Russian Billionaire's Virgin Assistant

“This will be the picture we use to blackmail him,” she insisted, taking Dima from me and putting the costume on over his pajamas. “The one we reference in the photo albums we show to the dates he brings home.”

I couldn’t swallow my laugh at the spray of fabric feathers spreading out from his rear — or the little turkey feet Ruth eased Dima into.

“I have to draw the line somewhere,” I said as she added a precious beanie complete with feathers and a beak. “Ruth, no. For the sake of our marriage.”

“That’s enough out of you,” she said, making final adjustments before handing Dima back to me. “It’s cold out there, and he’ll be just fine. Will you call the car? I just have to finish getting ready.”

“It gets better,” I assured my son solemnly, tugging on the turkey feet that encased his toes. “You are a Volkov, and it only gets better from here.”

There was a strange but perhaps natural reaction to seeing the house where Ruth grew up again. It had been the site of a terrible fight last year that had nearly dragged us apart. I didn’t know what I would do without her — without my son. I wasn’t worth a damn without the two of them.

“It’s going to be okay,” Ruth said, giving my arm a squeeze as we walked up the driveway.

“I told your father that he should come to the estate,” I grumbled, tucking Dima close to me against the chilled air. Behind us, the driver left to await our departure somewhere else. “It’s much easier for him to take a drive rather than us packing everything up and coming all the way out here.”

“It’s tradition to have Thanksgiving here,” she repeated — we’d had a version of this conversation perhaps ten times in the past month or so. “He’ll come for Christmas. So will your brother.”

“Our house is more comfortable,” I continued, unwilling to let this go — or to be left alone with my thoughts as we approached the house. “The chef would make it so you didn’t have to sweat over an oven all afternoon. And the nanny would keep Dima occupied so we wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.”

“Sometimes, the worry makes everything better,” Ruth reasoned, knocking on the door. “Besides, I already broke tradition by letting you deliver all the groceries here. I haven’t heard the end of it from my dad — accusing me of letting you run a smuggling operation out of his house.”

“I would never trust him for such a thing,” I muttered as the door opened.

“Finally,” Gerald said, only barely managing to hide a smile at Dima’s cooing. “I thought I was going to be the one who had to start cooking all this damn food.”

It had been a while since we’d seen Ruth’s father — the wedding, perhaps. The old man was tough to pin down, though I suspected — like most great thinkers — that he spent an awful lot of fucking time in his own head. He came to life whenever he saw Dima, though, and I could see portions of the man I used to know — bright and hopeful and happy.

Gerald Miracle was a natural grandfather. No one could take that away from it.

“Quieter this Thanksgiving,” I told him as he babbled at Dima, bouncing the baby on his knee.

“Disagree,” Gerald said as the baby squawked wildly. Seriously. The kid had to have had a dinosaur living inside of him. “I think this year will be as lively as last year’s gathering.”

There was no Alexei this year — he had decided to go abroad again, searching for whatever he looked out for on his travels. And Becca was a no show for the first time in four years, on tour with a quartet of musicians that received rave reviews for their performances. The girl was determined to make it in the musical world, and she seemed to be making all the right moves to do so.

Neither Alexei nor I would ever admit to the recommendations and strings pulled behind the scenes to help the right people connect with Becca’s natural talent. She didn’t need to know.

“I think you’re right,” I agreed. “I think Dima may be an opera singer with those lungs.”

“And I think you’re going to be my chef’s assistant this year,” Ruth announced dropping an apron in my lap. “Come on, then. Let’s get going. Lots of dishes to prepare.”

“My chef could’ve done this,” I called after her, reluctantly rising. “Then, we could’ve had a nice visit with your father — no distractions.”

“Oh, please,” Gerald scoffed good-naturedly. “You would squirm the entire time if you had to make conversation with me for hours.”

The old man had a point. I followed Ruth into the kitchen, eager to distract her at every turn.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she said, laughing as she flicked a towel at me. “We’re on a timetable here, Max. That’s all Thanksgiving is —time management.”

“Then I’ll be thankful for managing our time well together,” I said, snaking my arms around her waist and squeezing.

“Careful,” she gasped out, before laughing and turning in my embrace. “I’m fragile.”

“That’s not what you led me to believe last night,” I said darkly, making her flush before I kissed her. I would never tire of the effect I had on her — just as I would always admire just how much she pushed back against me in favor of maintaining her independence.

“We need to get this turkey in the oven,” she informed me. “And then I need to make some pies. You need to stand a respectable distance away from me so we can get all this done.”

It wasn’t what I was naturally good at, but I made a decent enough chef’s assistance with Ruth’s direction. Soon enough, dinner was on the table and Dima was situated in a highchair Gerald insisted on keeping at his house in case of visits.