauses, a self-conscious laugh escaping her. “Sorry, I’m probably boring you with all this food talk.”

“Not at all,” I say. “Your passion is captivating. I’d love to try this dish when you perfect it.”

Phoebe beams at me, and the warmth flooding me has nothing to do with the excellent vodka we’re drinking. “I’d like that,” she says softly.

As we move through the courses, I’m increasingly drawn to Phoebe. She asks thoughtful questions about the Russian dishes, eager to learn about my culture.

“These blini are delicious,” she says, savoring another bite. “The caviar adds such a wonderful brininess. Do you make these often?”

I chuckle. “I’m afraid my culinary skills are limited. These are the work of my chef, but they were a staple at family gatherings when I was growing up.”

“Oh, you grew up in Russia?”

I nod, a pang of nostalgia hitting me unexpectedly. “Yes, in Saint Petersburg. It’s a beautiful city, full of history and culture.”

“I’d love to visit someday,” she says wistfully. “I’ve always been fascinated by Russian architecture, especially the onion domes on the cathedrals.”

“Perhaps I could take you there sometime,” I say, surprising even myself with the offer.

Her eyes widen but she doesn’t shy away. “Really? That would be amazing.”

As the evening progresses, we move from the dinner table to the comfortable seating area on the deck. The Miami skyline glitters in the distance, a stunning backdrop to our conversation.

Phoebe settles into the plush cushions, tucking her legs beneath her. The movement causes her dress to ride up slightly, revealing more of her creamy thigh. I force myself to look at her face, not wanting to be caught staring.

“So, Mikhail,” she says, her tone playful. “Tell me something about yourself that would surprise me.”

I consider for a moment, swirling the vodka in my glass. There’s so much I can’t tell her—about my true identity, my business, and the danger that surrounds me, but I want to share something real.

“I have a secret passion for ballet. I used to sneak out to watch performances at the theater when I was younger.” I sigh. “My father didn’t like or approve of ballet, which was an anomaly among Russians.”

Phoebe’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a ballet enthusiast.”

I shrug. “There’s something mesmerizing about the grace and strength of the dancers. The way they can tell a story without words is powerful.”

“That’s beautiful,” she says softly. “I’d love to see a Russian ballet someday.”

“Perhaps we can make that part of our Saint Petersburg trip,” I say, only half-joking.

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