Page 14 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

Love.

6

Phoebe

Istand at the front of the community center’s kitchen, twisting the hem of my apron. The eager faces of my first Scottish cooking class students stare back at me with excitement and curiosity. I’ve meticulously arranged workstations with traditional ingredients and left my grandmother’s recipes neatly printed on cards at each station.

“Welcome, everyone,” I say, my voice wavering slightly. “I’m Phoebe MacKenzie, and today we’ll be making rumbledethumps, a traditional Scottish dish.”

I begin to explain the history of the dish just as the door swings open. I blink in astonishment as Mikhail walks in, a warm smile on his face. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt, a far cry from his usual impeccable suits, but he still stands out.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, his deep voice carrying across the room. “I hope there’s still room for one more?”

I blink, momentarily stunned. “Of course,” I manage to say. “There’s an open station in the back.”

As he glances at the empty workstation, I notice the curious glances from the other students. He seems oblivious to the attention as he stares at me. “I wanted to understand your passion better,” he says quietly as he passes me. The simple statement sends tingles through my body.

With Mikhail’s unexpected presence, my nervousness melts away. I launch into the lesson with renewed enthusiasm, explaining the ingredients and their significance in Scottish cuisine. “Rumbledethumps is a hearty dish,” I say, holding up a potato. “It’s comfort food at its finest, made with simple ingredients that were readily available to Scottish farmers and crofters.”

As the class progresses, I move from station to station, offering guidance and sharing anecdotes. “My gran used to say a good rumbledethumps could warm you up faster than a dram of whisky on a cold Highland night,” I tell a group of giggling women.

When I reach Mikhail’s station, I’m charmed by his attempts at cooking. His usual grace and confidence are nowhere to be seen as he awkwardly peels potatoes, his brow creased in concentration.

“Having trouble there, Mr. Sokolov?” I tease, unable to keep the smile from my voice.

He looks up with a rueful grin. “I’m beginning to think I should stick to takeout. How do you make this look so easy?”

I laugh, stepping closer to demonstrate. “Here, like this,” I say, taking the peeler from his hand. Our fingers brush, and I feel ajolt of electricity at the contact. “You want to use long, smooth strokes.”

I guide his hand, showing him the proper technique, and I’m acutely aware of his presence behind me. His chest is barely an inch from my back, and warmth radiates from him.

“Like this?” he asks, his breath tickling my ear.

I swallow hard, trying to focus on the task at hand. “Yes, that’s perfect,” I say, sounding breathless even to my own ears.

I step away, clearing my throat. “Just keep practicing,” I say, forcing a smile. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

I move on to the next station, but Mikhail’s gaze follows me. The intensity makes me burn everywhere. When it comes time to taste the finished dishes, I make my way around the room, sampling each student’s creation. Finally, I reach Mikhail’s station.

He stands back, looking worried when I take a bite. The moment the food touches my tongue, I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. The potatoes are undercooked, the cabbage is overcooked, and there’s far too much pepper.

Mikhail watches me intently, waiting for my verdict. “Well?” he asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

I swallow with difficulty, then force a smile. “It’s... unique,” I say diplomatically.

He narrows his eyes and takes a bite himself. His eyes widen, and he quickly reaches for his water glass. “Bozhe moy,” he mutters, grimacing. “That’s terrible.”

His reaction sends ripples of laughter through the class. To my surprise, he joins in, his deep chuckle resonating through the room. “I think I’ll stick to appreciating your cooking, Phoebe,” he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Clearly, I’m not cut out for this.”

I frown. “You can’t give up after one attempt.”

Despite the culinary disaster, he gamely tries another bite. “The dish may not be to my taste,” he says, addressing the class, “But Phoebe is an excellent teacher. My failure is entirely my own.”

His good-natured response and the way he’s charmed the other students make my affection for him grow even stronger. He easily chats with my other students, and I’m struck by how seamlessly he fits into this part of my life. He no longer stands out so dramatically, but it’s clear this isn’t really his environment either.

“Hey, everyone,” I say, clapping my hands to get their attention. “Let’s clean up, and then we’ll go over some tips for next time.”

As the students begin to tidy their workstations, Mikhail approaches me. “Thank you for letting me join your class,” he says softly. “I enjoyed seeing this side of you.”

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