Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I missed him.
At night, lying in that massive bed surrounded by luxury, I stared out at the glittering skyline and imagined him there beside me.
The Chicago winter arrived early, bringing brutal winds and heavy snowfall, but I barely felt it. The cold had settled inside me long before the temperature dropped.
No matter how high I turned up the thermostat, no matter how thick the blankets—without Kostya, I was freezing.
Two weeks passed before he finally appeared.
He sat at a table in my section as if it were just another night. His presence commanding and utterly unmoved.
I felt him before I saw him.
The moment my eyes met his, my stomach twisted into a knot so tight it hurt.
I forced myself forward, my head low, waiting for the storm. I was ready for his anger, for the inevitable punishment, for the moment he reminded me that I was his.
But all he did was look at me calmly and ask, "What do you recommend?"
It had to be a game.
I didn’t like being toyed with.
So I brought him borscht. The thick, rich soup should have been a jab, a reminder of home, of something deeper.
But he ate it without complaint.
Paid.
And left.
Like nothing had ever happened.
And that was more terrifying than anything else he could have done.
The next day, he came back.
And the next.
Every time, he asked the same question. “What should I have today?”—and every day, I gave him a different answer. Some choices were more adventurous than others, little culinary tests to see if he would balk. But Kostya ate every bite without complaint, paid his bill, and left.
It wasn’t long before I started bringing him my favorite dishes. The ones that meant something. I even had the kitchen make special orders just for him. Vareniki I helped shape by hand, the way my grandmother had taught me, the way I had never had the chance to show him before.
The day I placed a plate of crispy, golden potato and onion pancakes in front of him, something shifted inside me. Instead of walking away, I took my break and sat across from him, watching him expectantly as he lifted the first bite to his lips.
He didn’t speak.
But the moment his eyes fluttered shut in bliss, a low groan of appreciation slipping from his throat, satisfaction flooded through me in a way I hadn’t expected.
I did that. I gave him this moment of pleasure.
"Do you like it?" I asked, needing to hear him say it.
Kostya simply nodded, chewing slowly, savoring every second.
And that was how it started.
Day after day, he came in. Day after day, I brought our meals, and we sat together, lingering over lunch.
We talked about nothing. The weather, the best places to go in Chicago, how terrible the traffic was on Michigan Avenue. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand anything from me. And somehow, that made me crave him more than ever.
A month passed before I found the courage to ask the question that had been burning inside me since the moment he first sat down.
“Why are you here?”
He leaned back, taking his time, brushing the crumbs from his fingers before answering.
“My wife tells me that appreciating food is the second greatest pleasure in life.”
I tilted my head, heart already beating faster. “And the first?”
Kostya’s gaze locked onto mine, steady, unwavering. “The greatest pleasure in life? That would be my wife.”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks, but I didn’t look away.
“Kostya,” I whispered, my voice softer now, no longer teasing. “What are you really doing here?”
His lips twitched at the corners, a hint of amusement in his expression.
“I was informed that I am arrogant and heavy-handed.”
I scoffed, arching an eyebrow. “That couldn’t have come as a surprise.”
This time, he smirked.
“No, not really,” he admitted. “But it was pointed out that in my attempts to keep my wife safe, I forgot to ask her what she wanted. That I never took the time to get to know her well enough to handle things the way she would want them handled.”
A lump formed in my throat. He had been listening.
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” I said, even though I already knew.
Kostya held my gaze. “It does. I’m here trying to date my wife. To learn what she loves. And what makes her happy…to get her to choose me.”
Oh.
The realization hit me all at once, slamming into me with the force of everything I had been trying to deny.
I had spent so long fighting, so long running, trapped in the cycle of fear, guilt, and doubt. But the truth had been there all along, waiting for me to accept it.
I loved him.
I wanted him.
And now, I finally knew with every piece of me that he loved me, too.
I smiled, slow and teasing as I leaned forward, reaching across the table to lace my fingers through his. His grip tightened immediately, firm and warm, grounding me in the moment.