The Bucket List

12.1 The Cookbook

I frown at the aisle of produce, clutching an empty shopping basket in one hand and my phone in the other. "The recipe calls for asparagus," I inform Nicholai, waving my phone between us. "That thing you're holding? That's not asparagus. That's garlic."

He throws me an exasperated look. Standing beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, he looks quite out of place. "We're not cooking that dreadful recipe," he informs me patiently, weighing the bulb of garlic in his hand. "I've got something else in mind."

I open my mouth to argue.

"Just...trust me," he says, voice soft. "Won't you?"

His eyes are wide and endearing—emotional manipulation at its finest. The argument dies on my tongue. "Okay," I say weakly. I hold up the basket. "Drop it in, asshat."

"Excellent."

We spend the next hour tracking down an extensive list of ingredients: spices, vegetables, eggs, flour...chocolate. Admittedly, the chocolate is my idea. I add it to our basket, shameless, before continuing on to the next aisle.

"This should be interesting," I mutter once we've successfully checked out. We hover at the exit, just beyond the reach of the rain.

Beside me, Nicholai wrestles with the umbrella. "I think it's broken," he mutters, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Broken? You mean—"

"I can call the car."

"But it's a block away," I protest. "Let's just make a run for it."

He raises a skeptical brow. "You sure about that?"

We both turn to assess the downpour in unison. I purse my lips, steeling my resolve. "Yes. I'm sure."

He heaves a dramatic sigh. "Of course you are."

If he says anything else, it's lost in the rain. I dart across the parking lot, head down and arms wrapped firmly around the grocery bag. Water pelts my skin, soaking my dress. Not for the first time that week, I curse my impractical wardrobe.

Behind me, Nicholai lets out a rather filthy curse. I choke on a laugh.

"Almost there!" I call, looking both ways before hurrying across the intersection.

"Amara!" Nicholai swears again. "Are you trying to get run over?"

Gasping, we stumble beneath the eaves of the apartment complex. Nicholai tosses the broken umbrella into a nearby trashcan and then turns to me, rivulets of water running down his face. He's utterly drenched.

"You look like a drowned rat," I say, panting. And then I laugh, doubling over, the bag of groceries still snug against my chest.

He scowls at me, but there's something playful about it. "Get inside, darling."

I'm shuddering violently by the time we make it to the forty-second floor. The elevator doors slide open; I stare ahead, dreading the thought of taking even one more step in the stilettos I dubbed as "appropriate footwear" for today's outing.

Grimacing, I put one foot in front of the other. Just get to the kitchen, just get to the kitchen. "Why is this apartment so fucking big?" I groan.

From somewhere in the depths of his new supersized bedroom, Nicholai laughs. "I didn't realize you were so preoccupied with size."

"Ha-ha." Giddy with anticipation, I toss the grocery bag on the counter and quickly slip out of my heels. "Thank fuck," I breathe, wiggling my toes.

The relief I feel is instantaneous—and short-lived. I fold my arms to ward away the cold, but it's no use. My dress is soaked through, clinging to my skin in the absolute worst way. To keep myself preoccupied, I start unpacking one of the soggy grocery bags, goosebumps erupting across my skin as the air conditioning kicks into high gear, blowing directly on the back of my neck.

"I'll get those."

I spin, startled. Nicholai is leaning against the sink, barefoot and...

"Are those sweatpants?" I ask, incredulous. I'm not sure why I'm surprised. It's not like the man sleeps in a suit.

He shifts beneath my scrutiny, fiddling with the waistband of his grey sweats. "Don't sound so surprised." He slides a stack of clothes across the counter. "Here. Chester had a few things brought over while we were gone."

I still can't tear my eyes away from him. Nicholai. In sweatpants. In grey sweatpants, no less.

"Amara," he croons, amused. "You're going to freeze to death in that dress."

I take the clothes, flustered. "Thanks."

"Take your time."

"Um...thanks," I say again. Apparently, I've forgotten how to string together a sentence. Brilliant.

The master bath is a safe haven of heated floors and over large mirrors. "Excellently handled, Rossi," I mutter under my breath, shutting the door behind me. "Very suave. We're all impressed."

I spend the next five minutes ringing rainwater from my hair. Pale pink dye swirls down the drain—an unhelpful reminder that a trip to the salon will be needed, and soon. With a sigh, I discard the ruined dress and slip a spare t-shirt over my head. It obviously belongs to Nicholai; the soft fabric falls past my knees.

Grumbling under my breath about freakishly large men, I hastily pull on the sweatpants and return to the kitchen, feeling marginally less miserable than before.

Nicholai is at the stove, standing vigil over a pot of boiling water. A cookbook sits on the counter beside him, a wooden spoon jammed between the pages.

He turns at the sound of my approach, eyes tracking my every movement. I twist my fingers in his shirt, nervous beyond reason.

"Have a seat." He gestures to one of the barstools.

I sit, flexing my aching feet. A golden platter sits on the counter between us. I lift the edge of the tinfoil, curious. And then I gasp. "Cannoli!"

Nicholai grins. "I had Chef Dumont prepare a batch before I left this morning. Chester just dropped them off."

"This is the best day of my life," I announce, sliding one of the pastries in my mouth.

"You did seem to enjoy them last time." He's clearly pleased by my reaction.

"I don't think you understand. I would do unspeakable things for these cannoli."

He looks at me then, a naughty smile curling his lips. "Noted."

I weigh the pros and cons of eating a second pastry before dinner. "You don't want help?" I offer hesitantly, licking my fingers clean.

"Actually." Nicholai digs out the list from his front pocket. He sets it on the counter between us. "Mark our progress, please."

I grab a pen from my purse. "Alright." I smooth out the sheet of paper. "Item five is finito."

"And six."

I glance down at the list. Use your new kitchen (and learn to cook something other than canned ravioli), it reads. Try the recipe on page 263. "What's the recipe on page 263?" I ask, running a thin, careful line through the words.

"You'll see," Nicholai promises, his back to me.