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Is that subliminal messaging? Is he saying we’re over or I’m easy?
He quirks an eyebrow. “A frown at my egg choice? How about I take this batch, and you tell me how you want yours done?”
Did I frown? Crapo. “Scrambled, please.”
“Very American. Sit.” He gestures at the table.
I obediently plop down next to a chair that has a man’s shirt draped over it—a shirt with buttons that are attached, meaning it’s not the one from yesterday.
“Where did you get a change of clothes?” I ask.
“Ivan brought it, along with the groceries.” He turns back to the stove. “There were cobwebs in your fridge.”
Great, Ivan knows Vlad stayed here.
Actually, Ivan, being his driver, would know either way.
Still, my cheeks warm. Though I’ve never done the walk of shame, I bet it feels a little like this.
He makes small talk as I drum my fingers on the table, debating if I should just flat-out ask him what he thinks is going on between us.
I should.
And will.
Any moment now.
His back is turned. That makes it easier, doesn’t it?
Nope.
Not happening.
I must’ve used up all my boldness and bravery yesterday.
Mouth watering beyond reason, I watch as Vlad slaps the contents of the skillet on a plate, then cracks another egg, puts a little bit of milk in, and stirs.
Damn. Who would’ve thought such domestic minutiae could be this hot? I feel my brain scrambling along with that egg.
How weird would it be if I played with myself here at the breakfast table?
Or if I got a toy?
“Here.” He scrapes the skillet onto another plate and brings the yumminess to the table, along with a bottle of ketchup.
I attack my food. After the exertions of last night, my appetite is through the roof.
“It’s eight forty-five,” I say when the worst of my hunger is satiated. “You’re legendary for being in your office at the crack of dawn. What gives?”
He shrugs. “The beauty of not having a boss is that I get up when I want.”
“I bet that’s nice.” I shovel more egg into my mouth. “How did you end up owning your own company in the first place?”
He smiles. “After college, I worked for Bloomberg for a bit. Since I lived with parents, I was able to save a little money. When I realized that I needed to run things myself if I didn’t want to go mad, I asked my parents for a loan to help me start Binary Birch. The rest is history.”
“Impressive,” I say, attacking the rest of my eggs. And I mean it, too. To own a successful software company at thirty-two years of age is no small feat.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asks.
