by Nicole Fox
Her eyes light up with amusement, and then she walks past me and into the dining room, giving me no choice but to follow her long, bare legs to the table.
The food is delicious. Bacon and eggs might be cliché, but Eve truly knows her way around the kitchen. Even half-burnt, everything is buttery and well-seasoned and completely free of glass shards.
“You really are a great cook,” I say, shoveling a bite of eggs into my mouth. “I’d pay good money for this breakfast.”
“Thanks.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and I notice the tip of her ear is pink. “My dad only paid for culinary school because he thought it would make me a more valuable wife, but owning my own restaurant is my dream.”
I think about the things Benedetto said to me the night I went to visit him. The way he discussed his daughter as a commodity made me want to wring his neck. I can imagine him telling a young Eve that she’d need to learn to cook to secure herself a good husband. It is very on brand for his particular genre of asshole.
“Keep cooking like this, and you’ll have your own restaurant one day,” I say. Then, quickly, I add, “And you have plenty of other qualities to make you a good wife. You don’t even need to cook.”
Eve is quiet for a minute, and when I chance a look, she is smiling down into her plate. My chest tightens at the sight.
“I want to be a chef like Véronique Cauchon. She is a famous French chef who—”
“I’ve heard of her,” I say, interrupting her.
Eve smiles and sags down in her seat. “I’ve idolized her for years. She is the exact kind of chef I want to be. Influential with a signature blend of traditional cuisine and invention. She takes classic French dishes and puts an entirely new perspective on them. She was supposed to come do a lecture at my school, but it got cancelled because of budgets. I was devastated.”
“Maybe you’ll get another chance to see her again,” I suggest.
“Maybe,” she shrugs, her pouty lips tucked to one side of her mouth. Then, she takes a bite of bacon and props her head up on one fist, eyebrows raised. “Who is your idol?”
“Me?” I ask, as though there might be someone else in the row.
She nods and tips her head forward, encouraging me.
“Now? Or when I was a kid?”
“Either.” She stares at me expectantly, and I wrack my brain for an answer. Any answer.
“No one,” I say finally. “My dad, maybe. I liked that he was in charge of people and had a lot of power. But beyond that, I never looked up to anyone.”
“No one?” she asks, surprised. “Not an athlete or an astronaut or an actor?”
“My childhood didn’t leave a lot of room for those kinds of hobbies,” I admit. “From as long ago as I can remember, my father was preparing me to take over the family.”
Her curiosity slips away, replaced by sympathy. “Even when you were just a little kid?”
I nod, uncomfortable with her attention on me. I don’t talk much about my childhood. Not because I’m ashamed or embarrassed, but because there isn’t much to say. My father bought me a pocket knife when I was five and a gun when I was seven. My interests included learning to fight and following in his footsteps. Anything beyond that didn’t matter.
“Don’t feel bad for me.” I don’t plan to say it, but the words are out of my mouth before I can take them back. I scoop my last bite of eggs into my mouth and push the plate away.
“I wasn’t going to,” she says. “I don’t.”
“Good. Because I’m fine.”
The look in Eve’s eyes tells me all I need to know. She disagrees. And how can I really blame her? She has been there for my rawest moments. For the times when the shell cracked away and I was nothing but raw nerve and emotion. She has seen the depth of my inhumanity, so how can she think I’m fine?
“Don’t make dinner plans tonight.”
She tilts her head, eyebrows pulled together.
“I have a reservation for us,” I say. That’s not entirely true. I don’t have any yet, but I will. “You won’t need to wear anything too formal, but I’ll pick you up at seven. Does that sound okay?”
“Yeah, great.” She smiles, clearly relieved to have a change of subject. “Are you leaving?”
“I have to take care of a few things.”
Eve runs her finger across the grain of the table nervously. “Can I come?”
For a moment, I imagine Eve in my meeting with me, standing by my side while I talk with my father and our soldiers. The thought is nice, but my father would never let her sit in on a meeting. Especially after the wedding. We still have little idea how or why the Irish mob got through our defenses, so no one outside of our circle can be trusted.
“No, sorry,” I say, hating the way her shoulders droop in disappointment. I grab my plate and back away towards the door to the kitchen. “But I’ll see you at seven.”
She smiles and waves me away, and I go, fighting the urge to turn around and finish what we started on the kitchen counter.
The meeting lasts all day. No one knows anything concrete, but everyone has ideas about how the Irish found their way into the wedding, and regardless of how they think it happened, every soldier is out for blood. We lost good men yesterday. The Volkov soldiers want retribution.
“We have to attack,” Gabriel says, slamming his hand down on the table and then glancing towards me to make sure he didn’t step over a line.
“But we can’t risk losing any more men,” I say. I’m not usually the voice of reason, but this is a delicate situation. I’m not sure what will be uncovered. If Benedetto did play a role in this, I’ll have to figure out how to proceed with Eve. I don’t think she had any idea about the attack, but what if she did? What if she fooled me? How will anyone be able to take me seriously as a leader if I could be fooled because of a beautiful face? “We have to go in with a plan.”
We already have men posted up at all of the known Irish hangouts. We need eyes and ears on their movements, making sure nothing is out of the ordinary. The attack at the wedding was small—only three men—meaning it could have just been a precursor. So, if they are meeting anywhere in large numbers, we’ll have advanced warning.
“We need to get one of their men alone,” my father says.
“We can’t exactly walk into their headquarters,” I say.
He nods, his tongue running over his teeth, and sits up, elbows resting on his knees. “They came into my home and shot at my family. They didn’t play nice. So, neither will we.”
The men cheer at that, banging their fists on the tables and stomping their feet.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
My father shrugs. “We’ll attack their men in their homes. In their beds. We’ll take them captive, torture them, and find our answers.”
The men whoop and holler at this idea. I don’t like the idea of setting a precedent of attacks at homes anymore, but I know my opinion will be overruled, so I stay quiet. The afternoon is spent deciding on our target and figure out how to gain access to him. The entire meeting, I’m checking my watch. I managed a reservation for dinner at seven-thirty, and I don’t want to be late. As soon as a plan is decided, I stand up.
“You have somewhere to be?” my father asks.
Everyone hears him, but the soldiers have enough sense to turn away and pretend to talk with one another.
“I do, actually,” I say. “Eve and I have plans.”
Disapproval is clear on my father’s face as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and leads me towards a back hallway. As soon as we get there, he lays a hand on my shoulder. “Have you consummated yet?”
I understand immediately what he means, but the question surprises me. “What?”
“Have you fucked the girl?” he repeats, probably thinking I’m too thick to know what ‘consummate’ means.
“I don’t see what that has anything to do with anything.” My evasion is obvious.
“You’ve married her, and I p
resume you’ve fucked her. So, what else is left?” he asks, face contorted in confusion. “Are you going to skip out on family meetings to take her on date night?”
“We have a plan.” I raise my voice more than normal and fight to keep it even. “I’ve been here all day, and now I’d like to eat. Is that a problem?”
He steps forward so we are almost chest to chest. If anyone else approached me that way I’d shove them back. “It is a problem if this woman has made you weak. If you’ve allowed your emotions to cloud your judgement.”
I stare down at him as blankly as possible. “What emotions?”
My father raises a gray eyebrow, shakes his head, and steps away. “Nice try, but I see it, Luka. The feelings are swallowing you up. If you aren’t careful, this girl will consume you.”
I want to storm out and show him he doesn’t know what he is talking about, but my father leaves first. It is the way I was raised. A conversation isn’t over until he says so. As soon as he turns to leave, I spin on a dime and march through the front doors and into the early evening.
I should have argued with him. Disagreed with his assessment. Told him he doesn’t know anything about my relationship with Eve. Except, maybe he is right. As much as I want to deny it, I can’t help but worry about my growing feelings for Eve. I don’t know what they are or what they mean, but the way I threw myself in front of her at the wedding when shots rang out tells me one thing: these feelings might get me killed.
I forget about all of my worries and doubts the moment we step into the restaurant and Eve realizes where we are. Her mouth falls open and she spins around to stare at me.
“Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug, biting back a smile. “Where are we?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, no, no. This is not Véronique Cauchon’s restaurant. It isn’t. It can’t be.”
I point to the sign behind the hostess stand that bears the famous chef’s name. “You might want to tell the restaurant that, then. Pretty embarrassing about their misleading sign.”
She elbows me in the side and then grabs my hand. Her fingers wrap around mine like they were made for that very thing, and I ignore the flutter in my chest. “How… how did you – how the hell did you get a reservation? This place is always booked for months in advance.”
“I pulled a few strings.” Truthfully, I paid an obscene amount of money.
At that very moment, the hostess appears—a blonde woman with drawn on eyebrows and unnaturally poofy hair. “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov. This way, please.”
The wedding descended into chaos before the minister could announce us as “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov,” so when the hostess says it, I’m momentarily taken aback. It sounds strange. But also normal. If Eve is surprised by it, as well, she doesn’t react. She keeps a firm grip on my hand and pulls me deeper into the restaurant. As the hostess passes open tables and booths and seats at the bar, Eve looks back at me, nose wrinkled in confusion. I just shrug like I’m not sure what is going on. But when the hostess leads us to the swinging doors that open into the kitchen, Eve stops cold.
“Where are we going?”
“You should really follow the hostess,” I whisper, urging her forward. “She’ll think you’re being rude.”
“But, Luka,” she argues, fighting against me as I push her through the swinging doors and into the kitchen.
Eve has been in plenty of restaurant kitchens before. She isn’t surprised by the bustling of the cooks, the steam and smoke billowing out of pots and pans, or the voices echoing across the room about sauces and plates and what needs to be chopped. But she stands frozen when she realizes who is standing in the middle of all of it: Véronique Cauchon.
Véronique is a petite woman with pitch black hair and a severe bob haircut that makes her already angular features seem even sharper. Still, she looks friendly when she smiles and walks towards us.
Eve stumbles back into me as if she wants to melt into me and disappear. I don’t let her. I push her forward.
Véronique wipes a hand on the dish towel hanging over her shoulder and then sticks her hand out for a shake. “You must be Eve.”
Eve’s mouth opens and closes, and the pinches the material of her simple cotton shift dress.
I step forward to shake the chef’s hand and seeing me do it seems to help Eve. She follows suit and grips Véronique’s hand in both of hers.
“It is so nice to meet you. You are…wow. You have been one of—no, the only cooking hero to me for so long. I just…I love you.”
The chef is sweet and smiles at how flustered Eve is. “That is what your husband told me on the phone. He said you two just got married, so I thought it would be my wedding gift to you to cook something with you in my kitchen.”
Eve sags against me, and I have to grip her waist to keep her from falling to the ground. “Are you serious? You want to cook with me?”
“If you’d like?” Véronique says.
“I’d like,” Eve says, turning to look at me, her eyes shining with excitement. “I’d like so much.”
I hang back as Eve follows the chef into the kitchen. This lesson is for her and her alone. Since our wedding day was such a disaster, I wanted to get Eve something she could enjoy. Véronique Cauchon seems like a nice woman now, but she had no interest in meeting with a fan (regardless of whether that fan just got married or not) until I added a series of zeroes to the end of her price. Once the price was right, she became the nicest woman in the world. But I don’t regret the expense for a second. Especially when Eve claps and actually giggles when she hears they are going to make croquembouche.
“Croke-am-what?” I ask, taking a seat at one of the stools along the wall.
“Croquembouche,” Eve says. “A tower of cream puffs covered in caramel.”
“It is often served at weddings in France,” Véronique says.
I just nod and decide to stay quiet so as not to ruin the experience at all. And honestly, I find it quite enjoyable to sit back and watch Eve cook. She moves with grace in the kitchen. I can tell she is nervous cooking in front of Véronique, but she is eager to learn and ask questions. I expect to be bored after a few minutes, but Eve’s happiness is infectious. This was supposed to be a gift for her to enjoy, but I’m finding that it is the best part of my day, as well. For one dark moment, I wonder what my father would say if he could see that this is what I left the meeting to do, but just as quickly as it comes, I push the thought away and focus on Eve. She grins up at me as she stacks cream puffs into a tower, and I feel my stomach give a small, happy flip.
16
Luka
I carry the croquembouche into the mansion carefully, doing my best to keep the plastic wrap laying over top of it from flying away in the wind. Eve opens all the doors for me, warning me about steps and the corner of cabinets as if it isn’t my house.
“I’ve lived here longer than you,” I remind her.
“If you had any idea how long this took, then you’d understand.”
“I was there!”
She laughs. “Oh, yeah. Véronique was so incredible that I kind of forgot about you. No offense.”
“Wow. You really know how to hurt a guy’s feelings,” I say, placing the plate on the table and laying a hand over my heart in mock offense. “Don’t forget who arranged your meeting with your idol.”
Suddenly, Eve’s arms are around my neck, and my arms wrap around her without hesitation. “Thank you, Luka. Seriously. Best night ever.”
I pull back to look at her, eyebrow raised. “Ever?”
She looks confused and then rolls her eyes and smiles. “Fine. Second only to last night, which was the real best night ever.”
I’m only teasing her, but it really was the best night ever. I’ve been with plenty of women and had enough one-night stands and meaningless sex to last a lifetime. No one ever made me feel the way Eve does. It was the first night I ever spent with a woman, and it felt more natural than sleeping by myself.
Eve pulls out of my arms and carefully lifts the plastic wrapping from the cream puff tower. “We should eat some of this tonight because it isn’t going to be as good tomorrow.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice I pluck the cream puff from the top, breaking the hardening strands of caramel sauce, and start to bring it towards my mouth. However, before I can, Eve grabs my wrist and puts the puff in her mouth.
“Hey!”
She shrugs and smiles. “Chef gets the first cream puff. You can have the second one.”
I open my mouth and point to it. “Fine, but after that rude display, you have to feed it to me.”
She flips her long brown hair over her shoulder and presses her pouty lips together, trying to hide her smile, as she grabs the next cream puff and hands it to me.
I shake my head and point to my mouth again. “In my mouth, please.”
She rolls her eyes, but they are sparkling with amusement, and I can’t help but fall into them as she brings the cream puff to my mouth. I eat it from her fingers slowly, mostly to tease her, but as I do, something in her eyes shift. When I grab the next cream puff, she opens her mouth. “Now, it’s my turn.”
I play along, holding it out to her. Eve leans forward, her shift dress gaping at the neck, giving me a nice view down her chest, but my attention is drawn upwards when her lips wrap around my fingers. Slowly and sensually, she drags her lips down my fingers, pulling the cream puff from my grip, her eyes locked on mine the entire time. All at once, the blood in my body begins to rush south.
Eve turns to grab me another cream puff, but I’m tired of the game. I grab her hand out of mid-air and wrap it around my neck. Wordlessly, she jumps into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist, and I carry her up the stairs and into the bedroom.
By the time we get there, my shirt and pants are unbuttoned, and I peel her dress off in one fluid motion as soon as I set her down. She drops to her knees, pulls me free from my pants, and looks up at me the same way she did in the kitchen.
