He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. "How much have you had to drink?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked." He pushes off the frame and walks toward me. "How much, Tatiana?"
I gesture vaguely at the bottle on the counter. "Some. Not that much." My cheeks burn with embarrassment, but the normal panic I'd feel at being caught doing something like this is blunted by the swirl of alcohol in my head and chest.
He picks up the bottle and looks at how much is gone before setting it back down. "You've had at least six shots in the past few hours based on where this was when I last saw it."
"So?" I try to move past him, but he steps in front of me and blocks my path. "I'm technically off the clock. You only asked me to make dinner, so I was being nice, staying here to do it."
"Sit down before you fall down." He points at one of the bar stools by the island.
"I don't want to sit," I grumble, but my knees are shaking and the floor feels uneven, so I lower myself onto the stool anyway.
He pours water into a glass and slides it across the counter toward me. "Drink that." Even when he's trying to play nice, he's a callous jerk. I should’ve known better than to accept this position in his penthouse. Who wants to work so closely to the person in charge who can scrutinize every breath theytake? Quitting would’ve sucked, finding a job even worse, but I wouldn’t be getting wasted just to get through a shift.
"I don't want water."
"I don't care what you want right now." He scowls at me, and I know arguing with him is pointless. But at least he's not groping me. "Drink it."
I pick up the glass and take a sip while he watches me with his arms crossed. The water tastes flat and wrong after the vodka, and I set it back down after swallowing.
"Why are you doing this?" He moves around the island until he's standing directly across from me. "You've been drinking yourself sick the past few days. You're supposed to be relaxed, not wasted, and you seem scared shitless all the time. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on." I stare at the water glass instead of looking at him. "I just hate this job. That's all."
"You're lying." He reaches across the counter and tilts my chin up until I have to meet his eyes. "You're terrified of something and you're using vodka to numb yourself enough to function. So tell me what it is."
I pull my face away from his hand. "I already told you. I don't want to be your maid. I want to go back to working the floor where I actually belong." It's not easy hiding my true feelings, but Dimitri isn't the sort of man I'd ever tell my secrets to. He's an ogre of a man with no heart, and he thinks with his cock. Not to mention, if those men come after me because they know what I saw, who's to say it isn't men taking orders from him? He might kill me if he knows what I saw.
"You're lying," he grumbles, and I'm done with this.
I stand without thinking and turn toward the door, but he moves into my path and stops me. The alcohol has made me feel clumsy and slow, and I should be cooking his food, not being lectured, but all I can think about right now is going home and sobering up. He can take his stupid frustrations out on some poor delivery guy for all I care.
"Move out of my way." Grumbling, I push him back to get past, but his arm hooks around my waist and I find myself pinned to the wall with his elbow planted beside my head and his body leaning in closer to mine. He smells like expensive whiskey and faintly of cigar smoke, and his eyes bore into mine steadily.
"Why won't you tell me why you're so rattled, Tatiana? Haven't I been kind to you? Since you started working up here, I haven't tried to pressure you once. I've been nothing but respectful, and you're making way more than you were." Dimitri's arm rises and with the tip of his pinky on his left hand, he pushes a stray hair off my face. It makes my heartbeat kick up a notch and my mouth instantly feel dry. God, I need a drink.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine," he repeats, and I try to turn away, but I can't take my mind off his lips so close to mine, I can see how they're slightly chapped.
We're standing too close and the vodka's made my head fuzzy enough that I can't seem to make myself pull away. His hand drops to my waist, and the way he's looking at me makes my stomach flip.
"You did good work today," he says quietly, and strangely, his tone puts me at ease. "The kitchen was spotless when I checkedthis morning. The bedroom looked perfect. Even this disaster with the chicken isn't your fault when you're this scared." His thumb strums my hip bone softly as I swallow my nerves.
The praise does something to me that it shouldn't. My hand is still on his chest and instead of pushing him away, I find myself feeling his heartbeat under my palm. He's calm as can be while I'm feeling like a frightened rabbit.
"I should go," I mumble, but I don't want to go. My body is reacting to his being so close, and maybe I want to see what might happen if I don't shove him away, for a change.
"Yes, maybe you should." His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back. "But if you stayed, I could help you calm down. You know, give you someone to talk to." When the tips of his fingers find my bare flesh and dance across my skin, I shudder.
"You're my boss and this is such a bad?—"
He kisses me before I can finish the sentence. It's searing, melting my insides to lava in an instant, and it steals my breath. Then the vodka and the fear and the exhaustion all combine into something reckless and I kiss him back.
His hands are in my hair and on my back and gripping my hips, and I can't keep track of where he touches me because it's everywhere at once. I pull him closer, and he crushes me against the wall until I'm trapped against his body.
