“No.” My gaze holds hers. “I’d like a blonde with a mouth on her. Someone who looks perfect in front of others but shows her real self only to me. A woman who craves passion, who needs to be protected, who’d carry as many children as I want to put in her belly.”
Her breath catches, and I can see the heat creep up her neck. She reaches for her milkshake and sips it too fast, pretending to be busy, her cheeks flushed pink.
“Well,” she says, avoiding my eyes, “good luck finding your dream woman.”
I lean back in the booth, watching her struggle to look anywhere but at me. She’s fidgeting, stirring her drink even though it doesn’t need it, trying to escape the tension that she started without even realizing it.
She’s adorable when she’s flustered.
And in that noisy, greasy diner, with fries growing cold between us, I realize there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Sunday afternoon feelslike a test I didn’t study for. It comes too soon for my liking. I’ve been texting Callista all week, because I’m addicted to her thoughts, her energy, and most of all, the way she lets me be myself.
We ate at the burger spot again. It’s quietly becoming ‘our place’. This fake dating thing doesn’t feel fake anymore. My feelings are growing, expanding so fast I can’t control my behavior around her anymore. I keep an eye on her all the time,letting her distract me from my work. My obsession, my lust, and my craving is close to boiling over. But now there are new feelings squeezing my chest—love, protectiveness, caring, and the desire for companionship.
Callista’s hand is small and clammy in mine as we walk up the cobblestone driveway to her father’s estate. The house sprawls across the hill like a showpiece. Huge columns decorate the front, which seems both tasteless and excessive for a mere lawyer’s home. I can tell these people are pretentions and trying to make themselves seem grander than they are. The tinkle of glasses fills my ear and a pristine garden stretches around the house like a crown. On the back lawn, the party is already in full swing. Strings of lights hang from trees, tables draped in white linen, waiters carrying trays of champagne. The air smells like money, perfume, and polite poison.
Callista’s fingers tighten around mine as we step onto the grass. She’s dressed beautifully—cream dress, pearl earrings, her hair brushed into soft waves—but there’s a stiffness in her shoulders, a tension I can feel through her skin.
She looks up at me, trying for a smile. “Well? Impressed?”
I scan the crowd. Women in designer dresses. Men in tailored suits. Laughter that sounds rehearsed. “I’ve seen better.”
Her lips twitch. “Good. Because they all think they’re better.”
We move through clusters of people, conversation lowering to a hum behind us. I can feel eyes on me, on my tattoos that stretch down my arms and peek from under the cuff of my shirt. The whispers follow us like gnats.
“They’re staring,” she murmurs.
“They always do,” I say. “Let them.”
She glances toward the center of the garden. “That’s them.”
Her father stands in a pale blue suit beside her stepmother, a woman too polished to look real. Selina, radiant in a pink dress,is surrounded by friends, her laughter sharp and sweet. Near the buffet, a young boy—Andrew—shoves another kid aside to reach the cupcakes.
“Family,” I say quietly.
She nods. “Unfortunately.”
Her stepmother notices us first. She steps forward, her voice high and grating. “Callista. Good heavens. Did you bring him?” Her eyes sweep over me, disapproving. “Really, dear, is this necessary? You know how people talk. Are you trying to humiliate Selina?”
Callista’s fingers tighten on mine. She tilts her chin up. “Dad invited Dmitry. If you have a problem with him being here, take it up with him.”
For a second, her stepmother freezes, her perfect smile faltering. Then she huffs, muttering something under her breath as she walks away.
I lean close and say quietly, “You did good.”
“She’ll make me pay for it later,” Callista whispers.
“Then I’ll pay double.”
Her mouth softens into a small smile before she exhales, the tension easing just a little.
Selina notices us next. When Callista approaches her to say congratulations, Selina doesn’t even turn her head. “Thanks,” she says in a flat tone, still chatting with her friends. “Paris is going to be so inspiring.”
Callista’s shoulders go taut, her skin stretching across her perfect collarbones. I want to reach for her hand again, but her father appears before I can.
He’s tall and lean, graying at the temples, his face sharp with disapproval. He looks at me, at my inked skin and dark suit, and his expression tightens before he forces a smile.
