“Why not?” I sip my wine, fighting the urge to push back that unruly lock of hair that keeps falling over his forehead.
It really, really wouldn’t be appropriate.
The furrow underneath the lock of hair deepens. “We’re talking standard versions of those characters?”
“There are versions?”
“Sure. The original story of Beauty and the Beast was French, but there’s also a Russian one, which even has a cartoon that’s much better than the Disney one—at least in my opinion. On the other hand, Snow White was originally a story by Brothers Grimm. It also has a Russian version. She goes by Snowdrop and lives with seven bogatyrs instead of dwarves.”
I lower my voice. “Is bogatyrs something disgusting they serve at this restaurant?”
He adjusts his glasses. “A bogatyr is a warrior from Russian legends.”
I cock my head. “So this Russian Snow White lives with seven warrior dudes?”
He nods.
“That sounds like a reverse harem romance.”
Amusement glimmers in the blue depths of his eyes. “I think she stays pure for her prince—who’s not one of the ‘dudes.’ Also, the Disney version could be seen as reverse harem also, if your mind is dirty enough.”
As someone whose mind is never far out of the gutter, I redden as I picture Sneezy, Grumpy, Dopey, and Sleepy in a gang bang with Snow White.
“How about we stick with Disney versions?” I say.
“In that case, Belle would win.” He sounds as serious as if we were talking about the quarterly reports. “Of those two, Belle is more adventurous. She fought for the Beast at the end and had more depth when it came to her reasons for falling in love. In contrast, Snow White is a stereotypical damsel in distress who’d probably ask Prince Charming to fight Belle in her stead.”
Damn it, he’s right. I couldn’t win even in this allegorical battle—and what’s worse, he just called my allegorical doppelgänger unadventurous.
The waiter comes back, carrying a tray filled with plates.
Everything looks safe enough, but I wait for him to explain what it is.
“Mixed yuca and yam fries in bechamel sauce,” he says, pointing at the relevant plate. “Bluefin tuna fish sticks. Quail nuggets. Beaufort D'Été quesadillas.”
I beam at the waiter in relief. “It all sounds delicious.”
When he leaves, I lean toward the Impaler. “That’s the kid’s menu? Do they even allow children in this place?”
Another hint of a smile. “I’ve never seen one—and I’m a regular.”
Figures.
I reach for one of the fries, and he must’ve had the same idea because our fingers touch.
I suddenly feel a hunger that has nothing to do with food.
“After you.” He gestures at the fries.
I snatch a couple and stuff them into my mouth.
Wow.
Not sure if I got a yuca or a yam, but it’s yum. The fish stick I try next is the best I’ve ever tasted, the nugget is pretty amazing as well, and when I bite into the quesadilla, I almost moan in pleasure.
Then I notice something. He’s using a fork and a knife for the items I’ve just eaten with my fingers, like a cavewoman.
I spear the next nugget with a fork. “This is much better than snail eggs.”
“I’m glad, Ms. Pack. I wouldn’t want you to regret my choice of this restaurant.”
I chew the nugget, debating if I should ask him this or not. Finally, I decide to just go for it. “Look, after the hospital thing and this lunch, would you mind calling me Fanny?”
That way, I’ll be able to stop thinking of round, hungry things and, more importantly, might forget for a moment that I’m lusting after my boss’s boss.
His sexy lips quirk. “Fanny,” he murmurs, and hearing my name with that accent makes me like it for the first time in my life. “Call me Vlad, then.”
My heartbeat speeds up. “Vlad,” I repeat obediently.
Wait, did that sound too husky? Because I really like the sound of his name on my lips. No more boss squared or the Impaler business for me. I’m calling him Vlad every chance I get.
Another smile curves his lips. “But no diminutives, okay?”
I blink at him. “Isn’t Vlad already a diminutive form of Vladimir?”
He looks impressed. “I’d call it the short form, but that’s pretty good for a non-Russian.”
A warm glow spreads through me at his praise. “I picked up a few things in Brooklyn College. A high percentage of the computer science students shared your background. One guy called me Fan’ka, so I looked into this.”
A dark gleam appears in his eyes—that or my imagination is running wild. “Fan’ka sounds like something you’d call a naughty child. The affectionate version would be Fannychka.”
Fannychka. I like it. Fannychka Pack doesn’t sound like a waist bag anymore.
Nor does Fanny Chortsky for that matter.
He narrows his eyes. “That mischievous smile… If you were thinking about calling me something like Vovochka, don’t. It happens to be a character that’s the butt of a lot of Russian jokes.”
Huh. I had no intention of doing so, but that’s interesting. And thank God he’s not an actual vampire and can’t read minds. “Deal,” I say. “But you have to tell me one of those jokes.”
He frowns. “They don’t translate well.”
“That’s fine. I still want to hear one.”
“Okay. Bear in mind that Vovochka is usually a misbehaving child. Think Dennis the Menace. Also, Russian humor can get pretty dark.”
“Now I really want to hear one.” I pick up my wine glass.
“Here goes: One sunny Sunday morning, Vovochka runs to his mother: ‘Mom, hurry, Dad hung himself in the living room!’ The mother nearly has a heart attack as she rushes to the living room—just to find it empty. ‘April Fools’, Mom!’ Vovochka says. ‘Dad’s hanging in the bathroom.’”
I nearly choke on my wine.
Vlad’s phone dings with a text.
He glances down, then looks at me apologetically. “The limo is outside. I have to go soon. Are you coming?”
I wipe under my nose and sneak a peek—no wine. “Is it far?”
“No, just a short drive away.”
I’m about to ask more, but he loads a heaping portion of nuggets onto my plate. “Let’s finish this quick. We don’t have much time.”
We attack the food as if we were in a hot-dog-eating contest, which doesn’t prevent me from having a couple of foodgasms. Sadly, his phone begins beeping all too soon, so we leave some delicious stuff uneaten and get up.
He leaves a fortune in cash on the table and leads me to the car. As he opens the door for me, I catch a glimpse of Britney across the street. She’s standing there, staring at us.
Stalker much?
Ignoring her, I climb in and sit next to where he left his laptop in hopes that he’ll sit next to me.
I’m a Machiavellian genius.
Vlad takes a seat right next to me, and his lapis lazuli eyes meet mine.
My breath catches in my throat at the dark heat in his gaze. The air in the car suddenly feels charged with so much electricity I all but smell ozone.