“Dresses.”
Dima is leaning against the far counter, arms crossed, face completely neutral. But I can see it—the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s enjoying this.
“Dima,” Jasper says suddenly. “Back me up.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard my argument.”
“Don’t need to.”
“He’d make thousands of dollars for a single photo shoot.”
“He makes more than that now.”
“Doing illegal things.”
“Exactly.”
Jasper throws his hands up. “You people have no appreciation for art.”
“We appreciate art,” Lev says. “We just don’t want to wear it.”
I snort. Actually snort. The sound surprises me so much that I clap a hand over my mouth.
Jasper grins. “See? Mary gets it.”
“I don’t get it. I’m just laughing at you.”
“Same thing.”
The timer dings.
I pull the cinnamon rolls out of the oven. They’re perfect. Golden brown, butter bubbling at the edges, the aroma so good it makes my eyes water.
Or maybe that’s something else.
“Oh, my God,” Jasper breathes. “Those are obscene.”
“They’re cinnamon rolls.”
“They’re pornographic.” He reaches for one.
I slap his hand away. “They’re hot. You’ll burn yourself.”
“Worth it.”
“Five minutes. Let them cool.”
He pouts. Actually pouts. A grown man.
Lev’s staring at the pan like it might contain the secrets of the universe. “They smell…”
“Good?” I offer.
“Dangerous.”
I think about Anton—how he still hasn’t tried them. How I want him here for something as stupidly normal as this.
