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“I am having a fantastic day,” he snarls, clutching the remaining sacks to his chest like a cornered raccoon guarding trash. “Or I was, until a stray dog wandered across the avenue.”
“I’m a very helpful dog.” I nudge his hip with mine, steering him along the sidewalk. “Where is the car?”
“None of your business.”
“Ilya.”
He huffs and jerks his chin toward a sleek matte-black coupe parked three doors down by a fire hydrant.
“Illegal spot,” I note pleasantly. We walk side by side. The sidewalk is crowded, but people part around us instinctively, partly because Ilya is glaring at everyone with open homicidal intent.
Every two steps, his shoulder knocks against my bicep.
He doesn’t move away. He pretends it’s an accident, but the contact stays there.
“So why the stockpile, if you aren’t in a bad mood?” I ask, keeping my tone mild.
“I am regulating my glucose levels,” he snaps, aggressively sucking down half an inch of strawberry slush. The sound of the straw gurgling at the bottom is absurdly loud. I really want to gag him with my dick.
“Mind your own fucking business,” he adds.
“I like your business.” I glance down at him, catching the way his jaw works as he refuses to look at my mouth. “Especially when you’re worked up like this. The pink in your cheeks is very flattering.”
“I’m going to take a pastry scraper to your jugular.”
“Creative.”
He makes a strangled sound of disgust in the back of his throat, quickening his pace until we hit the driver’s side of the coupe.
I step in before he can open the trunk, pulling the rear door open and stacking the totes and loose candy sacks onto the leather back seat.
Ilya dumps the rest of his haul inside. One bag of sour rings bursts slightly, spilling neon-green dust across the floor mat. He doesn’t even care. He just slams the rear door shut, rounds on the front door, and drops into the driver’s seat.
He grabs the door handle to yank it shut, but I catch the edge of the glass.
I plant my forearm against the roof, leaning down until my face fills the open window frame.
“Leaving so soon?” I murmur.
“Yes. Forever. Goodbye.” He shoves the key into the ignition. “Remove your hands before I sever your fingers with the door.”
“Just one question, princeling.”
I let my voice drop, right against the rim of his ear. “Did you get my flowers?”
He freezes with his hand on the gear shift. His eyes dart everywhere except my face. He doesn’t answer my question. He instead says, “I’m in a rush!”
I smile, utterly charmed. “Are you?”
“I have somewhere to be!”
“Where?”
“Away from your face!”
He hits the power window switch.
The tinted glass hums upward. I pull my fingers back just as it seals into the rubber trim. Through the dark glass, I can still see the outline of his flushed profile as he drops the car into reverse and stomps the gas.
