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3
SABRINA
For once the hype is justified. The food is fantastic at Coco, and Adrik is just as impressive as everyone says.
I keep looking for a hole in his persona—something he thinks he knows that I know he’s wrong about. Some cringey joke. Some moment where I puncture his ego, and like every other man I’ve ever met, he can’t handle it and his temper flares. That’s what I expect to happen, because that’s what’s always happened when I’ve tried to date men.
They hate when you disagree with them, especially when you’re right.
They hate when you don’t fawn over them.
And most of all, they hate when you’re different than the picture of you they created in their mind.
That happens to me most of all.
Men look at me and they see liquid sex poured into the body of their dreams. They want me so bad that they can’t possibly imagine that what’s inside that package might not appeal to them quite as much as the exterior.
They say I’m everything they ever wanted—then they want to change everything about me.
How I dress, how I talk, what I like, how I behave …
And that’s before the jealousy kicks in.
The more they want you, the less they can stand for anyone else to look at you.
Our waiter is trying to behave himself, but even he can’t resist a furtive glance down the front of my shirt as he drops off the entrées.
I check to see if Adrik noticed.
Adrik leans back in his chair, his wineglass balancing lightly between his middle and ring fingers.
His expression is as relaxed as ever, no hint of irritation drawing those thick black brows together.
The moment the waiter leaves, he says, “Has anyone ever been able to resist you?”
I smile. “Not yet.”
Adrik pours a little more Vietti into my glass, keeping his eyes locked on mine, no need to watch what he’s doing. “Then I guess I’m just like everyone else.”
Of all the things I expected from Adrik Petrov, self-deprecation wasn’t one of them.
He throws me off balance. Those ice-chip eyes narrowed in on me, that rough growl, but the words themselves flirtatious and complimentary—the man has layers to him.
He sparks my curiosity. Also my impulse for mischief.
I ignore the freshly-filled wineglass, wanting to keep my senses sharp. I’ve got plans for about thirty minutes from now. I can’t get tipsy.
Adrik picks up his steak knife, tendons standing out on his bare forearm, the bicep above as round as a softball. His hands are large, the fingers gripping the handle thick and square-tipped.
“Have you ever been to Russia?” he asks me.
“No.”
“Would you like to?”
I take my time cutting into the perfectly-grilled filet, so I can measure how serious an invitation he’s offering.
I thought Adrik was here for sex.
