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I look up at him and it’s the first time we’ve been this close in a few days. I almost forgot how tall he is. How intimidating it is to look up at his sharp jawline.
I pick up a piece of shriveled bacon. “The pigs who died for this burnt-up mess are going to haunt me for wasting their sacrifice.”
Yakov grabs the bacon and takes a bite and the entire strip splinters into hundreds of pieces. It sounds like he’s chewing sawdust.
“Please don’t eat that.” I try to swat the rest out of his hand, but he holds it too high above my head. “Benjy always said eating my cooking was a form of torture, but I thought he was being an asshole.”
“He is an asshole,” Yakov growls.
“But he was right, too. That’s torture, isn’t it?”
Yakov reaches around me to make a plate. “I told you, I’ve been trained to endure torture. It’s fine.”
“It’s not supposed to be torture, though. It was supposed to be nice and—” The word “romantic” dies in my throat.
Was I hoping this breakfast would keep Yakov in the mansion with me for more than ten minutes? Sure.
Was there a small part of me that thought my whimsical take on the classic American breakfast would blow his mind enough that he’d lift me onto the counter and eat me for dessert? I’ll never tell.
Yakov spoons a bite of watery eggs into his mouth and swallows. He really must be able to withstand torture. He doesn’t even flinch.
“You don’t have to cook. That’s why I hire a chef.”
“But you still cook sometimes. Why do you bother if you have a chef?”
“Because I’m good at it.” He doesn’t look sorry for the dig, exactly, but he takes an even bigger bite of eggs. “I play to my strengths. You can do that, too. You have plenty of them.”
It’s an insult wrapped in a compliment. I’m not entirely sure what to do with it. The compliment least of all. “I don’t think marathon reading sessions and digging holes in the dirt are going to win me any awards.”
“Is that going well? The garden?”
I shrug. “I planted seeds and watered them. No signs of radioactive plants or unholy ground yet, so I think I’m doing okay.”
He nods, but there’s no hint of a smile. No fun quip tossed back my way.
After the bathtub debacle, I thought maybe the hot-and-cold roller coaster ride was over. Things seemed to be balmy, trending towards boiling.
Now, we’re tepid, at best, and I don’t know what happened.
“If I’m lucky, I’ll grow a Little Shop of Horrors plant.”
“Unfamiliar,” he says around another gritty bite of bacon.
“It’s a musical. A Venus flytrap with a taste for blood and a kickass baritone. I wouldn’t mind a little song and dance around here.” I circle my finger on the marble countertop. “Might liven things up a bit.”
Yakov stands up and rinses his plate in the sink. “Good luck with that.”
“Do you have work to do today?”
I hate the desperate edge in my voice. I’m not the woman who sits around and waits for a man. I don’t want to be, at least.
He grabs his coffee cup. “I’ll be in and out. Mostly out.”
With that, he’s gone. The office door clicks closed and I sag against the counter.
I’m not that woman… mostly because there is no one to wait for. It’s not just Yakov being busy. It’s the fact that Hope has had the last few days off, I can’t call Kayla, and…
Yeah, okay, it is mostly about Yakov.
