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“It’sfine. Jesus. Are you the vocabulary police?”
“Only when it comes to that word.” He reaches me in two strides and picks me up, carrying me and the crutch in his arms. It’s the closest I’m able to get to him lately, and that’s probably why I make it a habit to greet him at the door every day.
I wrap my arms around his neck and search his harsh but ethereal gray eyes and the light in them. There are exhaustion lines on his face, and it takes everything in me not to smooth the crease between his brows.
Yan refuses to divulge much about Adrian’s business, but I can tell he’s been overworking himself lately. If anything, coming here is taking more time and effort than he probably should give.
I want to ask about Kristina, but fear of his answer always stops me. What if I’ve been a mistress all along and I just don’t know it yet?
Adrian sets me on the sofa and places the crutch by my side. “Wait here. I’ll get dinner.”
“I ordered takeout. It’s on the counter.”
He raises a brow. “Are you finally listening to me, Lenochka?”
I lift a shoulder. “I didn’t like the scent of food when I was cooking.”
Adrian observes me for a second, and it’s intrusive, as if he’s peeling away the exterior and trying to peer at what’s inside. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being the subject of his interest. It always feels odd, yet strangely endearing, for a cold man like him to care about me.
He’s cold to the world, but not to me.
Then he strides into the kitchen. The TV is on, broadcasting some cooking show, but my entire attention is on his agile movements, on the easy and purposeful way he moves around the room, setting out the food with plates and utensils.
Soon after, I hobble to the table and he sits beside me with the containers between us. I ordered Lebanese because I had it in my teens, and it’s remained on my mind ever since. Since I can eat anything—and that’s not just limited to salad anymore—I’ve been stuffing myself like a pig. I don’t even know where I got the sudden appetite from.
Adrian doesn’t comment on my choice of cuisine, digging in without any fuss. Now that I think about it, he’s never mentioned disliking anything.
“Is there any food you don’t eat?” I ask.
“Not really.” He stares at his phone that’s lying on his lap.
“Not a fussy eater?”
“I didn’t have that luxury when I was growing up.”
I recall what he said about his mother being a mistress who killed his stepmother. That she was a villain.
“Were you poor?”
He chews slowly and swallows. I think he uses that time to consider his reply before speaking it aloud. “Not really. My mother was a doctor, but she didn’t like cooking, so I had to fix my own food.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. It’s better that way.” His gaze slides from the phone to me. “Are you a fussy eater?”
“I hate seafood.”
“Really?”
“I can’t stand it. I feel like I’m eating the sea’s cockroaches.”
That makes a small smile crack on his beautiful face. I love it when I’m the reason behind his smile. Could be because they’re as rare as hell or that he looks lethally attractive.
“No cockroaches. Noted.”
We fall into easy conversation about food and different cultures and I’m impressed by how much Adrian knows. He’s definitely more well-traveled than me.
After we finish eating, he takes the empty containers to the kitchen, disposing of them while still watching his phone. It finally rings and he picks up after a few seconds, his tone firm. “Volkov.”
