Chapter Thirteen
Quinn slid the last piece of leftover chicken Parmesan off the spatula and into a plastic container. She snapped on the lid and set it on the shelf inside the refrigerator. “That’ll make for some mean chicken Parm sandwiches for lunch tomorrow. I can hardly wait.” The refrigerator door swung closed with a soft thump.
Next, she set the empty baking dish on the counter next to the sink. James rinsed off a dinner plate and placed it in the lower rack of the dishwasher. He shot her a playful smirk over his shoulder. “What makes you think you get any leftovers? I made it.”
She crossed her arms and leaned her hip against the edge of the counter. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”
“When it comes to chicken Parmesan, I’m afraid so.” James picked up the dish Quinn had set on the counter and stuck it under the faucet’s stream of hot water.
Mesmerized, she watched the residual tomato sauce swirl down the drain. “I’m afraid the law doesn’t back you up on that. Virginia is an equitable property state. Everything acquired in the marriage is divided equally.”
“Should I be worried that you know that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, because me spewing bits of trivia is a completely new thing.”
He chuckled, turned off the water, and set the dish in the dishwasher.
“You’re lucky I didn’t ask you to sign a prenup before we got married,” she said. “I mean, look at all the fabulous assets I brought into this marriage: my ancient and completely gross couch, my twenty-year-old car, my savings account bursting with a grand total of two thousand dollars.” She glanced over at Rasputin, crouched over his food dish, chowing down on his dinner. “My cat.”
“Yes, all are treasures,” James said. “Although we’ve already ditched the couch.” For Quinn, doing so had been bittersweet. Its better days had long past. But it was a part of Ellington family lore, having been used by each sibling and passed down the line until it came to her. As the youngest, she had no one to give it to when she and James combined households and moved into a new apartment. James had made a persuasive case to keep his sofa, pointing out he had been its sole owner and it wasn’t stained as if it had been used in the performance of ritual sacrifices.
James rolled the rack into the dishwasher, squirted liquid detergent into the dispenser, and lifted the door. After shutting it tight and pressing the start button, he hooked his fingers through the belt loops at the front of her jeans and yanked her to him. “To be honest, I’m more interested in your other assets.”
She grinned, looped an arm around his neck, and pulled him into a kiss. “My assets and I appreciate it.”
“And I promise to share my chicken Parmesan with you. Not because it appears I’m legally bound, but because I love you.”
“You’re sweet. And I love you too.” They shared another kiss, this one longer and a little more heated. When it ended, she said, “And thank you for making dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” He laced his fingers together at the small of her back. “I got a movie for us to watch tonight.”
“Only married a month and we’re already staying home on Saturday nights,” she teased.
“Okay, Miss Social Butterfly. Do you have another suggestion?”
“It’s Mrs. Social Butterfly, thank you very much. And to be honest, I was thinking about writing out some more wedding present thank-you cards.”
His expression turned sour. “That’s no fun.”
“I know, but that note thanking your Uncle Charlie for the chainsaw isn’t going to write itself.” Her nose wrinkled. “Seriously, what’s the deal with that? I mean, I appreciate the thought, but we live in an apartment. What are we going to do with a chainsaw?”
He shook his head. “I got nothing. He’s my mom’s brother. Her side of the family tends to be”—he peered up at the ceiling as he searched for the right word—“unconventional.” A devilish smile curled on his lips. “Can I write the thank-you for that black lacy number Nicole gave you? I owe her a tremendous debt of gratitude.”
Quinn’s eyes sparkled with delight. “I think we should both thank her.” Every time she wore that sheer little nightie, some rafter-rattling sex ensued. “But you’re right. I don’t want to do that on a Saturday night. Besides, I want to keep enjoying my day off from Russian immersion. I’m only hours away from writing everything in Cyrillic.”
A guilty look crossed his face.
She cut her eyes up at him. “What?”
“The movie is in Russian.”
“Aw, James,” she said, annoyed. “This is the first day all week we’ve spoken English at home.” She shrugged out of his embrace, crossed the kitchen, and spun around. “I’ve been marinating in Russian twenty-four-seven since the day we went back to work. I spend all day, every day in that damn class at the agency. And then when I get home, I have to struggle and fight to come up with every word I want to say to you. I feel like a two-year-old, having to point at stuff and use one or two words at a time.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sick of it.”
“I know you are, and I know it’s frustrating. But give yourself a break. You’ve only been at it for a couple of weeks. You’re doing a lot better than you think.”
Her shoulders lowered, but the scowl remained. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” She heard nothing but absolute sincerity in his tone. “Maybe you aren’t quite ready to read War and Peace in the original Russian. But I’m sure you’ll be rock solid when we get to Saint Petersburg.”
She wasn’t so sure about that.
He moved a shoulder in a slight shrug. “I thought a movie tonight would be a good compromise since we haven’t spoken it at all today.” He took a tentative step toward her. “It has English subtitles.”
He was so incredibly sweet and patient. Her defenses began to crumble. “I guess it is important I do something with it every day.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled closer. “I’ll make popcorn,” he said with a smile that made her go all tingly.
Holy cow, he was sexy. And that smile of his always rendered her completely powerless to resist. Not that she ever wanted to. “Okay.” She grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him to her. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers and responded to her declaration of love for him. “Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”
After they shared a tender kiss, she asked, “So which masterpiece of Russian cinema will we be watching?”
He went to the cupboard and removed a bag from the box of microwave popcorn. “You scoff, but it’s considered an artistic tour de force.” He removed the bag’s outer cellophane layer, tossed it in the microwave, and pressed a button on the front panel. The oven began to hum.
“Artistic. Now I’m really worried.” Quinn picked up her wineglass from the table and took a sip. “They can be hard to follow when you do speak the language.”
A lone kernel popped in the oven. A few seconds later, several more exploded in rapid succession.
“I’m sure between the two of us we can get the main points figured out,” he said.
With James’s wineglass now in her other hand, she carried both into the living room and set them on the coffee table. The second she flopped onto the couch, Rasputin jumped up, sat on the cushion next to her, and began his after-dinner cleaning ritual. “You’re a little more optimistic than I am.” She watched Rasputin lick the back of his front paw and swipe it over his ear and face. “You still haven’t told me the name of this cinematic wonder. From what you’ve said so far, I take it it’s not The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie.”
The explosions coming from the kitchen slowed until Quinn heard only an occasional staccato pop. James opened the microwave door, retrieved the now expanded bag, and pulled it open. He dumped the contents into a bowl and said, “That movie is a masterpiece of another kind. Tonight, our senses will be feasting on the black-and-white glory that is the 1938 classic Alexander Nevsky.” Bowl in hand, he walked toward her. “And of course you’re already searching the Internet about it.”
She looked up from her phone and arched an eyebrow. “And this surprises you because . . .”
He set the popcorn next to the wineglasses. “I’m only surprised by the fact you don’t already know about it, oh Great Trivia Master.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, garnering her a laugh. “I’m a librarian. I don’t know everything. I just know how to find out about everything.”
“Ah, your secret is out,” he said and went to the DVD player.
While he pressed buttons on various remote controls and slid the disc into the machine, she skimmed the summary of the movie. “It says Alexander Nevsky was a thirteenth century prince who, among other things, waged war with an invading German army. Apparently it’s a parallel to the Nazi threat to the Soviets.” Her eyes followed James as he turned off the overhead lights and switched on a lamp. The room was illumined by a soft, yellow glow. “Sounds like a feelgood romp,” she said, poker-faced.
He lowered himself onto the sofa next to her, lifted the bowl of popcorn, and settled back against the cushions. His feet propped on the table, he set the munchies between them, pointed the remote, and pressed play.
She burrowed into his side and tucked her feet under her when his arm curled around her back. “Oh, cool,” she said, consulting her phone again. “The score was written by Sergei Prokofiev.” They watched the opening credits, which featured no sound other than a hum and the occasional crackle of the original eighty-year-old recording. “Sergei must have had a no-opening-credits clause in his contract.”
“Yeah, because the Soviets were all about fair compensation,” James said before munching on a handful of popcorn.
Quinn clicked off her phone and dropped it on the cushion next to Rasputin. With front paws folded under his chest and tail wrapped around one side, the cat was the epitome of chill. He stared Zen-like through eyelids lowered to thin slits.
The movie opened with a shot of a battlefield strewn with shields and swords. A bleached-white skull still wearing its helmet lay on a bleak, barren landscape.
“Cheery,” James deadpanned.
At first, Quinn followed the story pretty well. Ragingly propagandist, noble, salt-of-the-earth Russians were forced to repel an invasion by the sinister, papist Germans who wore metal bucket-like helmets on their heads reminiscent of the Black Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Admittedly, she was more than a little excited when she understood random words here and there. Of course, the subtitles helped.
Eventually, though, her attention began to wane about the time the Germans who looked like the “Knights Who Say, ‘Ni! ’” sent their men to battle the Russian peasant army. It wasn’t for lack of her trying to stay focused. The culprit was James. As they sat together—relaxed, easy, intimate—her body reacted to him. She throbbed. Her breathing grew shallow. Her mouth went dry. Her mind was hijacked by thoughts of jumping on him and kissing him senseless. And that was only for starters.
She wondered if James was afflicted by the same urges when he began to draw circles on her upper arm with his fingertips. Either way, it made her go utterly cross-eyed.
She shifted closer to him and drew in a deep breath. She was so fully consumed by him—his touch, his scent, the warmth his body emitted—she couldn’t contain her desire any longer.
Fire burning in her belly, she twisted toward him and gently pressed her lips to his jaw.
He didn’t react, at least overtly. She knew she had his attention, though, by the way the muscles in his abdomen quivered under her hand.
His eyelids fluttered as she continued to cover his jaw with delicate kisses. The more labored his breathing became, the higher her core temperature climbed.
Quinn picked up the popcorn bowl and blindly set it on the table. It clanked against a wine goblet that narrowly escaped tipping over. She rose up on her knees, straddled him, and settled on his lap.
His head dropped back against the wall. She lowered her mouth onto his awaiting lips. As they kissed, long and deep and sensual, his hands slithered under her top and caressed her back.
In the background, Prokofiev’s stirring score played as an epic battle waged. Quinn sat back and peeled off her top. “You know? I’m enjoying this movie a lot more than I thought I would.” She tossed it aside, sending Rasputin racing for the safety of the bedroom.
Captivated, James’s eyes lingered on her, drinking her in. He threaded his fingers through her loose hair and drew her face toward his. Just before their lips met again, he rumbled, “Best. Movie. Ever.”