Page 97 of Owned Bratva Bride
“Sure.”
We were moving our handiwork into the large, preheated oven in another five minutes.
“Twelve minutes start now,” Sofia stated, taking a seat.
I did the same.
“So, are you and Sir Eduard planning to have kids soon? Or not yet? I prefer when couples enjoy each other for a few years before bringing children into the picture,” Sofia rambled.
“Sofia!” I called, laughing. “Are you sure a restaurant is your dream? I think it should be something along the lines of writing romance.”
“Aren’t those things married people talk about?” she defended, grinning.
The sweet scent of the little baked delights filled the kitchen before we brought them out of the oven.
And they tasted like heaven.
“I’ve not had pryanik in years,” Agatha revealed, sipping her warm tea. “Tastes perfect. You both did well.”
“Of course, what did you expect?” Sofia boasted.
“I could teach you something else next time,” Mila offered.
“I’ll hold you to that!” I replied, pleasantly surprised to see the ghost of a smile on her face.
As the four of us enjoyed the cookies and tea around the kitchen island, I thought back to Eduard. And Sofia’s question. I wondered if Eduard and I would ever get to the stage of making such future plans. Or we’d keep swinging this unstable pendulum, too busy going back and forth to look ahead.
***
That night, I brought some of the pryanik to our bedroom. I had hoped to tell Eduard that I made them with Sofia while he was eating them. I wanted to see him smile about my making a Russian delicacy because I was beginning to see myself as a part of the family.
There was also the not-so-tiny bit of uncertainty. I sat on the couch, reading a book as I waited for his arrival. But with each passing moment, I deliberated going to bed to save myself the disappointment of him ignoring me.
The door finally opened some minutes past 10:00.
When he got close enough, his eyes went to the bed before darting over to the couch I occupied.
“Hi,” I greeted softly, looking up from the book like I hadn’t been waiting for him.
“How are you?”
Who on earth asks their wife ‘How are you?’
“I’m okay. How was work?”
“Fine,” he answered, already going into the closet.
No hugs? No smiles?
Calm down, Marielle.
He’s not used to all that.
When he emerged in pajama pants and a white T-shirt, I stood, taking the snacks with me.
“I made them. With Sofia, though. I left these for you,” I expressed, meeting him at the foot of the bed.
He didn’t look at the snacks in my hand. Then his eyes left my face altogether.
