DAHLIA WESTBROOKE
The digital clock on my nightstand read 2:42 a.m. As in forty-two fucking minutes past two in the morning, and somehow my growling stomach didn't get the memo that we were supposed to be asleep by this time, along with the rest of the house.
When I could no longer bear the vicious biting and hunger pangs that hindered me from falling asleep, I reluctantly accepted defeat and crawled out of bed, venturing out to the kitchen to find some leftovers or a quick snack that could appease my stomach for the time being.
It was too late to start moving pans and pots around, so I settled for making myself a fruit salad with a side of Greek yogurt. Armed with the goods from the refrigerator, I spread them all out on the counter, fetching a knife and chopping board next.
I only realized the flaw in my plan when it was time to grab a bowl. The kitchen cabinets were unnecessarily so high up, it had to be a design flaw while drawing up the plan for the house. How did the housekeepers manage?
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I cursed when my fingers barely grazed the handle for the third time. "Why's everything in this house so difficult? I'm not even hungry anymore!"
"What are you doing?"
I jumped out of my skin at the sudden sound of another voice, bumping my hip against the edge of the marble counter-top in the process. "Ouch. A little warning next time?"
In the blink of an eye, Tarasov crossed the space between us. "Did you hurt your hip?"
"No. I didn't bump into it that hard."
"You sure?" He pressed a thumb against the spot, watching my face for any confirmation that I was hurt, his brows tightly furrowed.
I nodded. "Yes. Now, can you back up, please?" I didn't know how long I could keep holding my breath just so I didn't inhale his cologne. "I don't want to smell you."
The worry on his face slowly melted, and he finally cracked a tiny smile. "I don't smell. And I haven't even been in the gym."
"That's where you were headed?" I asked, noting his attire. He had a pair of black sweats on, paired with a long-sleeved, grey cotton shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders. "It's not even three in the morning."
I mean, it was obvious he put in a lot of work to achieve the kind of body he had, but going to the gym before three in the morning was psychotic. What happened to enjoying a good night rest before punishing yourself in the gym the morning after?
He propped a hip against the counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "And yet here you are. What's your excuse?"
"I got hungry," I admitted, seeing no point in pretending otherwise when he could see the fruits I had laid out.
His eyes quickly scanned the counter-top, and he nodded. "A Greek yogurt bowl?"
"I initially thought fruit salad, but yeah, that could work, too."
He sucked in a deep breath, his chest expanding with the motion before he finally exhaled. "You know, fruits are healthy and all, but that's not all you should consume. And I noticed you barely ate dinner. Was the food not up to your liking?"
"I wasn't hungry," I lied, avoiding his piercing blue stare.
Anything was simply better than telling him I'd run into my half-sister, and I'd let her get into my head with her comments on my appearance, even though Eden had reassured me immediately after the exchange.
I didn't want to come off as any more pathetic than I already did in front of him. I already had enough baggage as it was, and this wasn't one I wanted him digging into.
"Okay."
My head jerked up, and my eyes flew wide open at how easily he'd let the issue go. I expected him to go full-on detective mode, probing and prodding until he got all the answers he wanted, but he'd done the complete opposite.
"I'm hungry, too."
"You're going to make a bowl for yourself?"
"No, but you can have that as an appetizer. I'll cook us something." He reached above his head for the cabinet, pulling it open to retrieve the bowl I'd tried getting earlier to no avail.
His shirt slid up in the process, showing a sliver of this skin, and the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers peeking out above his sweats.
I drew in a hot breath, internally fanning myself. Why was it suddenly eighty degrees in this kitchen? And why was I a second away from drooling if I kept staring at his toned waist like a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankles for the first time? I had to be ovulating.
"Earth to Dahlia." He snapped a finger in front of my face, making me realize I'd completely zoned out in front of him.
I braced myself for the glee and mockery on his face after I'd explicitly stated in the past that I wanted nothing to do with him sexually, but instead I found amusement in his eyes.
"I feel violated, but look away. I'm your husband, after all. I mean, who else would you rather look at, right?"
"Shut up." I turned away from him, heading toward the kitchen island with him hot on my tail. "You're pretty, so of course, I'll look. I like pretty things. It's nothing special."
"Hm. Pretty." A low chuckle reverberated through his chest as his long, slender fingers reached for the yogurt. "That's a new one."
"What?" I hopped on a stool next to him, watching him perform the mundane task of chopping up apples with precise movements.
"Nevermind." He shook his head, sending inky dark hair flying over his forehead. "You called me pretty. Does that mean you like me?"
"What?" The question was accompanied with an incredulous laughter. Where did he get that from?
"You said you liked pretty things." He slid the Greek yogurt bowl in front of me, his lips twitching under the soft lights. "And you called me pretty."
I opened my mouth to disagree, but all I could manage was another incredulous laugh. "You're insane."
Viktor released a slow smile and nodded, that teasing spark I was so used to now lingering in his darkened gaze. "So, you aren't denying it then. You do like me."
"Sure, Psycho Stalker."
"I take that nickname as you being affectionate with me, by the way. You keep spoiling me tonight."
My shoulder twitched up with the corners of my lips. "As I said, delusional."