Summary:

“I fucking said ‘hands’ Rozanov! Are you going to stand there day dreaming or come and run this hot food, for fuck’s sake!” The words jolt Ilya out of his revere, and he scoffs in the direction of the expo window. It sits far enough back from the dining room that (hopefully) the guests didn’t hear that little outburst, but close enough to his bar that he (unfortunately) did hear it. “What a fucking asshole,” Ilya mumbles to Svetlana, the server picking up his gorgeous old fashioned from the bar and balancing it with two soda waters on her cocktail tray. --- OR, Shane owns an upscale japanese restaurant in Ottawa. Ilya bartends there.