Chapter 15 Holly
HOLLY
"No, no, dorogaya," Katya says, her flour-dusted hands guiding mine. "You must fold, not stir. See? Like this. Gentle. Gentle.”
I laugh and try again, this time folding the rich, buttery mixture the way she showed me. We're making a cake, and the kitchen smells like heaven. Like warm honey and butter, all mixed together with the lingering scent of the Christmas cookies we baked earlier.
The counter is covered in our creations. Gingerbread stars dusted with powdered sugar. Chocolate crinkle cookies that look like they're covered in snow. Delicate butter cookies shaped like snowflakes. And now, this honey cake that Katya promises will be the crowning glory of our day's work.
"Perfect," Katya says, watching me fold the last bit of flour into the mixture. "You are a natural baker, I think."
"I don't know about that," I say, but I'm smiling.
I haven’t seen Nikolai since last night.
When I came down for breakfast, he was already gone, and Katya said he left early because he had business out of town.
Part of me is relieved he’s gone. But the other part of me, the one that is fired up and pissed at him for what he’s done, wants him here so I can yell at him some more.
So I do my best to force it out of my mind and spend the day with Katya and Andrei, and it's nice. More than nice. It's the kind of day where you lose track of time because you're laughing too hard.
Andrei is currently frosting a batch of sugar cookies shaped like reindeer, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he tries to make the antlers symmetrical.
"These look drunk," he announces, holding one up for inspection. "Like they've been hitting the eggnog hard."
"They look perfect," I tell him.
"Liar." But he's grinning as he sets it aside.
Katya slides the honey cake into the oven and sets the timer. "Now we wait. Forty minutes. Time for hot cocoa, yes?"
She's already moving toward the stove to make a batch.
“Not for me,” Andrei says, dusting his hands of sugar and shrugging on his coat. “I have to run some errands in town. I’ll catch you ladies later.”
When Andrei leaves, I sink onto one of the kitchen stools and think of how I’m going to tell Katya I’ve married her insane boss. So far there has been no mention of me marrying Nikolai, and I wonder if she even knows.
I want to tell her. Call me crazy, but I feel like I am letting her down by not mentioning it. She loves Nikolai like her own son, and it feels wrong to keep it from her.
But I don’t even know how to bring it up.
Hey, you’ll never guess what happened…
But as luck would have it, I don’t have to broach the subject, because when she places a cup of hot cocoa in front of me, she nods toward the simple gold band on my wedding finger.
“That looks good on you,” she says with a soft smile.
That’s it.
No gasp of shock. No alarm bells. No questions.
Just… approval.
Surprised by her reaction, I say, “It was… unexpected.”
“That sounds like Nikolai.” She gives me a warm smile. “You will be a good wife. And he will be a loyal husband.”
I'm about to ask her about Nikolai. I want to learn more about the man I’m now married to. Because knowledge is power and I need to arm myself with some of it.
But then I hear the rumble of an engine followed by car doors slamming.
My heart does this stupid flip in my chest, and I hate myself for it.
Katya must see something on my face because she smiles knowingly and pats my hand. "Your husband is home."
My husband.
Jesus, why did my stomach just flip?
The front door opens, and Nikolai steps inside, looking windswept and gorgeous, his dark hair mussed from the cold, his cheeks flushed, his blue eyes bright and alive in a way I haven't seen before.
And he's brought a tree.
A massive, perfect Douglas fir that his men are wrestling through the doorway.
"Careful with the branches," Nikolai orders, shrugging out of his jacket.
He turns and sees me standing there, and something passes across his face. Something warm and satisfied that makes my stomach do backflips. Again.
"You got a tree," I breathe.
“I got a tree.”
“I’m surprised.”
"You said you wanted one." He says it casually, like it's no big deal. Like he didn't just go out and cut down a tree because I complained about the lack of Christmas decorations over dinner.
"It's perfect," I whisper.
His eyes lock onto mine, and the intensity in them makes my knees weak. "I’m pleased my wife likes it."
My wife.
Then he smiles, and it’s radiant and ruinous.
And I realize I don’t stand a chance against Nikolai Morozov.