So I blurt the rest, “I'm not just saying it. I was such a good Catholic I didn't realize that urge to hit you wasanother urgeentirely.”
Dominik blinks, then chokes on a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. I shrug, heat climbing my cheeks. “Better late than never to confess.”
He leans closer, eyes lit with laughter but dark at the edges. “Confess? That’s not confession. That’s just invitingmore sin.”
The waiter arrives with the mains, sliding plates between us like an unwanted truce. I sit back hard, fork in hand, pretending to be civilized while Dominik hides his grin behind his glass. Every brush of his knee against mine feels louder than cutlery, heavier than the murmur of the room. By dessert, I don’t even taste a bite. All I can taste is him, waiting.
Chapter 19
Baptism Of Vodka
The drive back is a blur, headlights strobing across the dash. His hand grips the wheel steady, tight, while mine knots in my lap. Every few seconds my fingers twitch, aching to reach across the console.
The boldness I had in the back seat feels like it belongs to another life. The door clicks open, my heels scrape pavement, his hand presses the small of my back as we walk in. His place is quiet, lit only by a single lamp in the corner, Zosia’s toys tucked neatly into bins. The ghost of her laughter clings to the walls, innocence pressed against the heat between us. My heart rattles like it wants out of my chest.
I set my purse on the couch, hear the tremor in my own voice. “So…”
“So,” he echoes, leaning on the kitchen door like he needs it to hold him up.
The silence stretches, taut, unbearable. His eyes search mine, mine dart away, nerves colliding with want and fear. I tug at my sleeve, wishing I could claw back the bravado I had hours ago.
It’s all here now, the history, the family, the weight of years and the edge of desire. One of us just has to break first.
“Want a drink?” Dominik asks, pushing off the door at last. His voice sounds steadier than mine feels, but his hand flexes once against his thigh, like he’s wringing out nerves.
I laugh, shaking my head. “That depends, do you have vodka?”
His mouth curves in relief, almost smug. “Vodka? You insult me. Of course I have vodka.Polishvodka, none of that Russian water.” He pretends to spit on the ground.
“Thank god.”
We drift into the kitchen, the silence shifting with each step, tension loosening into something more playful. He sets out two shot glasses.
“Do you need something mixed,like a child,” he teases, pouring clear liquid, “or are you a fully grown woman?”
I tip mine back in one smooth go, the burn racing down my throat, warmth flooding in. “I was raised in a house with Piotr, I’ll drink you under the table.”
He leans on the counter, eyes bright. “Or on top of it is fine too.”
Another shot, another pour, my cheeks heating from more than vodka. “We should at least make a game of it, like a question answered per shot. If you don’t answer, you take two.”
He squints, mock suspicion. “You want me drunk?NowI’m worried.”
I kick my shoes off with a clatter and climb onto his kitchen stool, perching higher so I can look him dead in the eye. “Get comfortable, Nowicki. This is going to be fun.”
Dominik slides the next shot across the counter, his eyes glinting. “Alright, doktorka, first question.”
I smirk. “You’re starting? Brave.”
He pretends to think, then leans a little closer. “Favorite color?”
I snort, tossing back the vodka. “That’swhat you’re leading with?”
“I’measingyou in,” he says, pouring another with exaggerated care. “You want me to ask what turns you on right away?”
Heat sparks up my neck. I mutter, “Blue.”
“Blue,” he repeats softly, pocketing the answer like it’s gold. “Good. My turn.”
