“This isn’t supposed to be easy,” I muttered, mostly to myself, mostly to the onions.
He glanced sideways. “Why not?”
I blinked. “Because it’s you.” The words came out sharper than I wanted. “You don’t do ‘easy.’”
Something flickered across his face—couldn’t tell if it was amusement or irritation. Maybe both. Typical.
“You think I can’t cook?” he asked, deadpan.
“No,” I said quickly, hands flying up in faux surrender. “But you’re, like, a walking hockey penalty. I expected you to brutalize eggs, not nurture them.”
That earned me a full laugh—deep, warm, and why was it kind of attractive?!
I turned back to the pan, stirring like my life depended on it. Because, truly, if I looked at him any longer, I was going to start questioning everything.
This was supposed to be weird. Awkward. Tense. Not… weirdly easy.
And I did not want to like it.
Or him.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice quieter now, like he already knew I was spiraling.
I turned to face him with my best smirk. “Just wondering how many people you’ve made cry over scrambled eggs.”
He arched a brow. “I only make people cry when they lose bets.”
That landed like a slap dressed as a punchline.
My smile faltered. Just for a second.
Right. The bet. The reason I was even standing here.
The reminder that this wasn’t real. That no matter how good the onions smelled, or how warm his laugh sounded, or how much I wanted to sink into this moment?—
It was temporary.
And it wasn’t mine.
When we finally finished—and by we, I meant Nikolai—I sat down and stared at the plate like it might grow legs and attack me.
Golden-brown omelet. Caramelized onions. The exact amount of garlic. It looked… professional. Fancy even. Like something from a brunch spot where they charge you $17 for eggs and call it “elevated.”
This didn’t track.
I glanced across the table, where Nikolai sat, arms crossed, wearing an expression so smug I could practically hear him purring.
“It’s surprisingly good,” I muttered, stabbing a bite with suspicion. The flavors hit my tongue, and I nearly groaned. Savory. Rich. Warm. Unfairly good.
“Not bad for the Russian Reaper,” he said, leaning back like he hadn’t just shattered all of my low expectations. The corner of his mouth twitched. Smug.
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”
But yeah… the venom wasn’t really there.
We ate in a silence that wasn’t awkward, which made it worse. It was comfortable. And I hated how much I liked it. I found myself watching him—how casually he moved, how everything he did felt purposeful. Even picking at eggs. How was that intimidating?
And why did my brain keep asking that like it was flirting?
