Page 59 of Devious Truth

“I was hoping to avoid committing murder this early in the morning, but if the delivery guy looks at you even for a second too long, I’ll have to cut out his eyes. And if he so much as brushes his hand against you, I’ll have to kill him. So, for his sake, just stay there.”

I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. Considering the threat he made that Russian guy at the club, I have a suspicion there’s at least some truth to it. Or he’s just trying to make me comply with his orders.

“Wait. Delivery man?”

Ivan opens the door as I move behind the table. There’s a short conversation, then Ivan leans back, finding me hidden enough in the kitchen to allow the delivery to be brought in.

“Just put it here.” He steps back, holding the door open, still trying to block me from view.

Bags and bags of groceries are brought into the apartment. The delivery guy, a young man barely twenty, I suspect, doesn’t even look in my direction. I wonder if Ivan told him to keep his eyes down before he let him inside the apartment.

Ivan hands him several folded-up bills before he leaves, then shuts and locks the door.

“What is all this?” I drop the shampoo and towel to the counter and inspect the bags. “You bought groceries?”

“Your fridge is basically empty and if you’re going to insist on staying here, you’ll need food.” He carries half the order in two hands to the kitchen, hoisting the bags onto the counter. “Go take your shower. Breakfast will be ready when you’re done.”

“Breakfast?” I peek into one of the bags. “I’m fine with toast.”

He stops unpacking the bags to glower at me. “Get in the shower.”

“Are you always extra bossy in the mornings or is it just this one?” I snag my shower supplies again.

“I’m as bossy as you need me to be.” He slaps my ass, propelling me toward the bathroom.

I shower quickly, then realize I left my clothes in the bedroom. Wrapping the towel around my body, I tuck in the corner before opening the bathroom door to search for Ivan’s location.

The scent of smoky bacon fills my nostrils. Peeking my head out, I find him standing at the stove stirring something in a pan—probably scrambled eggs. The toaster beeps just as two slices of bread pop up.

“It’s almost ready.” Ivan half turns his head to flash me a sly grin.

There’s a playfulness to him this morning that makes him even hotter.

“I just need to get dressed.”

“Don’t bother on my account. Less work for me later.” He winks then snags the toast and drops them on a plate.

I hurry to the bedroom and dig out a pair of leggings and another T-shirt. Cursing myself, I realize I never got around to washing my clothes yesterday. Looks like I’m going without panties again.

“Coffee?” Ivan asks when I pad back out.

“Of course.” I slide up to him as he pours a cup for me. His is already half drunk. “You drink it black?”

I make a face.

“It’s good coffee; you don’t need to put anything else in it,” he argues with a soft smile as he watches me pour creamer with a heavy hand, then dump a tablespoon of sugar into the cup.

He’s completely appalled as I take a sip of the coffee, and it almost makes me spit it out.

“Don’t judge me.” I look over at the plates he’s filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. “That looks amazing. I’m surprised you cook.”

“Why does that surprise you?”

I scoop up a forkful of eggs. “Don’t you have a chef and a full staff of people that cater to whatever you want?”

“I do here, yes.” He takes the plate from me and carries both to the tiny kitchen table. “But when we were younger, we spent a lot of summers in Russia with our grandparents. My grandmother loved cooking, so she wouldn’t allow my grandfather to hire anyone to work in the kitchen. When we visited as children, she taught us.”

The thought of Ivan as a boy, perched on a stool beside his grandmother, learning to cook, makes me smile. It’s overshadowed by the hope I’d had once of having the same experience with my own children. My appetite wanes.

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