His question takes me by surprise. I blink in exaggerated slow motion.
“Are you asking about my taste in men?”
He nods.
“Why?” The question comes out lighter than I intended, a flutter rising in my stomach.
“Just curious.”
The flutter deepens; warmth spreads through my chest. I know my body has no business reacting like this over something so simple. But it’s doing it anyway.
“I want someone who can love me as much as I love him.”
“How much?”
Okay. This is officially a mixed signal. Why is he showing so much interest in me all of a sudden? Aren’t we in a situation where he kidnapped me, makes me sleep in a dog’s bed, forces me to wear a maid’s uniform? So why does he want to know such personal things? And why does my heart feel like it’s trying to escape my body, pounding so loud I can hear it?
“He can’t think about breathing in a world where I don’t exist.” My voice shakes a little. “Just that much.” I try to smile, aiming for an unaffected look—missed by a mile.
“What about you?” I throw his question back at him, showing my clear interest. This could count as flirting, so I make an effort to hide it. “You look old enough to have kids, but you’re still single. So what is it? Looking for something specific, or can women just not handle your sunny disposition?”
He looks away. “I don’t need anyone.”
I laugh softly. “Sour grapes.”
His eyes return to me. I nibble at my smiling lips.
He watches me for a long moment, then turns to leave, but I stop him. Again.
“We just had a very friendly conversation. Now you can drink milk with me.”
He stops but says nothing.
If he weren’t the enemy, my dad would have liked him a lot. They would have sat together for hours in comfortable silence. But if he weren’t the enemy, they never would have met.
This thought leads me to a very important question.Why hasn’t my family found me yet? My father is the most powerful man in America. The king of the underworld. So what’s stopping him?
I add cocoa powder to the pot, glancing at the man watching me.Is he someone important?
I drop the thought. Right now, all I can have are questions, and questions with no hope of answers are only frustrating.
I add two spoonfuls of honey and blend everything. Then I take two glasses from the shelf and pour the milk into them.
I offer him one.
“I hope you don’t mind sweetness.”
He takes the glass from my hand—his gloved fingers brush against mine. My romantic brain sees it through a heart-shaped filter, sending signals through my whole body that something romantic is happening. Goosebumps prickle across my arms and neck.
I draw my hand back slowly, avoiding his eyes. I hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps. Or the heat in my cheeks.
I take a sip of my milk. It’s perfect, if I do say so myself. My eyes drift to him, searching for his reaction. He takes a sip, showing no reaction. Still, seeing a man this big drink milk is strangely exquisite. I press my glass to my lips to conceal my smile, though his gaze seems too focused to be fooled.
“How is it?” I venture.
“Good.”
I grin. “I can teach you how to make it.”
