“Who’s teaching you?” he asked, although I had a feeling he knew the answer to it.
“Dimitry.”
“I am coming then,” he chuckled. “I have to make sure he is not too hard on you.”
“What?” Was Dimitry a horrible and harsh teacher?
“I’m joking,” he retorted chuckling.
I shook my head. “Okay then, let’s put your shirt on and I’ll help you to the kitchen.”
We slowly walked and I kept an eye to see how he was fairing. Not bad at all for someone who was bleeding profusely only twelve hours earlier. We entered the kitchen to find Nikolai and Dimitry already there. Dimitry glanced at us with a smile, standing next to gathered ingredients on the counter
I helped Sergei to a chair. “Good?”
“Never better,” he murmured although there was perspiration on his forehead.
“Don’t over do it. Healing is faster that way.”
“Yes, doc.” His tone was teasing but he was serious. He knew it was better for him in the long run. “Now, let’s see your first cooking lesson.”
I turned to Dimitry. “Why is this more nerve wracking than my first surgery lesson?”
“Because you are smart,” Nikolai replied.
Throwing a glance over my shoulder, Nikolai was smiling and he winked at me.
These guys are going to be giving me such a hard time if I fail at cooking like I usually do.
I went to the sink, washed my hands, and turned to Dimitry. God, he was handsome. Under the morning light and with the subtle shadow of a beard, he was irresistible. You could easily forget that he’d killed people.
“Okay, chef,” I told him with a bravado. “I’m ready.”
“Here is the recipe for pancakes,” he showed me his phone. “I have all the ingredients out. Let’s follow the directions and we’ll have breakfast ready in no time.”
And that was the first problem. I wasn’t that great at following directions in the kitchen. It was the main reason why I never learned cooking. I was either too impatient to get the final product on the table, or to get going.
“Is there a problem?” Dimitry asked with a raised eyebrow. So freaking bossy.
“No, no problem at all.”
I took his phone, read through directions then gave it back and went to work. On the second step, he already objected.
“Stop.” I froze midair with the cracked egg upon Dimitry’s command. I couldn’t have possibly messed up already.
“What’s wrong?” The whites of the egg were trying to get out of my hand.
“What did the directions say?”
“To beat the egg in the bowl.” Seriously, what was the problem here?
“Yes, but what bowl?”
Instantly, I realized my mistake. “Into an empty bowl… so I need a separate bowl for it.”
“Good.” I was the youngest surgeon in the history of United States, and I was beaming at Dimitry’s praise in cooking. I seriously needed to have my head checked.
I dumped the egg into a separate bowl and started beating it. I could remember the directions in my head but now I kept questioning whether there was anything else I missed.