Page 73 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

Hmm… Maybe I should thank those three idiots for trying to grab Rurik because, thanks to them, I got to punch them to the point where my hand hurts.

I follow him into the living room but freeze at the sight before me. Honestly, I had expected the stereotypical bachelor pad: just a plain black coffee table, one armchair, and a TV on the floor. I also anticipate seeing beer cans or random socks littered everywhere.

However, that isn't the case.

His apartment is minimalistic, yes, but it exudes a certain sophistication. A wide black leather L-shaped couch dominates the space, complemented by cool tiled white floors and a sleek glass coffee table. Oh, and look, there’s a TV on a TV stand.

But damn, he's clean as fuck. His apartment is spotless, and I don't know why, but I'm trying hard to control my libido. Did I just get turned on because a man’s apartment is clean?

Calm your tits, girl. Don't get all horny just because Rurik isn't a nasty pig.

Rurik clears my throat, interrupting my thoughts. He nods toward the couch.

“You can sit there,” He mutters, walking away. “I’ll go get the first aid kit. It’s in the bathroom.”

This is my first time inside his space, and he expects me to sit on the couch and not snoop? He's so fucking adorable.

Humming, I slowly walk around, taking in the little knick-knacks spread across his TV stand, the pictures of him and his mom on the wall, and a bookshelf. My curiosity spikes as I peruse the titles of his books. Unfortunately, it turns to disappointment when I realize they're all non-fiction.

Boring. I read to escape, not to learn about pretentious stuff.

I turn around and continue exploring, noticing that despite his being an artist, there are no paintings displayed on the wall—at least, not of his. Sighing, I walk over to his kitchen to continue my exploration.

I open drawers and cabinets.

What?

I want to know what he likes to eat. Then, the next time I come over, I can make him something.

I rummage through the junk in his cabinets, hoping to find food that is not snacks or sweets. But that's all I see. Just snacks. What the fuck? What the hell does he eat? Oh god, he's not actually a starving artist, is he?

With a heavy sigh, I close the drawers and cabinets and mutter, "Un-fucking-believable."

“Why the fuck are you huffing and puffing in my kitchen?”

I turn around to frown at Rurik, who was holding a big red box which I assume is the first aid kit.

“Why don’t you have food?” I can’t help but snap.

He blinks at me in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? I have food.”

I cross my arms and lean my hips against the counter. “Cereal and graham crackers can’t be the only thing you eat.”

Rurik's cheeks turn pink as he scowls, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t. I have peanut butter, too, and protein shakes.”

I stare at him for a few seconds before rolling my eyes. Rurik is such a fucking guy.

“I order delivery, too," he adds as if that was worth including.

“You don’t cook?”

He glares and walks over to me, tightly wrapping his fingers around my elbow — ignoring my “Ooh, I love it when you’re rough” comment — and pulling me away from the kitchen. He then forces me to sit on the couch and snaps, “None of your damn business.”

I grin as he pulls a stool before me to sit on. Opening the first aid kit, he retrieves a gauze dressing, a white roller bandage, and medical tape.

He holds out his hand, waiting. I raise a brow and gently place my injured hand on his palm. His brows furrow as he leans closer to inspect the skin. I can't resist teasing, “Are you going to kiss my hand like a gentleman, Rurik?”

Immediately, he looks up, a flash of annoyance and... amusement flickering across his face. I keep grinning like an idiot as he returns his attention to my hand and starts treating it.

---