That earns me a small, smug smile. “Fair point.”
Maya clears her throat. “I’ll, uh, see you in class, Dmitry.”
“See you,” he says easily.
When she’s gone, I turn on him. “You’re impossible.”
He chuckles, stepping closer. “You’re adorable when you’re possessive.”
“This isn’t funny,” I say, glaring up at him. “You were enjoying that.”
“Maybe a little.”
I punch him lightly in the chest. “I wasn’t jealous. I just didn’t want you wasting my time.”
He catches my wrist midair and holds it, his thumb stroking my skin. “You sure about that?”
I look away, heart pounding. The warmth of his hand spreads through me like static. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Only when I’m right.”
He’s standing so close now that I can feel the heat from his body, smell the faint scent of his cologne. Clean, expensive, masculine. The air between us hums with tension.
His voice drops. “If you promise never to look at another guy like that again, I’ll never look at another girl again.”
I blink, taken off guard. “What?”
“Promise me,” he says quietly. “That you won’t look at anyone else the way you look at me.”
My stomach flips. The logical part of me knows this is crazy, but my heart is already answering for me. “Fine. I promise.”
His eyes light up, slow and satisfied, and I realize I’ve walked right into his trap. Since last night, he has wanted me to be exclusive. To be his. And now I realize that’s what I want to.
He got exactly what he wanted. So did I.
I can’t even bring myself to regret it.
TWELVE
Dmitry
The burger joint is loud,greasy, and perfect. Neon lights buzz over the counter. The air smells like salt and smoke, and the chatter of college students fills every corner. This is not the kind of place I expected Callista to bring me to for our unofficial second date.
Callista sits across from me in a booth, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes bright under the cheap yellow light. She looks wildly out of place and yet completely at home.
There’s a smear of ketchup on her wrist, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. She bites into her burger too fast, and a piece of lettuce slips out and lands on her T-shirt.
I laugh quietly. “You’re a mess.”
“Am not,” she says, though her words are muffled by food.
I lean over the table, wipe the ketchup off her lip with my thumb. Her mouth parts slightly in surprise, and I see the faint flush rise on her skin. I take a napkin next and dab at the red spot on her shirt before she can do it herself. Taking care of her comes naturally to me. I don’t know why that is. When she’shonest and vulnerable, she awakens my masculine instinct to protect. I like doing these small things for her, feeling like I’m contributing to her life in small, meaningful ways.
Her eyes flick up, uncertain, soft.
She’s beautiful in a way that hurts a little. It’s not about the makeup or the dress. It’s how she looks when she forgets to be perfect. When she lets herself laugh, unguarded. When she talks with her hands and drops crumbs everywhere.
“I didn’t think a girl like you would eat burgers,” I say. “I was thinking you’d pick someplace bougie.”
