Page 28 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

Molly looks like she doesn’t know whether to be frightened or flattered. Her face is getting some color back, and maybe it’s the nervous flush in her cheeks or the way she’s chewing on her full lower lip, but I don’t want to scare her again. So, I start pulling out the necessary equipment to make the coffee.

“Damn,” she says softly. “Even if I’d wanted to make coffee, I couldn’t have. It looks like you’re building a rocket ship.”

“It’s just a grinder, an electric kettle, and a Chemex.”

“At the diner, we have a coffee pot.” She keeps her distance as I grind the beans, heat up the water, and pour it slowly over the grounds. Making coffee is one of the few things I find pleasure in doing myself. I’ve never liked to cook and nobody likes to clean, but making coffee is calming.

“Are you hungry?”

“If I say I am, are you going to ask me to cook?” she asks.

I shrug. “That depends. Can you cook?”

“Let’s just say I take food to customers, but I don’t make it,” she says. “If you make me cook, you’re likely to end up poisoned.”

I pour the coffee into two mugs and hand her one. “Would that be a purposeful or accidental poisoning?”

Molly takes the mug from me, careful not to let her fingers touch mine in any way. When she takes a sip, she scrunches her nose, either because it’s hot or she doesn’t like it, and looks at me over the top of the rim of the cup. Her eyes are wide and serious. “Do you want to let me cook and find out?”

Despite the underlying threat, I can’t help but laugh. “You win. You don’t have to cook.”

She lifts her cup in a sarcastic toast of victory, and I hate how much I like her. She’s funny and brave and a hard worker. It certainly doesn’t help that she’s effortlessly sexy. Even in jeans and a sweater, there is something magnetic about her. Something that draws you in and refuses to let go. As disgusting as Fedor’s crime was, I can see why he chose Molly.

“You could almost be bearable if you weren’t thinking about killing me,” Molly says.

Again, the words are tough, but her voice is wavering. There is still fear there. Still uncertainty.

“We can’t all be perfect.” I set my mug down and walk around the island so I’m standing just across from her. When I lean back against the countertop, my knee brushes hers. This time, Molly doesn’t flinch away from my touch. She looks down at where our legs are touching, like there’s a snake in the grass, and she isn’t sure whether she should run or remain still.

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

“We can’t all be perfect,” she repeats. “Do you think I’m perfect?”

Did I mention smart? Molly is smart. I hadn’t even realized what I said. Hadn’t even realized what information I let slip out in my attempt at humor. But there it is between us. My initial feelings about Molly are on display for her to see, and now I have to decide whether I’m going to take it all back or whether I’m going to, for once in my life, tell the truth.

I’m tired. More tired than I’ve been in a long time. But here I am, standing in the kitchen with this woman. A woman who should be trembling in fear before me, but is instead quizzing me on my feelings about her. And I have to admit to myself that I do find Molly rather perfect.

Her good qualities as a human and a mother have been playing through my head all night, but now I’m looking at her, studying her as she watches me, and I realize she’s perfect all over.

Her eyes are wide and warm. When she blinks, dark lashes fan out like they’re moving in slow motion. The shadows brush across her cheeks, which, in the white light of the kitchen, I can see are marked with a light constellation of freckles that cluster at the corner of her eyes. Earlier, I thought it was makeup, but I’m no longer sure she has any on at all.

She pinches her lower lip between her teeth, drawing it into her mouth and then letting it pop out, shining with moisture. Her mouth is the color of overripe fruit, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m moving forward for a bite.

Fear sparks in her eyes, and her lips fall open in surprise. I bend low, wrapping an arm around her lower back and bringing her to me. Molly is too shocked to resist. Her body presses against mine, meeting me point for point, and when I finally press my mouth against hers, I taste the bitterness of coffee mixed with the same hint of citrus I smelled before. A smell I can now only attribute to her for its unique mixture of warmth and sweetness and bite.

Her lips are soft and pliable, and I tilt my head to the side to taste her more deeply.

On some level, I know I’m not thinking clearly. I know this is a mistake, but as I just told Molly, we can’t all be perfect. I’m as far from perfect as they come, and I want this regardless of what it means for the Bratva and my brother. I want Molly because she’s soft and warm and beautiful. I want Molly because she has made this one of the most interesting nights of my life, and I’d like to see just how much more interesting it could be.

Apparently, Molly wants that too.

She should be pushing me away, but just when I think she’s lifting her hand to slap me, she presses her palm against my cheek. She drags her hand down over my stubbled face and traces her fingertips over the muscles in my neck.

Molly’s mouth opens, and her tongue slips into my mouth, and dear God, this woman really is perfect.

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