by Misha Bell
“How do you feel?” He pours himself a cup of water.
I finally drop my chamomile packet into the water and pray that something about teabagging isn’t about to escape my lips. “I feel ready for work again.” There. I can be appropriate when I focus very, very hard.
Speaking of, I shouldn’t say the word hard either.
“Ready for work?”
It must be a Russian superpower to imbue such a short question with that much skepticism.
“Ready as a tropical storm.” I lift my chin. “Isn’t Project Belka urgent? You said that—”
“Not here.” He frowns at the pantry entrance.
Sure enough, Britney is standing there, her eyes narrowed.
Was she a ninja in her past life?
“I understand,” I say.
“Did you eat lunch yet?” he asks me.
I shake my head, struck mute by the question.
“In that case, it’s my treat.”
Taking my affirmative reply for granted, he strides toward Britney, whose eyes are catlike slits at this point.
For a second, I wonder if he’ll be forced to tackle her.
But no. She moves out of the way.
As I hurry past her, I can feel a cloud of malevolence emanating from her, like poisonous mercury fumes. I don’t have a chance to analyze it, though, because I’m overwhelmed by the realization that I’m going to lunch with the Impaler.
Me.
And him.
Eating together.
Like on a date?
No, that’s stupid. This isn’t a date. It’s a work lunch, one that might be a ploy to fire me outside the office so I don’t cause a scene.
Still. I feel giddy, like I’m going to prom—and I never actually went to prom.
Now I wish I were better dressed and had those premium human hair eyebrows glued on.
The Impaler stops by the elevator, and I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I slam into his back.
Holy cow. I just felt some seriously hard muscle.
Waving away my mumbling apology, he jabs the elevator button.
I stand there not thinking about licking his finger.
Nope.
Not me.
When the elevator doors open, he gestures for me to go first, so I do.
Realizing I’m still holding my tea, I gulp it down, the heat burning my insides. He mirrors me by downing his water in one go. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and I want to lick it.
Stop fantasizing about licking random body parts.
His phone rings.
“Excuse me,” he says and checks the screen.
Frowning at whatever message he’s just received, he types out a reply with the speed a teenage girl would be proud of.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he looks up.
“Yes, but I only have fifty minutes for lunch. Is that okay?”
Even if it weren’t okay, which it is, it’s not like I’d tell him so. “You’re a busy man. I understand.”
We exit the building and cross the road, his long legs taking such wide strides I have to speed-walk to keep up.
Before I get sweaty, he stops next to a place I’ve never been to—because it’s one of the best restaurants in New York City, and maybe the world. Or if not the best, then certainly the most expensive.
The Impaler pulls open the ornamental glass door. “After you.”
Swallowing my awed disbelief, I step inside. As soon as the host sees the Impaler, he fawns over us as though we were royalty, leading us to a well-positioned table by the window—no doubt next to C-level executives of all the major corporations in the downtown area.
Boss squared must be a regular here.
Before I can say “nice to be in the top point-one percent,” our glasses are filled with wine that no doubt costs more than I make in a year.
“Where’s the menu?” I whisper, not wanting to sound like a rube to the nearby CEOs.
“I usually order the chef’s choice,” he replies, matching my lowered tone. “Want to risk it with me?”
Nodding, I take a sip of the amazing wine and check out the impeccable tablecloth in front of me.
This place is fancy. Too fancy to take someone if you wanted to fire them. Or just talk to them about testing sex toys, for that matter.
But then—
Can it be? Am I on a date?
Chapter Ten
No. This can’t be a date.
This is just a place he likes—and why not, if he can afford it? Since his parents own a restaurant, he’s probably a major foodie and a snob for tablecloths and such.
Yeah. That must be it.
He scans my face. “Are you sure you’re fine? You seem a little shell-shocked.”
“It’s this place, not the… umm… incident from yesterday,” I reply, my cheeks instantly burning.
He looks around as if seeing the restaurant for the first time. “We could go somewhere else.”
“No, this is fine. You’ve only got fifty minutes as is. I want to get down to business.”
He arches his perfectly real eyebrow.
“Project Belka,” I say. “I wanted—”
The waiter appears as if out of thin air and inquires if we’ve decided what to order.
“Chef’s choice,” we say in unison.
The waiter bows and scurries away.
“Back to the matter at hand.” I take a sip of the wine, for bravery. “The testing for Project Belka—”
“Is not something we want to discuss in such a public venue.” He glances at the swanky people nearby. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I put my wine glass down with a little too much force. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
He gestures at the ice statues and the other décor. “We’re here because we need to eat.”
My cheeks flush, but with anger instead of embarrassment for a change. “I don’t like having something like this hanging over me.”
His sensuous lips flatten. “It doesn’t have to.”
Is that a threat? “So you’re firing me over—”
“Firing you?” He looks genuinely perplexed. “Given the circumstances, I just assumed you’d want to give up the project.”
I get it now. He doesn’t think I can handle it. Like my asshole ex, he probably thinks I’m too much of a prude goody two-shoes for sex toys.
I’m so sick of this. Just because I have a round baby face that’s prone to blushing, everyone makes these sweeping assumptions about me.
Fuck that.
“I’m not giving anything up. You’d have to pry the project from me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Amusement touches his eyes, but also something else—admiration maybe?
“I get that we can’t talk details here,” I say, switching to a tone that’s much more appropriate when addressing my boss’s boss. “Please pick a time and place that suits you. I’d really like to proceed with the project.”
“Deal.” He pulls out his phone and fires off a text. “How about this? If you come with me to my next engagement, we can talk in the limo on the way.”
Next engagement? Before I can ask him for more details, the waiter arrives, carrying a small plate with something that looks like a crepe with caviar on it.
“De Jaeger,” the waiter says. “And kuznechik blinis. The chef sends his regards to your father for the recipe.”
So, my theory about his parents’ restaurant having something to do with this lunch was correct.
This isn’t a date.
Too bad. I was warming up to the idea.
“Care to explain what this is to this gourmet dummy?” I ask as soon as the waiter hurries away.
“Taste it first,” he suggests.
I do, and an explosion of umami flavor tantalizes my taste buds. “Subtle nuttiness,” I say in my best imitation of a posh food critic, “with the slightest hint of sweet, savory, and a note of woodiness.”
“That’s not a bad description,” he says, tasting his
portion.
“And what is it?”
He points at the white eggs. “That’s snail caviar. And blinis are a type of Russian crepe, only instead of traditional buckwheat, these are made with cricket flour, which provides that nutty flavor.”
Blood drains from my face.
To fight my gag reflex, I stay so silent you can hear crickets.
No. Must. Not. Think. Of. Crickets.
Or snails. Or slugs. Or the Blob. Or sentient snot. Or—
“This food is perfectly safe.” The Impaler gives me a worried look. “You liked the way it tasted, didn’t you?”
Well, yeah, but that was before I knew what abomination I was eating.
He waves at the waiter, who rushes over right away.
“The lady will have the chef’s sampling of the children’s menu,” my boss squared declares.
The children’s menu? So now he thinks that I’m not just unadventurous sexually, but also when it comes to food.
“No,” I snap. “The lady will stick with the chef’s choice.”
The corners of the Impaler’s mouth tilt up slightly as he asks the waiter, “What’s coming next?”
“Balut Benedict,” the waiter replies.
I nervously sip my wine. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Balut is a duck egg in which the fetus has gotten a chance to develop into a little bird,” the Impaler explains. “That Hollandaise sauce is usually made with duck eggs too.”
“Fermented,” the waiter adds helpfully.
Fermented.
Of course.
I didn’t think my face could get any whiter, but there it is.
“I’m still sticking with it,” I shock myself by saying. “What comes after the eggs?”
“Huitlacoche chowder,” the waiter says, and I think he’s beginning to enjoy himself at my expense.
The Impaler full-on smiles. “Huitlacoche is also known as corn smut—a fungus that used to destroy corn crops but nowadays is a delicacy.”
“Seriously?” I look at the waiter.
He nods.
“I feel like I’m on the hidden camera version of Fear Factor,” I say.
“You know what, I’ll take the children’s menu,” the Impaler tells the waiter. His eyes gleam behind the lenses of his glasses as he asks me, “Want to join me?”
I sigh in defeat. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I insist. I’ve never tried the kids’ menu, so I’m going to do it today.”
“Fine.” I take a small sip of my water, mostly to keep the crickets and the snail eggs down. “I’ll have the children’s menu too.”
The waiter leaves.
The Impaler rightfully assumes the rest of the crepes are all his, so he finishes them as I sit there, trying to think of how I can save face after all that.
Or at the very least, start some kind of a conversation.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Ava.
Impaled yet? This is followed by a syringe emoji and an eggplant.
It’s like she sniffed out this maybe-date.
A burst of irritation at the world at large crystalizes into something more specific—namely, annoyance at Ava. I blurt out loud, “Who do you think would win in a fight: Snow White or Belle from Beauty and the Beast?”
There. It’s more civilized than asking him if he thinks I’d succeed in pummeling Ava into the ground.
The Impaler swallows the last bite of his dubious appetizer, his forehead furrowing in thought. “Would this be a random encounter in a neutral location?”
“Why not?” I sip my wine, fighting the urge to push back that unruly lock of hair that keeps falling over his forehead.
It really, really wouldn’t be appropriate.
The furrow underneath the lock of hair deepens. “We’re talking standard versions of those characters?”
“There are versions?”
“Sure. The original story of Beauty and the Beast was French, but there’s also a Russian one, which even has a cartoon that’s much better than the Disney one—at least in my opinion. On the other hand, Snow White was originally a story by Brothers Grimm. It also has a Russian version. She goes by Snowdrop and lives with seven bogatyrs instead of dwarves.”
I lower my voice. “Is bogatyrs something disgusting they serve at this restaurant?”
He adjusts his glasses. “A bogatyr is a warrior from Russian legends.”
I cock my head. “So this Russian Snow White lives with seven warrior dudes?”
He nods.
“That sounds like a reverse harem romance.”
Amusement glimmers in the blue depths of his eyes. “I think she stays pure for her prince—who’s not one of the ‘dudes.’ Also, the Disney version could be seen as reverse harem also, if your mind is dirty enough.”
As someone whose mind is never far out of the gutter, I redden as I picture Sneezy, Grumpy, Dopey, and Sleepy in a gang bang with Snow White.
“How about we stick with Disney versions?” I say.
“In that case, Belle would win.” He sounds as serious as if we were talking about the quarterly reports. “Of those two, Belle is more adventurous. She fought for the Beast at the end and had more depth when it came to her reasons for falling in love. In contrast, Snow White is a stereotypical damsel in distress who’d probably ask Prince Charming to fight Belle in her stead.”
Damn it, he’s right. I couldn’t win even in this allegorical battle—and what’s worse, he just called my allegorical doppelgänger unadventurous.
The waiter comes back, carrying a tray filled with plates.
Everything looks safe enough, but I wait for him to explain what it is.
“Mixed yuca and yam fries in bechamel sauce,” he says, pointing at the relevant plate. “Bluefin tuna fish sticks. Quail nuggets. Beaufort D'Été quesadillas.”
I beam at the waiter in relief. “It all sounds delicious.”
When he leaves, I lean toward the Impaler. “That’s the kid’s menu? Do they even allow children in this place?”
Another hint of a smile. “I’ve never seen one—and I’m a regular.”
Figures.
I reach for one of the fries, and he must’ve had the same idea because our fingers touch.
I suddenly feel a hunger that has nothing to do with food.
“After you.” He gestures at the fries.
I snatch a couple and stuff them into my mouth.
Wow.
Not sure if I got a yuca or a yam, but it’s yum. The fish stick I try next is the best I’ve ever tasted, the nugget is pretty amazing as well, and when I bite into the quesadilla, I almost moan in pleasure.
Then I notice something. He’s using a fork and a knife for the items I’ve just eaten with my fingers, like a cavewoman.
I spear the next nugget with a fork. “This is much better than snail eggs.”
“I’m glad, Ms. Pack. I wouldn’t want you to regret my choice of this restaurant.”
I chew the nugget, debating if I should ask him this or not. Finally, I decide to just go for it. “Look, after the hospital thing and this lunch, would you mind calling me Fanny?”
That way, I’ll be able to stop thinking of round, hungry things and, more importantly, might forget for a moment that I’m lusting after my boss’s boss.
His sexy lips quirk. “Fanny,” he murmurs, and hearing my name with that accent makes me like it for the first time in my life. “Call me Vlad, then.”
My heartbeat speeds up. “Vlad,” I repeat obediently.
Wait, did that sound too husky? Because I really like the sound of his name on my lips. No more boss squared or the Impaler business for me. I’m calling him Vlad every chance I get.
Another smile curves his lips. “But no diminutives, okay?”
I blink at him. “Isn’t Vlad already a diminutive form of Vladimir?”
He looks impressed. “I’d call it the short form, but that’s pretty good for a non-Russian.”
A dark gleam appears in his eyes—that or my imagination is running wild. “Fan’ka sounds like something you’d call a naughty child. The affectionate version would be Fannychka.”
Fannychka. I like it. Fannychka Pack doesn’t sound like a waist bag anymore.
Nor does Fanny Chortsky for that matter.
He narrows his eyes. “That mischievous smile… If you were thinking about calling me something like Vovochka, don’t. It happens to be a character that’s the butt of a lot of Russian jokes.”
Huh. I had no intention of doing so, but that’s interesting. And thank God he’s not an actual vampire and can’t read minds. “Deal,” I say. “But you have to tell me one of those jokes.”
He frowns. “They don’t translate well.”
“That’s fine. I still want to hear one.”
“Okay. Bear in mind that Vovochka is usually a misbehaving child. Think Dennis the Menace. Also, Russian humor can get pretty dark.”
“Now I really want to hear one.” I pick up my wine glass.
“Here goes: One sunny Sunday morning, Vovochka runs to his mother: ‘Mom, hurry, Dad hung himself in the living room!’ The mother nearly has a heart attack as she rushes to the living room—just to find it empty. ‘April Fools’, Mom!’ Vovochka says. ‘Dad’s hanging in the bathroom.’”
I nearly choke on my wine.
Vlad’s phone dings with a text.
He glances down, then looks at me apologetically. “The limo is outside. I have to go soon. Are you coming?”
I wipe under my nose and sneak a peek—no wine. “Is it far?”
“No, just a short drive away.”
I’m about to ask more, but he loads a heaping portion of nuggets onto my plate. “Let’s finish this quick. We don’t have much time.”
We attack the food as if we were in a hot-dog-eating contest, which doesn’t prevent me from having a couple of foodgasms. Sadly, his phone begins beeping all too soon, so we leave some delicious stuff uneaten and get up.
He leaves a fortune in cash on the table and leads me to the car. As he opens the door for me, I catch a glimpse of Britney across the street. She’s standing there, staring at us.