My face burns as I realize that “like this” means his normal casual clothes, which are no different from the jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt I’m wearing. Nikolai’s wife, on the other hand, has changed into an even more glamorous dress—a silver-blue ankle-length gown—and looks like she’s on her way to a Hollywood premiere.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like a fanny-pack-wearing tourist who’s stumbled into a Parisian fashion show. “I didn’t realize there was a dress code.”
“Oh, you’re fine.” Alina waves an elegant hand. “It’s not a requirement for you. But Slava is a Molotov, and it’s important that he learn the family traditions.”
“I see.” I don’t see, actually, but it’s not my place to argue with family traditions, however absurd they may be.
“And don’t worry,” Alina adds, taking a seat across from Slava. “If you wish to dress properly as well, I’m sure Kolya will buy you some appropriate clothing.”
Kolya? Is that what she calls her husband?
“That’s not necessary, thank you—” I begin, only to fall into a stunned silence as I catch sight of Nikolai approaching the table. Like his wife, he’s changed for dinner, his high-end designer jeans and button-up shirt replaced by a sharply tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and skinny black tie—an outfit that wouldn’t look out of place at a high-society wedding… or the same movie premiere Alina’s planning to attend. And while an average-looking man could easily pass for handsome in a suit like this, Nikolai’s dark, masculine beauty is heightened to an almost unbearable degree. As I take in his appearance, my pulse goes through the roof and my lungs constrict, along with lower regions of my—
Married, Chloe. He’s married.
The reminder is like a slap in the face, yanking me out of my dazzled trance. Forcing a breath into my oxygen-deprived lungs, I give my employer a carefully restrained smile, one that doesn’t say that my heart is racing in my chest and that I’m wishing like hell Alina didn’t exist. Especially since his striking gaze is trained on me instead of his gorgeous wife.
“You’re late,” she says as he pulls out a chair and sits next to her. “It’s already—”
“I know what time it is.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he responds to her, his tone coolly dismissive. Then his gaze flicks to the boy at my side and his features tighten as he takes in his casual appearance.
“I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” I say before he can also reprimand the child. “I didn’t realize we needed to get dressed up for dinner.”
Nikolai’s attention returns to me. “Of course you didn’t.” His gaze travels over my shoulders and chest, making me acutely conscious of my plain long-sleeved T-shirt and the thin cotton bra underneath that’s doing nothing to hide my inexplicably erect nipples. “Alina is right. I need to buy you some proper clothes.”
“No, really, that’s—”
He holds up his palm. “House rules.” His voice is soft, but his face could’ve been laid in stone. “Now that you’re a member of this household, you must abide by them.”
“I… all right.” If he and his wife want to see me in fancy clothes at dinner and don’t mind spending the money to make it happen, so be it.
Like he said, their house, their rules.
“Good.” His sensual lips curve. “I’m glad you’re so accommodating.”
My breath quickens, my face warming again, and I look away to hide my reaction. All the man did was smile, for fuck’s sake, and I’m blushing like a fifteen-year-old virgin. And in front of his wife, no less.
If I don’t get a handle on this ridiculous crush, I’ll be fired before the end of the meal.
“Would you like some salad?” Alina asks, as if to remind me of her existence, and I shift my attention to her, grateful for the distraction.
“Yes, please.”
She gracefully ladles a serving of leafy green salad onto my plate, then does the same for her husband and son. In the meantime, Nikolai extends the platter with caviar sandwiches toward me, and I take one, both because I’m hungry enough to eat anything residing on bread and because I’m curious about the notorious Russian delicacy. I’ve had this type of fish roe—the big orange kind—in sushi restaurants a couple of times, but I imagine it’s different like this, served on a slice of French baguette with a thick layer of butter underneath.
Sure enough, when I bite into it, the rich umami flavor explodes on my tongue. Unlike the fish roe I’ve tasted, Russian caviar appears to be preserved with liberal amounts of salt. It would be too salty on its own, but the crusty white bread and mellow butter balance it perfectly, and I devour the rest of the small sandwich in two bites.
Eyes gleaming with amusement, Nikolai offers me the platter again. “More?”
“I’m good, thank you.” I’d love another caviar sandwich—or twenty—but I don’t want to seem greedy. Instead, I dig into my salad, which is also delicious, with a sweet, tangy dressing that makes my taste buds tingle. Then I try a bite of everything on the table, from the smoked fish to some kind of potato salad to grilled eggplant drizzled with a cucumber-dill yogurt sauce.