49. She made me jam. heart eyes
FORTY-NINE
SHE MADE ME JAM. *HEART EYES*
I watch her over my phone as she putters around the kitchen. Entranced by the sight even though it’s like watching a Martian ordering McDonalds.
Arching a brow when she darts outside and returns with a large stone bowl, I stand and take the weighty item from her. A glance at the contents reveals… water.
“What are you doing?”
“Never you mind.” My lips purse as I hide a smile while she gestures at the counter. “You can put it there.” She busses my cheek in thanks then retreats to the yard once more.
I peer through the window and watch as she heads to a small bush. Snatching a few sprigs from it, she returns to the kitchen with a bounce in her step.
“Seriously, what are you doing?” I insist when the scent of rosemary floods the room as she pinches the needle-like leaves between her fingers and drops them into the water.
“There was lightning last night.”
Utterly confused, I prompt, “And?”
“It’s something my mom used to do.”
When that’s about as much explanation as she’s willing to offer, I prod, “I’m still in the dark, pchelka.”
“There was lightning,” she repeats.
“Yes?” Honestly, I didn’t know there’d been a storm.
“You collect the water if it rains and then use it in the house.”
“To do what?”
She hitches a shoulder. “Wash the floor. Clean the doors. If it’s the season, I use it to make syrup for my hummingbird feeder.”
“Wait a minute. Do you mean to tell me you got out of bed last night and put a bowl in the yard and collected the rain and didn’t tell me?”
“Why would I tell you? It’s my business.”
I snort. “Your business is my business. Even if it’s…” I waft a hand. “This.”
Though she scoffs, it doesn’t stop her from pouring the water, laden with bobbing rosemary leaves, into a bucket. Some, she holds back and decants into a bottle instead.
More bewildered than ever, I watch as she spritzes the door and the window behind the sink and then mops the floor.
“I’m honestly surprised you know where you store the cleaning equipment.”
She tsks. “There’s knowing and there’s choosing to ignore.”
“You have a housekeeper,” I point out.
“This is important.”
“Why?”
“If you want big changes to happen, then you do this. At least, that’s what my mom said.”
“Mine told me to go to bed before eight. Spoiler: I don’t always listen.”
“Well, I’m a good girl—”
“Ha! Since when?”
Her nose scrunches. “I’ll have you know I—”
“Used to be?”
That earns me a huff. But she finally stops mopping. And spritzing.
“You should leave those things for the housekeeper.”
“I do. Trust me,” she says airily before heading to the stove and refocusing on her earlier task.
“I thought you’d be a disaster in here,” I admit, watching the strange choreography of her movements.
Even the bizarre stuff with the lightning water was like a dance.
She smirks. “Aoife taught me everything I know.”
My brow lifts. “Her brownie recipe?”
“The brownie recipe that’s worth millions?” She points a spatula at me. “That brownie will get Shay into the White House.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of the O’Donnellys’ attempt to legitimize the family name,” I say dryly. “I was just hoping you could bake them.”
“You’ll have to buy them like everyone else.”
“She makes Uncle Finn buy them when she’s mad at him,” Seamus confesses around a yawn as he steps into the kitchen.
Victoria’s eyes warn instant death via spatula when my eyes narrow on his naked chest and the fact he’s only wearing underwear.
Seamus, still yawning, begs, “Pancakes, Vicky?”
“Yes. And I’m making some for you because you gave me peace and quiet last night.”
He withdraws a bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator and downs half of it in one swallow. “How did your plotting go?”
“Better than expected. I want Dyers's head on a platter.” She nearly tumbles over Charlie, who darts toward the refrigerator as Seamus hasn’t closed the door yet. “Yes, Salome, I know that’s how you like heads served up to you, but there’s nothing in there for you yet.”
Seamus pauses. “You’re joking, right?”
“About which part?”
“Serving Charlie the head of…”
“Why are you calling him Charlie now?” she grinds out.
“Because Salome as a dog’s name sucks.”
I smile at Seamus. “I agree.”
“There? See. He’s going to have to live with the little fucker too. You both get equal say in his name.”
Victoria pouts. “He’s my dog.”
“Who let him out last night?” Seamus hints.
“And this morning,” I tack on.
“Ohh, so this is how it’s going to go, huh? You two bitching about one another when you’re not in the same room, then picking on me when we’re together? I see how it is.”
Seamus snorts. “I’ll call Maxim a dick to his face.”
“Likewise,” I grouch with a pointed look as I return to the essays Misha sent me last night.
I say essays because Nikolai clearly tried to smooth over the troubled waters he himself stirred and Misha’s apologies read like a dissertation.
“Anyway, Charlie’s a good name. A strong name.”
“Salome is the strongest of them all.”
I tune out of their bickering until:
“Do dogs eat heads?” Victoria pauses. “For that matter, do pigs?”
“Dad told me pigs eat everything. Even the tail.”
She cackles. “Gross.”
A smile dances on Seamus’s lips. “Thought you’d like that one.”
“Bloodthirsty wench.” I kiss her cheek when she places pancakes in front of me and a pot of— “Varenye?”
Her smile turns smug. “You didn’t think I could make it?”
Nor the Zavarka with caravan tea leaves—especially for me, or so she told me.
“That the weird jam you were making with Wynter the other day?”
“Shut up, Shay.”
Seamus shrugs. “Now I know why you wouldn’t let me have any.”
“Varenye is wasted on your plebeian palate.” She nudges the jar toward me. “I asked Miroslava what your favorite was.”
I snag her hand, lift it to my mouth, and kiss the inside of her wrist. “Thank you, dorogoya moya.”
“Excuse me while I barf.”
Victoria whips around to glower at him. “Fuck off, Shay.”
He chortles. “Did you know if you boil the cherries with their pits in, it releases hydrocyanic acid into the jam, Maxim?”
“I pitted them first! And you’re wrong, Mr. Know-It-All. You have to crush the pit first.”
“Miroslava asked you three times if you’d thrown the pit out though, didn’t she?” Seamus throws her a smirk that she bites her thumb at. “My work here is done, Mrs. Shakespeare.”
“And take that OJ with you after it’s had your disgusting mouth around it!”
“Yes, ma’am. Shall I salute too?”
“I mean, I could make you kneel,” she retorts, saccharin sweet.
Seamus flips her the bird, winks at me, then, strolling out with a whistle—OJ in one hand and a dish of pancakes in the other—calls out, “We going running today?”
“Yes,” she shouts back. “This afternoon?”
“4 PM?”
“Okay!” Like that short convo never happened, she taps her finger to her lips. “I can see why you think he’s annoying.”
Snorting at the admission, I drizzle the cherry jam over the pancakes. “Almost killed me before we’d been married a week?”
“No. I knew that cherry pits were dangerous. Just like apple seeds,” she insists. “Though, admittedly, what a way to go.”
“Death by jam? Innovative.”
Victoria presses her elbows to the counter and leans into my shoulder. “What a way to murder someone! Come on, Maxim. There’s more to murder than just amputation!”
“I don’t kill everyone I meet, kotik.”
“Only the really annoying people, I bet.” She clucks her tongue. In sympathy. “I get it.”
I try not to laugh. “And amputation doesn’t always lead to death. It’s useful that way.”
Her gaze turns distant. “Makes sense.”
“I’m sensible sometimes.”
“Don’t you… have any hobbies?”
I sit back on my seat. “Work and fucking you don’t count, I’m guessing?”
“No.” Concern creeps into her expression when I don’t have a ready answer. “We need to improve on that, Max. You don’t watch TV, for God’s sake! It’s not normal.”
“I have TVs!” I argue.
“That’s not the same as watching them. I suppose you practice Jiu-Jitsu, but that’s less about fun and more about being able to kill someone.” She takes a dainty sip of tea. “Hmmm.”
Because this isn’t a conversation I’m ever going to win, and sensing I’m about to become a “project,” I ask, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I have to talk to Morgan Neige about your donations to Heat N Go.”
Donations. Plural. I smile.
“What about them?”
“I think we need some mode of transportation. It’s not enough to just fill the food banks. There are homeless people who need to eat in town and the soup kitchens can only feed so many. We could set up a round or—”
“If you ever do a shift, you tell me and I’ll get a guard to fulfill it.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Tough.”
She grumbles, “Pain in my ass.”
“I can be. If you want.” Her glare has me studying her. “Why do you do this?”
Her focus shifts to her tea. “Even before I knew more about your childhood, I had a reason to care about this stuff. Did you know Camille found sanctuary with the Sinners because after she left home, she was homeless? That she nearly starved?”
“I didn’t know that, no.” I find her hand and gently squeeze it. “She’s safe now.”
“No thanks to family. I promised myself that I wouldn’t let some other girl feel that way. And now I have access to your bank account and a trust fund, apparently, so I can deliver on that promise.”
I kiss the inside of her wrist. “Brennan would have helped.”
“Yes. Eoghan, too. I just… don’t like bringing it up. It was a terrible time for her and… this is my project. Not theirs.”
“I understand,” I tell her softly. “Now, what other plans do you have?”
“I’m talking to someone about our fuck furniture.”
“That’s the official name?”
“Of course. I’ll trademark it if it takes off.” She taps her chin. “I’m putting her on a retainer so she’ll make everything I want.”
“Good idea.”
“I know. Aren’t I the best?”
“Yes, korovka.”
“I figured Mongolian cashmere would feel the best against my skin.” She shivers like she’s imagining the sensory experience. “I wonder if Miroslava knows how to get cum out of wool.”
I almost snort my tea through my nose. “Warn a man, kroshka!”
“What? It’s your fault. You produce a lot of it.” Her eyes trace me up and down. “Is that because you’re so… fit?”
When she licks her lips, I hide a smile. But there’s no hiding it when she falls into a daze, her mind enjoying the journey her imagination takes her on…
“Victoria,” I prod gently.
She blinks. “Hmm?”
“Your day, zaya.”
“Oh. Yes.” My amusement deepens when she doesn’t blush at being caught daydreaming. “I have classes. Boring. I don’t know what the point is when everyone’s more focused on Thanksgiving being around the corner. Where are we spending it, by the way?”
I pause in the process of cutting my pancake into pieces. “With your family if you wish. Misha spends it with the Daniels’ family. He’s dating Savannah O’Donnelly’s sister.”
“Huh, they’ve been dating a long time, haven’t they?”
“I don’t keep count.”
She snorts. “Well, unluckily for Misha, I do. Anyhoo, Christmas is the big day in the O’Donnelly household. We can spend Thanksgiving here if you want?”
“American Christmas?”
“Irish,” she corrects with a grin. “But yeah. Ours is something Camille, Inessa, Brennan, and Eoghan alternate between hosting. Hey, we can host it too now!” She taps her chin again.
“I suppose I’ll need to make the fuck furniture look like it’ll fit in the brownstone.
You have all those elegant pieces, a touch of antiques too—can you get me some pictures? ”
“I know you have Miroslava’s, but I’ll send you the rest of the staff’s information.”
“Yes, the staff are my domain now, aren’t they?”
Her glee has me grimacing. “A chore I’ll willingly gift to you, kroshka.”
“Good.”
“Misha deals with their background checks.”
“Gotcha.”
“Why do you need pictures of the furniture anyway?”
“Because my sisters are nosy. They kept it contained last time, but they’ll be scanning every room of the house when they come and visit.
“They know about the fuck furniture, but I want them to guess which piece it is in a room so they’ll always be wary of taking a seat.”
“Evil mastermind. Won’t it be the closest flat surface?”
“Not always.” Her eyes gleam. “I have some ideas.”
I shake my head but concede this to her.
“Do you like hockey?”
“I’m Russian. Of course I do.” I spoon varenye into my tea. “Does that count as a hobby?”
“When was the last time you watched it?”
My wince earns me a knowing look. “That’s a no. The Dukes are playing tomorrow. Want to go?”
Because she’s more transparent than water, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “This is bonding time with Seamus, isn’t it?”
“I’ll sit between the two of you.”
I groan.
“Is that a yes?” she wheedles.
“It’s a maybe.”
“Why?!”
“Because hopefully, I’ll be needed in the city. As it stands, I’ll be back tonight.”
“Do you take Thanksgiving off?”
“Before now, I never took any vacation time, but things are different.”
“You have a wife.”
“I do.”
“And she needs to see her husband on holidays.”
I cup her cheek. “Our life will never follow a regular pattern. You’re the child of a Pakhan. You know I can make you no promises, but I swear to you—I’ll prioritize holidays as much as I can. If I don’t show up, it’s because it’s an emergency. Do you understand?”
Eyes softer than the warm jam she made just for me, she cups my wrist, turns her cheek into my hand, and kisses my palm. “I understand.” The softness retreats. Impishness replaces it. “For you, I’ll learn to enjoy hockey.”
I snicker. “If you’re going to make me watch it with Seamus, then damn straight you’ll learn to enjoy it.”
The sacrifice is worth it to watch her happily bounce around the kitchen. Charlie, seeming to sense that he’s in less danger—oh, the irony—by my feet, plops his head on my toes as we both watch his mistress serve herself some breakfast.
Her talents might say otherwise, but I know my wife isn’t a natural in here. This isn’t her place. She’s meant for more. In all honesty, I know she’s meant for a better man than me…
My jaw works at the thought, but I recognize the truth when it slaps me in the face.
When Wynter calls, she puts her cell on speaker and they discuss their plans for a study session after classes later.
With her distracted, I drop some pancake in front of Charlie and, in Latgalian, rumble, “We’ll just have to make sure that we treat her like the queen she is so she forgets that both of us are mutts.”
Even that won’t be enough.
But it’s a start.