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“Message received.” Akim holds up his hands and backs away. But as he turns, I hear him talking to himself. “If he wants me to do everything he wants her to do, then I’ll quit. I don’t swing that way.”
If he wasn’t talking about me, I’d laugh. Instead, a blush burns my cheeks. I’m sure I’m red all the way to my hairline.
Timofey picks the box up off the table and turns. “Come with me.”
“I’m eating.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’m not going to starve myself to work for you,” I tell him. “Akim would never let that happen.”
He waves a bored hand over his shoulder. “Fine. Bring the food. Just stop wasting my time.”
I stare down at the plate of food and debate disobeying him. It would feel good to stand up to him.
Then, of course, he would show me I’m powerless to resist him, and I’d feel every bit like the caged animal I am.
With a bitten-back sigh, I grab my plate and carry it down the hallway. I’m so focused on the way Timofey’s butt looks in his trousers that I don’t realize I’ve walked through the door into his bedroom until he kicks it closed behind me.
The room is all warm wood and soft textures. It’s masculine, painted in a moody navy blue that matches his eyes, but it’s cozy, too. Very unlike the occupant.
“What are we doing?”
I can’t stop staring at the massive bed against the wall. Part of me wants to dive into the mound of pillows and see if I can pick out his woodsy scent in the sheets.
The survivalist part of me knows that would be equivalent to wearing a bear trap as a hat. I’m vulnerable enough around Timofey. There’s no need to lay down and give him an advantage.
“Wearen’t doing anything.Youare trying on clothes.” He drops the box on his bed and rips back the cardboard flaps. “Dresses, to be exact.”
I’m relieved for a second. So this isn’t some kind of weird seduction technique. The box isn’t full of whips and chains and skimpy leather harnesses.
Then I understand what he means. “I repeat: what arewedoing? You don’t need to be present in order for me to try on clothes.”
“As your wedding date, I disagree. I get final say on what you wear.”
“As a woman in the twenty-first century,Idisagree. I’ve agreed to go with you, but I never agreed to give you fashion power.”
He turns around, bored indifference oozing off of him. “I know you’ll be disappointed, but beige wool dresses and shapeless pant suits aren’t part of the dress code.”
“Hey! I work with children. It’s not like I can show up to work in cocktail dresses and backless crop tops.”
Plus, I opt to spend the little bit of money I have on nice basics. I go for quality neutrals so I can wear them again and again. The wool dress he’s making fun of has seen me through every single season for two years thanks to a rotation of tights and cardigans.
“No, but you could bear to wear something that hinted at you having a human-shaped body.”
I want to argue with him, but the pink oversized sweater I’m currently wearing would be one easy, slam dunk score for Timofey. Instead, I narrow my eyes. “Apparently, shapeless works for me. I’ve seen you staring. What’s your excuse?”
He lays an armful of colorful, glittery dress options on the bed in a heap. “It’s hard to look away from a trainwreck.”
Timofey is good at that: turning any jab I make right back around on me. No matter how hard I swing at him, I’m always the one who gets hurt.
I cross my arms defiantly. “If I go to this wedding with you, I’ll wear whatever I want, regardless of what you say.”
“Keep going,” he says, circling his hand in the air.
“Keep what?”
“Keep talking back. Keep disobeying,” he says. “It will give me a good excuse to do what I’ve wanted to do since the moment we met.”
