Chapter 8
Alexei
I’m running late to meet Meg at the bakery, but I’ve already had to work for her forgiveness once. I’m not afraid to do it again—but this time, I hope she’ll understand.
“You did all this… for the baker?” Leonid leans against the countertop, eyeballing my creations. “The one you just met yesterday?”
When he reaches for one, I smack his hand away. “Stop it, Lyonya! Those are not for you. You get the ugly ones.”
He laughs. “Okay, then. You’ve got it bad.”
“Yes,” I hiss. “I made these for the baker—her name’s Meg, by the way—because I want her to know that her traditions matter too. I understand it now, the whole Thanksgiving thing.”
My brother laughs. “You understand why Americans put marshmallows on sweet potatoes?”
“No, not that.” But my head snaps up as I consider this. “Maybe I’ll try it tonight. Who knows? I want to make sure I make a good impression.”
“Can I just point out what a big, fat hypocrite you are, Alyosha? You gave me so much shit when I ‘connected’ with Nina at backstage at the charity auction.”
“That’s because you dropped ten thousand dollars on her.” I snort and slide my handmade bakes into a plastic box.
“I dropped ten thousand dollars for charity. And Nina.” He leans over the counter and claps me on the shoulder. “So, what’s this then? The equivalent of ten thousand hours of labor?”
I shake his arm off as I work to move the pirozhki into a container. “A labor of love, yes. That’s what Mom and babushka would’ve said.”
“Oh, so it’s love, is it?” Leonid smirks.
I consider throwing one of the hand pies at his head. That might shut him up. Whatever it is, I’m not telling him before I tell her, so I don’t answer. I just channel my Meg-like focus on getting this done.
It’s so stressful, preparing something homemade for other people to eat. I don’t know how Meg does this every day.
“It’s… something.” I grumble, slapping the top on the box and wheeling out the door.
“Happy Thanksgiving, brother!” he shouts after me. “Hope you wore your stretchy pants!”
I don’t respond, just speed my way over to the bakery with a bundle of nerves dead center of my chest.
And when I turn up on her doorstep, she’s already waiting for me. Her skater dress and sweater combo accentuate every one of her curves, and I swallow hard when I leap out of the car and greet her.
“Hey. Sorry, I’m late. I spent all day preparing something.”
“Oh? You didn’t have to bring anything.”
I exhale a breath. “I read online that most people bring something to the Thanksgiving table to contribute to the meal. Guess that’s why it always seemed like a lot.”
She laughs and slides her hand into mine. “That’s true, but trust me, my family makes more than enough. And see, I’ve got three pies to bring. One of them is just for Felicity. She won’t share the pecan with anyone.”
“Please,” I say, squeezing her hand. “It’s important to me to share a part of my culture with you, too. Thanksgiving seems like the perfect time to do so.”
“Of course. Anything you brought would absolutely be welcomed and probably gobbled down in two minutes flat.”
“I made Russian hand pies. From scratch. The way my babushka taught me. We had them at every New Year’s celebration growing up. But they’re a lot of work. It never seemed worthwhile to go through all the steps for just me and Leo.”
She glances at the box I pull out of the trunk and hoist in the air.
“I made three types. Traditional meat and potato, a cabbage one, and an apple one. This is what I want to give to you and your family. Is it okay?”
Her mouth opens on a small gasp as she steps forward to inspect them.
“Is it okay? This is fucking amazing, Alexei. Really thoughtful.” She turns to me, smiling broadly and eyes shining. “They smell incredible.”
“I worked as hard as you did last night,” I laugh. “Now I know how much stress you must’ve been under all week. I don’t know how you do it, but I hope you know how amazing you are, Meg.”
She slides her pies into the trunk, right alongside mine, and turns to face me.
“I know I kick ass in the kitchen, yeah.”
“Well, I think you kick everyone’s ass in the kitchen.”
She laughs. “True.”
“But I’m not good at hiding how I feel.” I take a deep breath. “This year, if I have to think about everything I’m thankful for, at the top of that list is love—and you. Because, even though it’s been all of twenty-four fucking hours, Meg, that’s what I feel for you. I love you.”
And she doesn’t laugh. Or flinch. Or blink.
She just cups my cheek and pulls me in for a quick, heated kiss.
“I told you yesterday that I go fast, and I go hard. Well, fuck it.” She takes a deep breath and lets her gaze burn into mine. “Guess I’m gonna have to get used to feeling all the feelings, because I fucking love you too, Alexei.”
That right there? Her admitting she feels as strongly as I do? That makes my whole damn holiday.