13. Luna
How to make chicken parmesan.
The fact I searched the internet for this probably caused my nonna to roll over in her grave.
I frown at the instructions. I wish I had paid more attention to Giulia during her cooking lessons. But how hard could this be, really?
Honestly, I have no idea if Nik will be willing to eat with me or not, but I figure I can at least try to make a meal for him. According to Frank and Lev, it isn’t consistent when he rolls in from work—this whole dinner may be a waste of time.
After I preheat the oven, I prepare the chicken, fumbling my way through Nik’s kitchen. While nothing is visibly out of place in his apartment, there is zero organization in his cabinets. Pots are shoved in with shaker cups. Cutting boards are hidden under plates. It takes more time to locate the items I need than it does to do the actual cooking.
With the water boiling on the stove, I place the noodles in the pot. I’m cringing at my inability to make homemade pasta when, out of the corner of my eye, smoke begins to pour out of the oven. And I mean pour. These aren’t wisps of smoke casually seeking entrance to the apartment. No. Smoke billows out, and in a matter of seconds, all the alarms start to sound.
Shoot.
I grab several kitchen towels and whip my way through the smoke toward the oven. Looking at the bake time, I see there is still an hour left. Crap. I set the timer for two hours instead of the twenty minutes as needed to melt the mozzarella.
Gosh, Luna.
I’ve torched Nik’s warehouse. I can practically hear my mother spewing criticism at me as I work to get the oven open, the wailing fire alarm doing nothing to calm my nerves.
Charred chicken is now covered in blackened cheese, and the sauce … let’s just say it’s no longer red.
I’m reaching into the oven, two pot holders over my hands, when the door bursts open. I yelp in surprise, losing my grip on the pan. A searing pain sizzles my hand when I try to catch it, and I end up dropping the dish. Sauce splatters, and charred chicken bounces in every direction.
“Mrs. Balakin, are you okay? Please come with me.” I turn to see Frank approaching me.
“I’m so sorry.” I swallow, fighting the urge to let any tears fall. They prick behind my eyes, the sting rivaling that of my singed hand. My throat bobs, a tear drips down my cheek—and I lose the battle.
I couldn’t even make a meal.
“It’s my fault I burnt the food. I’ll get it under control.”
Frank nods, switching on the overhead fan and then moving to open a few windows. Cool air instantly floods the apartment, and the smoke starts to gravitate toward the windows, the haze in the kitchen clearing.
I cringe at the mess on the floor. Half the chicken is glued to the pan, and the other half, which ricocheted off the cabinets, is now staining the concrete floors.
“I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right downstairs,” Frank calls over the alarms.
He’s going to call Nik; I’m sure of it.
Shame heats my face. Two days of being his wife and I’ve managed to ruin his kitchen and prove I’m only good for setting fires. He probably should’ve added a cooking clause to the contract.
I wince at the bubbling skin on my pointer and middle finger. Reaching for the sink, I turn on the cold water and let it run over my fingers, though it barely eases the throb. As I stand there, the screeching finally stops. It’s now silent aside from the warehouse noises downstairs, which drift through the apartment’s propped door.
Laughter floats up from below, reminding me that every single man here witnessed my embarrassing catastrophe. A single tear tracks down my nose, and I smack it away. Ignoring my throbbing fingers, I begin to dig through the cabinets to hunt for cleaning supplies.
An hour later after scrubbing the entire oven four times, there are still burnt pieces clinging to the bottom. And after all that, I still have the crusted black chicken pan to deal with.
With a sink full of warm water, I dunk the pan, soaking it as much as possible before finally going at it with a scrub brush.
Ten minutes later, I realize it’s pointless. The whole thing is stuck in a state of permanent charring.
Still, I scrub furiously, pouring all my frustration into fighting the pan. I can’t believe I’m here, in a strange apartment, alone, burning meals for a man who doesn’t even want me in his life.
I snarl, tossing the scrub brush into the sink. Soapy water splashes back into my face.
“You know, I knew I saw fire in you …”
Nik’s words die off as soon as his eyes meet mine and he sees the disheveled state I’m in, tears and soap running down my face. He steps up to the counter next to me and studies the pan I’ve been grappling with.
He looks around the apartment.
“It’s cold in here, Luna.” He moves to close the windows and then adjusts the thermostat.
“I-I’m sorry, Nik,” I say when he comes back over. I reach back in the water for the pan, grabbing it with my burnt fingers, and flinch. Hissing, I shake out my hand. Nik looks at it, then at my face. I look away.
“What happened to your hand, Luna?”
He sounds angry.
Planting his feet right in front of mine, he pulls at my wrist and flips my hand over in his. Bubbling blisters rage on my two fingers. Without saying another word, he yanks my wrist, hand flexing on my skin, and leads me through the bedroom and into the bathroom.
He stops near the freestanding bathtub. “Sit.”
I immediately obey, shocked at my body’s response to the command in his voice.
A shiver eases up my spine as Nik digs through the vanity. The solid wood countertop hosts two sinks, and he uses one to wet a cold rag.
“Keep this pressed to your fingers.”
He takes my good hand, his rough, calloused hands engulfing mine, as he mimics what I should do before turning back to the cabinet.
With his back toward me, I can’t help but admire his sculpted body. He is built. Muscles stretch out his suit, and the fabric hugs every curve and dip. With his sleeves rolled, cords in his arms flex and tighten as he digs around for whatever he’s looking for, shadows catching the contours of his frame.
I stare, picturing those strong arms holding me. My stomach drops—not the time, Luna.
When he turns around to face me, I divert my eyes to the pendant lighting above the tub.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Here.”
He reaches for my hand and crouches before me, pulling away the cold compress, then smearing petroleum jelly along the blisters. It’s so gentle I barely feel his touch, though I’m burning from it all the same.
Nik’s eyes are focused on my fingers, so I let mine explore his face. The bathroom’s soft glow highlights his hazel eyes, making them appear green. Laugh lines spread out from the corners of his eyes, and I wonder what type of life he’s lived to have laughed so much.
A smile crosses his face, and a small dimple comes into view, stealing my focus from his other handsome features. Warmth floods my cheeks.
“What were you trying to make?” he says with a teasing tone while wrapping my fingers with a bandage.
I shake my head. “Chicken parmesan, but I’m a terrible cook.”
His smile widens and he laughs. It’s deep and rich, enticing me to lean closer. His charm is alluring. Too alluring.
“I was trying to make dinner for when you got home.”
Those words silence him, and his smile morphs into a tortuous frown. “Listen, Luna. I don’t expect you to cook for me. I’m a grown-ass man capable of feeding myself. Believe it or not, I’m a pretty good cook.”
I don’t know why, but his last comment makes me smile, and I tip my face down, trying to hide it. Nik in a kitchen draining pasta is hard to picture.
His nostrils flare and he stands up, crossing his arms in front of him. “We should probably stop lingering in the bathroom. Get your coat.”
“My coat?”
He nods. “You like pizza?”
If you had told me an hour ago I’d be sitting across from Nikolai Balakin, watching him shove pizza into his mouth by the slice, I never would’ve believed you.
The small pizza shop, only five miles down the road from the warehouse, is all weathered brick with a vintage neon sign out front. There are only four checkered tables, as well as five booths lining the outer walls—all offering a perfect view into the kitchen. The employees toss dough in the air and layer toppings, while already adorned pies go into a massive stone oven.
Nik ordered a large pepperoni pizza and some breadsticks, and since it’s been at our table—all of three minutes—he has already shoved three huge slices in his mouth.
I can’t stop staring.
Devouring a slice of pizza in two bites. Impressive.
I’ve managed to pick at half of a breadstick, embarrassment from earlier souring my stomach.
“I know it’s probably not the best, you being Italian and all, but this is the closest pizza place around here. The guys and I come here a lot for lunch,” Nik says, before finishing the last bite of his current slice.
“Um, no. It’s good.”
He gives me a pointed look, lifting another slice off the tray. “You haven’t eaten any, Luna. You wouldn’t know.”
I raise the half breadstick and wave it in front of his face. “This is.” I take a large bite to prove my point, and his eyes seem to focus on my mouth as I chew. I snatch a napkin off the table, hiding my lips and the crumbles of parmesan stuck to my face.
Nik snickers and reaches for his phone. I busy myself as he types something out, finishing my bread and scrolling through a bunch of recipes I saved earlier today.
I texted my sister on the way here to make sure she’s holding up okay. She responded that she’s fine, but then my mother and my father both texted me. They each expressed disappointment I hadn’t given them my new number, and I immediately sent my sister a thanks a lot. I received an emoji back with its tongue sticking out.
The bell above the door chimes, and three women, probably in their mid-twenties, walk in. A blonde woman’s eyes widen when she sees Nik, and she beams a smile in his direction.
“Nik! I’ve been calling you the past few days. Where have you been?”
She pops her hip to the side and crosses her arms. Of course, this in turn, lifts her ample cleavage. Nik’s eyes naturally falter there, and I internally roll mine. While I may have hips, my boobs did not get so lucky.
“I’ve been busy, Sadie.” He grins his charming Nik grin, and she melts in front of him. Her eyes soften, and the irritated glare she pointed at him seconds ago poofs out of existence.
Then, as if only now realizing I’m here, her gaze darts to me, then back to Nik.
“So …” she says, drawing out the O past the acceptable amount of syllables.
“Oh, sorry,” Nik mumbles. “Luna, this is Sadie. Sadie, this is my … this is Luna.” His face wrinkles as he corrects himself mid sentence.
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Sadie says, a hint of anger evident in her voice.
I bristle as a thread of annoyance slithers through me, pulling taut in my belly. I shake my head, willing it gone, but the damage is done. My cheeks heat. I need to get out of here.
“Excuse me. I’m going to use the restroom.” I push up from the table, knocking my cup into my lap in the process. Ice water lands right between my thighs, and I hiss at the shocking, unpleasant sensation.
I grapple with the napkin dispenser, pulling a tree’s worth of paper out to sop up the mess.
Shoot.
None of these napkins are doing the trick. How does a place where you eat food with your hands, not have absorbent napkins?
Nik and Sadie both look at me, her expression annoyed, and Nik—his lips are rolled into a thin line, clearly trying not to laugh. I fight the urge to shove a piece of pizza in his face.
You know what, I’ll go get a towel.
I explain the spill to the kitchen and ask for something to help clean it up, but the older man behind the counter waves his hands and says he’ll handle it. He makes his way to the table, where Nik has stood and is wiping my chair. Sadie’s mouth is moving a mile a minute, hands flying in the air, and I take that as my cue to exit.
Down the hall, I find the restroom. It’s a single so I lock the door. After turning to face the small mirror above the sink, my heart drops. I look like I’ve peed myself. I sigh, rotating to inspect my backside, which is more of the same, the light wash of my pants now darkened with splotchy patches.
I use the facilities and wash up, but instead of leaving, I end up leaning on both hands against the sink, staring at myself in the mirror.
Come on, Luna, get it together.
A single tear falls, and I stare at it until I taste the salty drop on my lips. For a moment, I was enjoying myself, wanting to learn more about Nik. For example, why does he love pizza so much? Who taught him to cook? I wanted to thank him for not being angry I nearly torched his entire apartment, or for ruining his pan.
But I chickened out.
I chickened out, and now—now he’s probably having a much more enjoyable time with a woman who knows him far better than I do. He couldn’t even tell her who I was to him.
My stomach rumbles, not satisfied with the one breadstick I fed it, and I cringe at the thought of my mother making one of her comments about eating carbs.
Pounding on the door jolts me from my thoughts, and I startle, knocking the scented soap into the sink.
“Uh, just a minute.” My voice comes out shaky, and I cringe. I’m barely holding it together.
I gather several paper towels to clean the sink of soap. Then I turn on the water to rinse out the rest of the goopy mess.
Two additional whacks on the door. I clench my teeth together, mustering the will to be polite to the stranger on the other side.
“I’m so sorry, almost finished.”
I whirl around and unlock the bolt above the handle. But before I can tug on the door, it flies open and I jump back, out of the way. Nik stalks in, eyes narrowed on my face, and the door slams shut.
I gape at him.
“This is the women’s restroom,” I say, wondering if maybe he thought this was the men’s. He probably needs to use it after all the cheese he ate.
He looks me over. “Glad you found the right one.” He folds his arms across his chest.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Same thing you are.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Which would be what?”
“Hiding.”
He smirks, and that dimple appears. The woodsy scent of Nik wafts in the air, mingling with the lemon hand soap I dumped in the sink. I lean toward him. A pulse of … something … flutters low in my belly and I step back, needing space between us.
“I’m not hiding. I had to use the bathroom.”
“Uh-huh. Look, I’ve paid us out already. Let’s go out the back.”
I stare at him. What the hell? I gather he doesn’t want to be confronted by that woman anymore, but coming into the restroom with me to escape …
I want this awkward situation to end. The wandering ways of Nikolai Balakin are on full display at the moment, and it’s quickly becoming clear what type of man he truly is. No hint of any women at his place—he probably always goes to them, keeping the attachment at a minimum. And now he’s running away from someone he most likely hooked up with by sneaking out the back door. This man is …
Is this what Alessio did? After meeting me at my family’s estate, lying with me on a blanket and staring up at the night sky. Claiming me, making me feel loved and accepted. All to run out afterward to pick up other young women he could actually be seen in public with. I hate the naive seventeen-year-old I was.
Bitterness festers, having eroded the hurt and pain.
I move to the door, but Nik’s arm extends in front of me. His jaw is clenched, shifting back and forth.
“I’m—I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I’m not good with …” He trails off. I know for a fact he wasn’t going to say womenbecause it seems that’s all he’s good at. I bite my tongue to avoid commenting as such.
He doesn’t finish his sentence. It hangs there along with the silence. As we stare at each other, my eyes drift to a patch of black ink on his lower neck that disappears under his navy button-down shirt. I’m curious where it extends. Does it wrap around his muscled back? Or does it descend along his front?
Ignoring it, and any further internal questions, I push past him and move to the open door. I scan both directions before turning to Nik.
“The coast is clear.”