A black Lamborghini is waiting for us by the hotel entrance.
Huh. I wonder if, like in the ad, “When he drives a car off the lot, its price increases in value.”
Tigger beats the valet to open my door.
Crap. He’s a gentleman too? My poor ovaries.
As I buckle my seatbelt, I feel a tinge of a different sort of concern. The seatbelt is in the style of a race car, reminding me that Tigger is famous for breaking speed records.
He slides behind the wheel and buckles himself in as well.
“You’re not going to go fast, are you?” I ask warily.
He flashes me a grin. “This is Manhattan. There are speed limits.”
I let out a sigh of relief, but the air gets stuck in my windpipe when Tigger floors the gas pedal.
The tires screech and the smell of rubber hits my nostrils as the Lamborghini roars onto the road at ten times the speed limit.
Does he think those beer commercials are true?
“Cars look both ways for him before driving down a street.”
“He once got pulled over for speeding, and the cop got the ticket.”
“Is this okay, or should I slow down?” Tigger asks. In the time the sound takes to reach my eardrums, we zoom through at least five city blocks.
Fuck. What is wrong with him? I once read about Urbach-Wiethe disease, an unusual genetic disorder that causes a person to lose all sense of fear. Could Tigger have it? Maybe it runs in the Ruskovian royal family, a bit like hemophilia in Queen Victoria’s descendants?
“Gia?” he says. “Are you okay?”
I grunt something in the negative.
He darts me a worried glance—and if I thought his driving was scary when he was looking at the road, now we’re reaching terror levels equivalent to visiting a public bathroom. In Staten Island. In that landfill-turned-park.
My face must be paler than its usual hue because Tigger looks back at the road and slows the car to about double the speed limit. “Sorry. How’s this?”
My words come out on a gasp. “Still too fast.”
He slows the car until we’re no longer leaving the other vehicles in the dust.
I finally catch my breath. “Thank you. Is the place far?”
“We’re here actually.” He smoothly pulls up next to a storefront that has something written in Cyrillic.
Whew. Made it in one piece. Also, much to my relief, the health inspection grade beside the window is a proud “A.” Otherwise, we’d have to have an awkward conversation.
“Is that Russian?” I ask, nodding at the sign.
“No. Ruskovian. But the name would mean the same thing if you read it in Russian.”
“They’re similar languages, right?” I ask after he opens the door for me.
He rubs his chin. “I’d say about as similar as French and Spanish.”
“I have no clue how similar that is.” I look at the sign again as if it could help me.
“You don’t speak Spanish? I thought most Americans knew some.”
I shake my head. “I took it in school, but I remember very little. And I never studied French. How about you? What languages do you speak?”
“Russian, French, and Spanish, obviously,” he says and proceeds to list half the languages spoken in Europe. “Some I’m less fluent in than others. All depends on how long I spent in that country.”
Yet again he reminds me of that Dos Equis guy who can “speak Russian… in French.” Maybe also, “He is considered a national treasure in countries he’s never visited.”
Two burly dudes stand outside the restaurant, holding the doors for us. They’re dressed in the pantaloon outfits of the porters in Kaz’s hotel.
Must be some Ruskovian thing.
When we’re halfway to the entrance, a strange man in a tweed jacket blinds me with a flash of his professional-looking camera.
What the hell?
With an angry scowl, Tigger shouts something at the bouncer dudes.
They rush the picture-taking stranger like a pair of linebackers.
“Hey,” the man yells when the bigger of the dudes grabs his camera. “You can’t take that.”
The pantalooned bruiser doesn’t even reply. He simply walks into the restaurant, camera in hand. The other one returns to his door post as if nothing has happened.
“What was that?” I ask Tigger when we step inside.
“Paparazzi.” Tigger says the word with as much distaste as I’d say, “E. coli.”
“Ah.” I glance back. “That makes sense. For a second there, I forgot how important your Royal Heinie is.”
He leads me to a cozy, candlelit table and pulls out a chair for me. “Sorry about that. I’m usually good at dodging those vultures, but that one was smart enough to stalk this place. Must’ve figured it was just a matter of time before me or one of my brothers would crave Ruskovian cuisine.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” For the first time, I look around the place. There are pictures of mushrooms everywhere. The theme here must have something to do with Alice in Wonderland or, relatedly, psychedelics.
Tigger’s brows furrow. “No. I really am sorry. Anyone seen with me inevitably gets their picture in the tabloids, usually in an article filled with lies.”
“Like those women you were chummy with?” is what I don’t have the balls—or ovaries—to ask. Instead, I go with, “I’m not concerned in the slightest.”
“No?” He bites the inside of his lip, a distracting move.
I do my best to focus. “Any publicity would be great for my career as an illusionist—no matter how scandalous.”
He gives me a warm smile and picks up his menu. “That’s a relief.”
I pick up the menu as well, but it’s in Ruskovian.
“What kind of restaurant is this?” I ask.
“It’s called Crispy Mushroom. They specialize in all manner of mushroom dishes, which are very popular in Ruskovia. Do you like mushrooms?”
I shrug. “They’re on my safe food list, but I’ve always thought of them as a side dish.”
“You’re in for a treat then,” he says and waves at a pantalooned waiter.
As they begin to converse in Ruskovian, I sneak my phone out and check the exact sanitary violation score for this place.
They scored a zero, which is awesome.
The waiter stops speaking, and Tigger turns my way. “Of the two specials, you might like the Lion’s Mane steak.”
“Lion, not tiger?” I ask with a grin.
He grins back. “Lion’s Mane mushrooms are famous for their health benefits. They help memory and cognition and have been used by Buddhist monks for thousands of years to help them focus during meditation.”
I look at the waiter. “Is this man working with you guys on a commission basis?”
The waiter takes a step back. “This restaurant belongs to His Royal Highness, Andrej Cezaroff.”
I move to the edge of my seat and return my attention to Tigger. “Your father?”
He shakes his head. “Brother.”
I regard him curiously. “How big is your family?”
“I have nine brothers,” Tigger says without batting an eye. “So, what say you to the Lion’s Mane steak?”
Nine? Sounds like our families are quite similar—though I bet having all boy siblings is very different from growing up with a bunch of girls, not to mention living in a castle rather than on a crazy animal farm.
I turn to the waiter. “Is the mushroom cooked well?”
“Yes, mistress,” he says.
Mistress? And I’m not even wearing my leather pants today. “Okay. I’ll try it.”
The waiter bows and rushes away.
“What are you getting?” I ask Tigger.
He says a word that sounds like Paganini, but I’m sure he’s not eating a famous dead violinist—though you never know with royalty. They could’ve always pickled some.
“Great. That explains it,” I say.
He laughs. “It’s a mushroom. I believe in English it’s called fly agaric, or maybe amanita.”
I frown. “Red cap, white spots?”
He nods.
“The one the caterpillar sat on in Alice in Wonderland?”
He puts a napkin on his lap. “Not that exact one, but yeah.”
“Aren’t they poisonous?”
“Not if you boil them twice and change the water each time.”
I gape at him. “That sounds dangerous.”
He spreads his hands. “I’ve eaten worse. Fugu, Ackee fruit, Sannakji, Hákarl—you name it, I’ve tried it.”
I pointedly raise my phone to my face and look up the dishes just mentioned.
Yep. As I thought, he must have the Urbach-Wiethe disease.
Fugu is doubly crazy: it’s sashimi, so raw meat, plus it’s made from a lethally poisonous puffer fish. Ackee, the fruit, is not as deadly, but can still lead to coma and death if you eat it improperly ripened. Sannakji is live octopus tentacles, which are a choking hazard, and Hákarl is cured Greenland shark, a fish that uses a toxic compound in its body as a natural antifreeze and, if uncured, can lead to all sorts of deadly fun.
Worried now, I look up Lion’s Mane mushroom.
Nope. Not toxic, and the brain benefits seem to be true.
I put my phone away and give Tigger a disapproving glare.
“Don’t worry, amanita is very safe cooked,” he says, apparently discerning my thoughts.
“What if the chef makes a mistake?”
He waves dismissively. “I’ve actually eaten amanita raw once—under a shaman’s supervision. You just have to throw up at the right time, and then you go on a nice hallucinogenic trip.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “When you say, ‘at the right time,’ what you mean is ‘before it kills you,’ right?”
He grins. “If you’re that worried, I won’t eat it raw ever again. Mushrooms that contain psilocybin are much better.”
Before I can reply, the food arrives.
His doesn’t have the recognizable red caps, and mine looks like some kind of meat from a small animal. What are the chances that Lion’s Mane steak is really made from kittens or lion cubs?
I cut off a small slice and put it in my mouth.
By Houdini’s tastebuds, this is the yummiest thing I’ve ever had. It’s sweet, rich, earthy, and meaty, with a texture similar to a lobster tail.
Tigger is looking at me hungrily. I must’ve moaned from the culinary pleasure.
I do my best to be more discreet with the next bite, and he digs into his food as well.
“So,” I say, trying not to watch him eat his poisonous choice. “What are so many Ruskovian royals doing in New York City?”
He swallows the bite he was chewing. “The answer lies within your question. There are so many of us that we don’t all have the royal responsibilities you’re thinking of. Speaking for myself, I’m here for physical therapy.”
My next piece of mushroom is flavorless. “I read about your coma. Something about a base-jumping accident?”
He nods. “It was the highest skyscraper in Moscow. Everything was amazing at first, then… I woke up in a hospital in Ruskovia.”
The dark expression on his face tugs at something in my chest. I’m not a hugger, but I desperately want to hold him until that uncharacteristic-for-him somberness is gone.
“Your family must’ve been devastated,” I say softly.
He picks up his fork. “My brothers were very supportive. My parents had more of a ‘told you so’ attitude.”
I frown. “Seriously?”
He laughs, but there’s definitely an edge to it. “My parents disinherited me long before that event. ‘Unbecoming behavior’ is what they think of what I’ve chosen to do with my life.”
I put my gloved hand over his. “I know it’s not the same, but few in my family take my magic career seriously. They think if you don’t have a college degree, you’ll never make any money.”
His gaze homes in on me, and the intensity in his hazel eyes makes me feel like a doe in the sights of a tiger. “You’re a more talented magician than any who’ve entertained at our castle. I’m confident you have an amazing career ahead of you.”
I grin like a doofus. If his evil plan is to use flattery to get into my pants, it’s working.
Hello? No catching feelings, remember?
My euphoria fading, I pull back my hand. To make it less awkward, I grab the salt shaker and sprinkle some onto my plate. “Speaking of careers, do you monetize your adventures somehow, or do you make a living doing something else?”
Crap. Why did I just remind him that he’s cut off from his family’s wealth?
“Both,” he says, and to my relief, he doesn’t seem upset. “I have sponsorships from countless brands, but my most substantial income comes from my theme park.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “A theme park?”
His eyes are bright as he nods. “Before my parents cut me off, I leveraged my family’s connections to put together a coalition of investors to build a Ruskovia-themed adventure park in my homeland. It has everything from rollercoasters and 3D thrill rides to the ‘be royal for a day’ type of experiences.”
“Oh, wow. What made you decide to do that?”
“I wanted the general public to experience the adrenaline rush and the sense of awe that I get from my various pursuits.” He smiles. “I would’ve been happy to break even, but the venture has succeeded beyond all expectations. People come to Ruskovia to visit it, a bit like tourists going to Orlando for Disney World.”
Huh. So he’s a successful entrepreneur, not just a thrill-seeking playboy. I guess it makes sense. How else would he be able to pay me so well when he’s been disinherited?
Also, I was right when I thought I saw awe on his face during his stunts.
The interesting part is that I noticed that same expression when he watched my magic. He wasn’t just blowing smoke up my ass when he complimented my deception skills.
Unable to help myself, I fish for another compliment. “I also try to give people a sense of awe with my magic. Less so an adrenaline rush.”
“And you do,” he says earnestly. “I think your magic will do the world a lot of good. People tend to lose the sense of awe as they grow up, and that’s a shame.”
Wow. I never thought of magic arts as doing something more than providing entertainment. He’s right, though. If done correctly, magic can give an adult the wonderment of a child, if only for a moment.
He spears a piece of I-don’t-want-to-think-what with his fork. “Is that why you decided to become a magician?”
I cut off another piece of my mushroom steak as I ponder this. “I got interested in it after seeing a magic performance. When I tried performing a trick myself, I found that I enjoyed the attention. Later, it became all about making people feel awe, wonder, astonishment, and amazement. It’s also important to me to become a famous female magician.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Why?”
“To best understand it, I usually ask people to do a little thought experiment. Want to try it?”
He nods.
“Step one, picture yourself as a little girl,” I say with a grin.
He closes his eyes, and a look of deep concentration comes over his face. In a high-pitched voice, he says, “Done.”
I suppress a laugh. Is he picturing having pigtails? Jumping rope? Pickpocketing the next-door bully?
“Now answer my questions quickly, without thinking too hard,” I say. “Start by naming a male scientist.”
“Einstein,” he says, still in that little-girl voice.
“Now name a female scientist.”
“Madam Curie,” he replies, staying in character.
“A male magician.”
“David Blaine,” he replies without hesitation.
“A female magician.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyebrows furrow. Finally, he opens his eyes and looks at me in frustration.
“Rasputina,” I say, figuring he’d know her as someone who resides in his homeland.
He slaps himself on the forehead. “You’re right,” he says in his normal voice.
“The difficulty you had is my point,” I say. “There are no household names yet.”
“I see. And you want to be that household name to inspire girls to become magicians?”
“Exactly. Just like Rasputina and the other trailblazers who inspired me. It’s time to break through the rabbit-hat ceiling.”
He nods approvingly. “I bet anything that you’ll succeed in your noble goal.”
“I sure hope so.” A swarm of butterflies rummages around in my belly, though I should probably say “a dule of doves” since magicians are known for making doves appear out of thin air.
Personally, I wouldn’t do dove—or rabbit—tricks for reasons of hygiene. If spoons could poop, I wouldn’t bend them either. Then again, even if someone genetically engineered poo-less doves, I wouldn’t be able to use them. Blue would never visit me, plus it would only be a matter of time before Clarice’s cat, Hannibal, would have my poor helpers for dinner… with a nice Chianti.
Tigger’s expression turns sly. “Speaking of your skills, can you perform another trick this evening?” He eyes a nearby fork.
“No repeats and no props during a meal,” I say.
He looks like a kid who was denied dessert.
“I can do some mentalism for you. That’s a type of magic that deals with the mind.”
His eyes gleam with excitement. “Please.”
“Okay. Think of two simple shapes—one inside the other, like a heart inside a square.” I draw the example in the air.
“Done,” he says.
“Now picture any playing card inside the inner shape.”
“Got it,” he says, looking uneasy—a common reaction for a spectator at this point.
I extend one hand forward dramatically and put the other to my temple, channeling Professor X. Being a magician (or a mentalist) is a lot like being an actor who’s taken on the role of a magician or a mentalist, or so said the famous Robert-Houdin.
Acting like I’ve snared Tigger’s thought, I solemnly announce, “You’re thinking of the Queen of Hearts inside of a triangle inside of a circle.”
Tigger drops his fork.
My grin is evil.
“How?” he whispers.
“Quite well,” I say.
He picks up his fork again. “You’re a dangerous woman.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
Before he can beg me to tell him my secrets, I change the topic by asking about his brothers.
He eagerly shares anecdotes from his past, such as the time when his bros and a cousin formed a soccer team together.
“What about you?” he asks. “Any siblings besides Holly?”
I tell him about the sextuplets and how crazy things would sometimes get with eight girls on a farm full of all sorts of exotic rescue animals.
We go back and forth sharing stories—which are surprisingly similar despite growing up in different countries and with different socioeconomic backgrounds.
“I guess a herd of siblings can provide the same kind of chaos, no matter the gender,” he says.
“Is a herd the right collective noun in that case?” I ask him as I eat the last morsel off my plate.
“Maybe it’s a mischief?” He waves at the waiter.
“That’s rats and brothers.” I grin. “With sisters, it’s a murder—like with crows.”
The waiter hurries over and converses with Tigger in Ruskovian.
“Dessert?” Tigger asks me.
I nod, mostly because I’m curious if it will have mushrooms in it. The only stranger ingredient would be garlic.
Yep. The dessert is a caramel porcini mushroom brûlée with green tea ice cream. To my surprise, it’s creamy, toasty, and makes me feel warm and cozy.
It could be worse. My Anglophile twin once served me a pudding called Spotted Dick, and it wasn’t even shaped like a dildo.
The coffee-like drink served here is, not surprisingly, also mushroom based—and I like it. If I spoke Ruskovian, I might even come back to this place, assuming I could afford it.
As we enjoy the dessert and the mushroom brew, Tigger tells me stories about Ruskovian traditions. Turns out, they have a holiday reminiscent of La Tomatina in Spain, but instead of tomatoes, they throw ripe grapes at each other.
“Why?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Why do we have a bear festival?”
“Let me guess. People dress like bears?”
He smirks. “And eat bear food, such as myodik.”
The devouring look he gives me almost makes me choke on a piece of porcini mushroom—though as I picture him lapping at my honeypot, he’s more feline than bearlike.
I clear my throat. “Is that why your dogs look like bears?”
He eats the last bite of his dessert. “I never thought about it, but maybe. Kaz’s dog has the typical look of a Ruskovian breed called Misha—originally bred for the royal family.”
“Then how did you end up with a panda and a koala?” I ask.
He grins. “Caradog is the name of the one that has to wear corrective goggles, and he’s a regular Misha. Just happens to have an unusual coloring. Mephistopheles, on the other hand, looks the way he does because he isn’t purebred.”
“You named a dog Mephistopheles? Isn’t that just asking him to be a troublemaker?”
He chuckles. “He doesn’t need encouragement in that department. Being my fur baby, he was destined to be trouble.”
Did I just ovulate? Must be the unwelcome images of a half-Gia, half-Tigger troublemaker running around, causing all manner of mischief.
This is ridiculous. There should be some sort of vaccine against feelings.
Determined to keep myself together, I push my empty plate away and slurp the last of my mushroom “coffee” pointedly.
“Ready to head home?” he asks, catching my drift.
I fake a yawn. “Yeah. I’m pretty tired.”
Tired of swooning over him.
I give him my address as we get the check. He rejects my offer to split the bill and has me back in his suicide car in a blink.
To my shock, he keeps to the speed limit from the start. Despite that, my heart rate is as high as it was when Tigger drove like an extra in The Fast and the Furious.
What’s happening? Have I been conditioned to fear his car from that single ride?
It doesn’t take me long to understand what’s really going on.
Though my mind is firmly on the whole “our dinner was not a date” mantra, my heart—and other vital and not-so-vital organs—clearly didn’t get the memo. In my heart’s defense, the dinner was pretty date-like. More date-like than most real dates I’ve been on. The crux of my adrenaline overload is simple to puzzle out now.
We’re nearing the part of a date where things would always go horribly wrong for me in the past.
The goodbye kiss. Or lack of one.
This is the point when all of my dates realized I wasn’t worth the trouble and dumped/ghosted my ass.
I swallow and perform a breathing technique I recently taught to my oh-so-hot student.
Nope. Not working. Nor does reminding my heart—and other organs—that this wasn’t a date.
“You okay?” Tigger asks.
Fuck. We’re not driving anymore.
I glance at the window.
Yep. Home sweet home. Did we teleport here?
“Peachy,” I say belatedly.
Unbuckling the high-end seatbelt, I catch his feline gaze, and the dule of doves throws a prison riot in my belly.
He unbuckles his seatbelt without looking away. “I had a great time.”
Curse him. That’s the most typical post-date, pre-kiss line.
“Me too,” I say—an understatement of my life.
He presses a button, and the car locks pop.
Neither of us moves.
Leave.
Open the door.
Stop staring.
I stay welded to my seat, as if hypnotized—and I’d know what that feels like since one of my roommates is a hypnotist.
Slowly, ever so slowly, a gravity-like force pulls me toward him.
What the fuck?
He leans my way also. He’s not immune to whatever physics, chemistry, or mass insanity is at play here.
Is this finally going to happen? For a second, I let myself have hope.
If there were ever a time when lust could conquer my fears, it would be now. Ever since I’ve seen his naked everything, I’ve been a walking, talking, hormone-producing machine that is ready to blow at any provocation—in more ways than one.
Our lips are now an inch apart.
By Houdini’s balls… are we actually going to kiss?