“It is and isn’t.” The fridge brightens the space as Max pulls open the door. “The power went out last night, and when itcame back on, several fuses overloaded. Your circuit panel looks like it was set up by a drunk monkey on crack.”
I suppress a laugh.
“Then why is it still cold in here?” If I can distract him with conversation, maybe I can find myself a weapon. I peer through the disarray for a knife.
He tosses sandwich components on the counter, then digs out a pot from a lower cabinet. “Because when the heater tried to kick on, it went into emergency heat mode. The poorly maintained system burned out. Not just the fuse, but the element itself. We’re lucky the whole unit didn’t go up in flames. Or melt the container, pipes, and wires of the water filtration system right next to it. For now, we’ll have to rely on the fire to stay warm.”
I frown, my mind spinning.
Dimitri set up the whole house. He insisted the HVAC system had to be carefully controlled to keep the greenhouse hot and the communication room cold. He refused to hire contractors or let anyone else look at it, determined to keep our defenses a secret.
A secret disaster, apparently.
That’s if I believe Max’s word over Dimitri’s.
Which, of course, I don’t.
But if Dimitri could’ve gotten us killed just because he was too paranoid to have a professional come and?—
I flinch when the can opener whirs.
Max dumps the contents in the pot before refilling the container with milk that he also pours in. He moves through the kitchen methodically, assembling lunch like he might assemble a gun. Picking up a slice of bread, he slathers one side with mayonnaise and sets it down on the counter, wrong side up.
He does that three more times as I bite my lip to hold my tongue.
What is he doing? Trying to cause more havoc? Or just piss me off again?
Then he pulls out sliced cheese, which he layers on the uncoated sides, and puts the sandwiches together, mayo end out. The bread hisses as he drops the whole chaotic concoction in a skillet.
Dear god, what is he making? And how am I supposed to eat that slop?
Then the aroma hits me.
My mouth waters.
I can barely concentrate on anything other than the cheesy, delicious scent of sizzling sandwiches.
Before I realize what’s happened, Mad Max turns around, holding out a fully prepared meal. Tomato soup and a grilled cheese, cut into halves and leaking melty goodness onto the plate.
Max Belov, with his hair falling over his forehead, his muscles rippling under his t-shirt, and those hands that killed Sasha…delicately plating food.
It’s unnerving and entirely too intimate.
“I’m not hungry.” My denial is automatic, even as I continue to salivate.
Max raises a brow and pushes the dishes closer. When I don’t accept the offerings, he sets them next to me.
Then he leans his hip against the counter, dips his sandwich in his soup, and takes a bite, all while maintaining eye contact.
Is he trying to prove he didn’t poison it? Taunting me? Performing some weird Kozlov mating ritual?
Stop eye-fucking him, Nika. He doesn’t deserve your admiration.
My stomach growls audibly in the quiet, my body betraying me once again. I avoid looking at him, glaring at the floor instead.
Max sighs, and he sets his plate down with a clink. “Fine. Since you’re apparently too weak and tired to do it yourself, I’ll feed you.”
I whip my head up and open my lips to snap out a scathing retort, only for him to shove the corner of a sandwich into my mouth.
