All morning, he and I had passed each other, gravitating toward one another, yet saying nothing. He’d read this same business journal by the pool while I was swimming. Or he’d appeared to. In reality, he’d been very interested in my bathing suit—a white one-piece woven from thin strips of material. His fascinated gaze had followed the webbing as it moved with my body.
Now he sat on the other couch with a newspaper open, but he didn’t read it. His ocean-blue eyes were grave as he stared out at the matching water. What was he mulling over?
I could swear he struggled with a decision.
He checked his phone, texted something, then abruptly stood. He looked at me, parting his lips. Thinking better of whatever he was about to say, he turned toward the door. “Vasili will be outside.” Then he left me.
Qué? I was going to be alone on Christmas Eve? Yet another miserable, lonely one.
If he was teeing me up for a crash, I should at least get the benefit of company today.
For the last three holidays, I’d been undergoing the hard task of rebooting. The Christmas before those, Edward had left me to go on an “unexpected business trip.” Probably a vacation with Julia that I’d unwittingly funded.
I thought back to the last Christmas I’d enjoyed. I’d cooked with mi madre, a traditional Nochebuena dinner.
Maybe I should cook today? I rose and strolled to the kitchen, checking pots, pans, and equipment. There were four convection ovens, warming drawers, two microwaves, and a steam oven—all brand-new and hi-tech.
I hadn’t been in a fully functioning kitchen in ages—had never been in one as modern as this—and I missed cooking. I could order ingredients through Alonzo.
Preparing a meal would relax me, setting my mind right. That was the only reason I would do it. Not because I wanted to show off for Sevastyan.
He probably wouldn’t even return until late. I’d known he would want to spend the holidays with someone other than me!
His loss. I’d treat Vasili and his battalion of bodyguards to thank them for their protection.
I called Alonzo, listing all the ingredients and equipment I needed asap, everything from mint sprigs to a rolling pin, from food processors to meat thermometers.
An hour later, when several attendants arrived with bags and boxes, Vasili furrowed his bald head at me again.
I shrugged. Turning the surround sound to a Havana station, I tied on my new apron.
To bad weather, good face.
I fried bacon, peeled sweet potatoes, and simmered brown sugar with anise seeds. I toasted almonds. I rolled dough and cut circles for crab croquetas. I chopped mint for mojitos. The entire floor smelled incredible.
I was singing “Fuentecilla Que Corres” as I put a spiced pork roast into the oven.
“What’s this?” Sevastyan asked, making me jump.
I almost dropped the roast, one of three I was cooking. “A Cuban Christmas dinner.” He’d returned!
“What’s on the menu?”
“Lechón asados, pork roasts drenched in mojo; langostinos con salsa rosa, prawns with pink sauce; arroz congri, beans and rice; tostones, fried sweet plantains; and crab croquetas. For dessert, I’m making buñuelos, fried sweet dough; turrón de Navidad, nougat almond candies; and boniatillo, sweet potato pudding.”
He smirked. “So now you’ll cook to get back into my good graces?”
I pressed my fingers to my chest. “I’m sorry; did you think any of this was for you?”
“You’re preparing enough for an army.”
“Tengo mucha hambre. Es todo para mí.”
“You’re very hungry? And it’s all for you?”
While he was picking up Spanish at lightning speed, the only Russian I knew was blyad´, prostitutka, dushen’ka, and kotyonok. “All for me. You couldn’t handle my food. Dessert alone would make you have an orgasm espontánea.” To taunt him, I sampled a flaky croqueta I’d just fried up.
Before I could stop him, he’d snagged one, taking a bite. His lids went heavy, and he chewed slowly. “I’ll expect dinner at seven. Do not be late.” Croqueta in hand, he turned to go.
Ordering me? “Pendejo!” I tossed a handful of toasted almonds at the back of his head.
He paused, then continued on.
With a roll of my eyes, I got back to work. Though I kept the music going and I sang as I cooked (with a voice that no one would write home about), Sevastyan remained near the kitchen all afternoon, even when talking on the phone and reading business proposals.
Over the day, he relaxed by degrees. A time or two, I caught him doing nothing but staring at sailboats. His piercing gaze had been at ease, his complicated mind lost to daydreams.
In contrast, I grew nervous, as if I had a date later—when in fact, he’d simply commanded dinner. At six, he’d headed to the master bedroom without a word.
I’d finished everything, stowing dishes in the warming drawers, and I’d even packed heavy boxes for Vasili and his guys. When I called the man inside for pickup, he’d eyed my offering warily.
Speaking slowly, I assured Vasili, “This food is one hundred percent not drugged because I couldn’t find any drugs.”
He grated, “Spasiba. Thank you.”
One more word in my Russian lexicon. “There are written instructions inside. If you put pink sauce on anything other than prawns, I will kick your Russian ass, comprendes?”
He exhaled, grudgingly saying, “Christmas no good for boss.”