“Holy shit,” I breathe. It’s stocked like a fucking bomb shelter. There’s enough food in here to feed a small army—or one very hungry stripper. I spot containers of what looks like borscht, a metric fuckton of eggs, and more types of cheese than I knew existed. There’s beer, of course, because stereotypes exist for a reason. But nestled next to the Stolichnaya, I spot a carton of… almond milk?
“Who the fuck are you, D?” I laugh.
My reflection in the steel makes me cringe. “Christ, Wren, you look like shit.” I scowl, raking my fingers through my greasy hair. An elastic band on the counter saves my ass, and I wrangle my mop into something resembling a bun before my stomach growls like a pissed-off Rottweiler.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya,” I mutter, tossing my phone on the counter. Time to feed the beast.
Eggs, check. And hello, beautiful—German sausages. Long, thick ones that make me snicker like a twelve-year-old. “Bet D knows how to handle his wurst,” I quip, then groan. “Christ, Wren, get your mind outta the gutter.”
But it’s too late. My brain’s already there, replaying last night’s highlight reel. D’s cock, hard and huge and—fuck. I shake my head, scowling at the sizzling pan. “Focus on the damn food, you horny bitch.”
As I’m frying up breakfast, guilt starts gnawing at me like a bad hangover. Shit, I didn’t tell Joe I wouldn’t be in today. OrMonday. I let out a long sigh. I actually like that grease trap of a diner, but Joe hates it when people ghost him. Add it to the growing pile of shit I gotta sort out.
The trees outside catch my eye, tall bastards swaying in the breeze. It’s weirdly peaceful, considering I’m holed up in some mobster’s safe house.
“Get a grip,” I growl at myself. “He’s probably off breaking kneecaps or whatever the fuck mafia types do on a Friday afternoon.”
Just then, I hear the rumble of a car engine.
Shit on a stick. Is it D?
Double shit. I look like I’ve been dragged through hell backward, and my pits smell like something crawled up there and died. But it’s too late to do anything—the door’s already creaking open.
I freeze, spatula in hand, wondering if I should use it as a weapon or offer the intruder some eggs.
I take a deep breath and freeze. Maybe the spatula can double as a weapon; maybe I’ll just offer them some eggs. My heart is racing, my adrenaline spiking like I’m on stage doing a pole routine, but why the hell do I care?
Bitchslap.
A good question.
Why am I suddenly worried about what D thinks?
29
Dimitri
The smell hits me before I even open the door.
Sausages and eggs.
Every fiber of my being tenses almost to the point of snapping as I move inside my own home. The small space means I can see straight into the kitchen from the entryway. And there she is.
My eyebrows knit together.
Is that… my fucking T-shirt?
Wren’s standing at my stove, the oversized fabric barely skimming her thighs. My eyes trail down, taking in those long legs that seem to go on forever.Suka.
She turns at the sound of the door, spatula in hand. Her eyebrow arches as she catches me staring. A smirk plays at her lips as she turns back to the stove, one hand on her hip like she owns the damn place.
My mouth goes dry. She looks too comfortable, too at home. Like she belongs here or some shit. It’s unsettling as hell.
I grunt, trying to shake off the weird feeling in my gut.
“You’re back early,hon,” she teases, not looking at me. “Thought you’d be out cracking skulls all day.”
I grunt again, moving closer. The domesticity of the scene is fucking with my head. “Got nowhere. Useless piece of shit didn’t know anything.”
