Page 24 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

Yet, even as I bask in the comfort of Mikhail’s presence, a small part of me can’t ignore that there’s more going on than he’s letting on. The cut on his hand, his distracted demeanor, and the vague answers about his work... It all adds up to something, but what?

I try not think about it, focusing instead on the man in front of me and the delicious meal we’re about to share. Whatever’s going on with Mikhail, I trust he’ll tell me when he’s ready. For now, I’ll savor this moment of domestic bliss, hoping it’s just the first of many to come.

A few days later,the rich aroma of smoked haddock fills the kitchen as I stir the simmering pot of Cullen skink. My students huddle around their workstations, chopping leeks and potatoes with varying degrees of skill. I scan the room, gaze landing on Mikhail. He’s bent over his cutting board, brow gathered in concentration as he dices an onion with surprising precision.

“Remember to keep your fingers tucked under,” I call out, demonstrating the proper technique. “We want tasty soup, not finger soup.”

A few chuckles ripple through the class. Mikhail looks up, flashing me a grin that makes my heart skip. He’s come a long way from his initial disgust at rumbledethumps.

I move between the stations, offering guidance and encouragement. When I reach Mikhail, I pause, admiring his neat pile of vegetables.

“Not bad for a beginner,” I say, nudging his shoulder playfully.

He raises an eyebrow. “I had an excellent teacher. Plus, I may have practiced a bit at home after lunch the other day.”

The image of Mikhail in his penthouse kitchen, painstakingly chopping vegetables, brings a smile to my face. “Is that so? I thought you were just naturally talented.”

“Oh, I am,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief, “But even natural talent benefits from a bit of... polishing.”

Our gazes lock, and for a second, the busy kitchen fades away. Then a student calls out a question, breaking the spell.

“Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “Let’s get those vegetables into the pot, shall we?”

As the class progresses, Mikhail is fully engaged in every step. He listens intently, asks thoughtful questions, and even helps a fellow student struggling with her roux. It’s a far cry from his initial skepticism about Scottish cuisine.

Finally, it’s time to taste our creations. We ladle the steaming soup into bowls, the creamy broth dotted with tender chunks of fish and vegetables. The anticipation in the room is palpable as everyone takes their first spoonful.

Mikhail’s eyes widen as he tastes his soup. “This is incredible,” he says, genuine surprise coloring his voice. “It’s not as good as the one you made me for lunch the other day, but it’s delicious.”

Pride swells in my chest even as some of my other students titter and look intrigued at his casual mention that I made him lunch.

He takes another spoonful, savoring it. “You’ve opened my eyes to a whole new world of flavors, Phoebe.”

As the class wraps up, he helps me clean the kitchen. We work in companionable silence, our hands brushing occasionally as we pass dishes back and forth. Each touch wakes my nerve endings, and I seek out these small moments of contact.

As he dries a pot, he says, “I think I might be developing a taste for Scottish food.”

I laugh, handing him another dish. “Does this mean I can finally introduce you to traditional haggis without fear of revolt?”

He mock-shudders. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Baby steps, remember?”

Our laughter mingles in the now-quiet kitchen. As Mikhail meticulously wipes down the counters, warmth fills me. It’s more than just attraction or the thrill of a new relationship. It’sthe joy of sharing something I love with someone who genuinely wants to understand and appreciate it. “Thank you,” I say softly.

Mikhail looks up, a question in his eyes. “For what?”

“For this.” I gesture around the kitchen. “For making an effort to learn about something that’s important to me. It means a lot.”

He sets down the cleaning cloth and moves closer, placing his hand on my waist. “Anything that matters to you matters to me. I want to know every part of you, including your Scottish heritage.”

The sincerity in his voice makes me inhale sharply. I lean into him, savoring the warmth of his body against mine. “Even the parts that involve sheep organs in intestine casings?”

He chuckles. “Even those parts. Though I might need a bit more convincing on that front.”

I tilt up my head, meeting his gaze. “I’m sure I can come up with some persuasive arguments.”

His eyes darken, and he leans down, lips hovering just above mine. “I look forward to hearing them.”

As our lips meet in a slow, deep kiss, I melt into him. The lingering scent of smoked haddock and herbs surrounds us, a reminder that we’re in a public space. When we finally part, both slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against mine.

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