18
Chloe
To my relief, lunch with the Molotovs is a much more casual affair than dinner. Well, Alina is still dressed like she’s at an upscale cocktail party, but Nikolai is wearing dark jeans with a white polo shirt, and nobody chides Slava for his shorts and T-shirt as we sit down at the table—which is again laden with all sorts of mouthwatering salads, cold cuts, and sides.
Do all Russians eat like czars, or just this family? If this is an every-meal thing, I have no idea how they’re not fat. I’m still full, having had breakfast only a couple of hours ago, but there’s no way I’m not going to gorge myself on this spread.
Everything looks so freaking good.
“How was your first night with us, Chloe?” Alina asks when we’ve all filled our plates. “Did you sleep well?”
I smile at her, re
