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Yes. Clothes are strewn around the room from my desperate and ultimately futile search for a pair of sweatpants and a large t-shirt. But I step aside and usher him in anyway. “Sorry about the mess.”
He steps over a pile of extraordinarily risqué lingerie that I removed from the drawer and planned to burn or cut into unusable pieces and moves to the armoire. Just as he did the night before, Luka shuffles through the clothes left in the closet before pulling out a dress and heels and holding them out to me.
“This dress is about right for the restaurant,” he says. “Wear it if you like.”
If you like.
“It almost sounds like I have a choice,” I say, eyebrow raised.
Luka turns and lays the dress on the bed. “You do.”
Then, he walks past me and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I stand in the middle of the room, stunned, for several seconds. Who was that man? The man with the gentle voice and easy smiles who clearly took over Luka Volkov’s body?
The dress he selected is vintage-looking. A lacy black a-line dress with a cinched waist and a deep scoop neck. When I put it on, it is revealing, but not inappropriate, and it fits perfectly. Like it was made for me. The heels are towering, way taller than I’m accustomed to, but they make my legs look incredible. I’m almost annoyed by how good I feel in this outfit. Feeling this good, I should be headed to a real date with a man I actually like. Not Luka.
Luka is waiting for me in the hallway. I march through the door, prepared to rebuff his attempts at kindness or gentleness. I know who Luka really is, and I’m not going to let well-tailored pants and one smile make me soft towards him. My plan is dashed, however, when my ankle rolls on my first step out of the door.
The heels are taller than anything I’ve ever worn before, and I’m not used to the added inches. I stumble to the right and reach out for something, anything to stop my fall. That something is Luka.
One of my hands wrap around his bare forearm, the other grabs his bicep. I’m aware of and horrified by what I’m doing, but there is too much momentum for it to be stopped. I yelp and cling to him, trying to keep myself upright, all the while waiting for him to pin me against the wall again. For him to snap at me to never touch him. Instead, he wraps an arm around my waist and with one fluid movement, lifts me up and sets me back on my feet. His arm stays firmly around my waist, his hip pressed against my side, as he leans down, eyebrows raised in surprise and amusement.
“Are you okay?”
I laugh. It is a nervous, hysterical kind of laugh because I almost fell and because Luka just asked me sincerely if I was okay. I feel like I’m in a dream. “Fine. Just not used to heels, I guess.”
Without another word, he grabs my hand and wraps it around his forearm like I am a debutante about to make her entrance to society, and he is my dashing escort. Then, he helps me down the stairs.
My heart hammers in my chest the entire time, wondering when he’ll let go and watch me tumble down the stairs. Wondering when this seemingly sweet moment will sour. But it doesn’t. Luka helps me down the stairs, through the front door, and out to his car—a low black sports car with deeply tinted windows. He grips my hand, his fingers warm and secure around mine, as I get into the passenger seat. Then, he closes my door and hustles around the car to the driver’s side.
This isn’t a real date. This isn’t a real date.
I’m terrified of Luka. He murdered people. Two people that I know of. Definitely more. I can’t let him woo me. I can’t forget what he has done because he decided to be nice for the first time in his life.
I’m stiff and awkward for most of the drive, trying to understand what is happening and what changed from last night. I want to ask him, but I’m afraid if I point it out, the spell will break. Luka will blink and realize he is still a grouchy asshole and stop being nice. So, I stay quiet and enjoy it.
The restaurant he chose is one of the nicest in the city. Far beyond The Floating Crown. It is a steakhouse in what used to be an old church. The ceilings stretch forever high—diners’ chatter echoing around the space like it is coming from the heavens—and stained glass windows stretch from hip-height up to the ceiling, depicting Bible stories. We are seated in front of an artistic rendering of the Biblical Eve, a serpent wrapped around her ankle, as she stretches out to pluck the apple from the tree. I can’t help but feel like it is some kind of warning meant for me.
Luka picks up his menu and then quickly closes it and lays it on the side of the table. “What do you recommend I get?”
“Me?”
“You’re the chef,” he says simply.
Right, and you’re the controlling asshole who doesn’t take orders from anyone, I want to say. Instead, I quickly scan the menu.
“What kind of food do you like?” I ask.
“Meat.” He smiles and then shrugs. “I’m sure it makes me sound like a snob, but I usually get the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“It does make you sound like a snob,” I say, smiling back at him, and then immediately chastising myself for engaging in what can only be described as flirting. I flatten my smile and turn my eyes back to the menu. “Most people walk into a restaurant like this and assume the most expensive items must be the best. So, they end up paying one-hundred dollars for a hamburger with gold leaf on it. But, no offense, that is stupid. You can’t taste gold leaf, and your body can’t even digest it, so you end up paying fifty to seventy-five extra dollars to line your toilet with gold leaf. Really, you want to focus on the quality of the meat and the flavors that accompany it.”
When I look up again, nervous that I might have offended him, there is amusement in his eyes. “So, in your professional opinion, what would you recommend?”
I point to my menu and hold it out for him to read. “The sliced filet mignon with cipollini onions, wild mushrooms, and fig essence.”
“Sounds amazing,” he says. “What are you going to get?”
