His mouth flattens into a thin line. “I don’t believe in coincidences, Maggie.”
The way he says it sends unease curling low in my stomach. Because Alexei lives in a world where people send warnings instead of words. A world where fear arrives in pieces before violence follows behind it. And it feels like that world is inching closer to mine every single day.
“You make it sound like I need armed security to buy dog food,” I murmur, trying to ease some of the heaviness between us.
His eyes never leave mine. “You might.”
I groan and let my forehead fall against his chest. “You know most women would probably find this overbearin’.”
“I am overbearing.”
“That’s true.”
“And you’re avoiding the point.”
I lift my head enough to glare at him. “You’re exhaustin’.”
He gives me a small smile. “Yet you keep inviting me back.”
Unfortunately, that makes heat pool between my legs.
I poke his chest lightly. “You know my mother likes you entirely too much.”
“I’m very charming.”
“You bribed her with compliments.”
“I complimented her peach pie because it deserved recognition.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Alexei, you looked at that woman like she personally ended world hunger.”
“It was excellent pie.”
“You’re a ridiculous man.”
“I understood very quickly that refusing her pie would be a mistake.”
His smug sincerity makes me laugh even harder, and the sound fills the bedroom so naturally it almost scares me. This feels normal, like it could become part of my life if I let it.
Before my emotions spiral any further, I push myself upright and grab one of my oversized T-shirts from the floor.“I need coffee before this conversation becomes emotionally devastatin’.”
His eyes slide slowly down my bare legs while I tug the shirt over my head. “I can think of better distractions.”
Heat rushes to my face. “Sir, I can barely walk.”
“That sounds like appreciation.”
“You’re impossible.”
His low laugh follows me when I disappear into the bathroom long enough to splash water on my face and attempt to pull myself together. By the time I wander toward the kitchen, the smell of coffee fills the apartment.
I stop short in the doorway. Alexei stands barefoot at my stove, wearing gray sweatpants low on his hips, flipping pancakes with complete confidence, like Russian billionaires cooking breakfast in tiny Savannah apartments is a perfectly normal thing to witness before eight in the morning.
My kitchen barely fits two people without bumping elbows, but somehow, he fills the whole space with ease. For a moment, the scene feels painfully domestic.
“You’re awful bossy for a man holdin’ a spatula.”
A quiet smirk pulls at his mouth while he flips another pancake. “The spatula changes nothing.”
