Too busy cataloging how his calluses feel against my palm.
Rough. Warm. Baker’s hands.
Hands that knead dough.
Hands that could knead me.
I want to bite him.
Right here.
Between the sunflowers and the overpriced honey.
Just sink my teeth into his forearm and see what sounds he makes.
Instead, I hold my gasp in my throat.
Muzzle it.
Store it next to: Vitaly Volkov’s left hand is warm and callused in the exact way that makes me think of being held down and fed pastries.
He doesn’t step away.
Good.
Very good.
“This one,” he says.
Yes.
This one.
Mine.
Vitaly Volkov is going to fall in love with me so hard he forgets what loneliness ever tasted like.
I’ll fill his mouth with better things.
“Thank you,” I say, clutching the flower. “I’m Juliet.”
His smile is soft. Tired. “Vitaly.”
I already knew that.
But hearing him say it?
Hearing his accent wrap around those three syllables?
Vitaly.
I want to make him say my name the same way.
Breathless. Reverent.
Preferably while I’m on my knees.
“That’s a beautiful name,” I say, because I’m supposed to act like this is the first time I’ve heard it.
