Page 70 of Scorch

Well, everyone has chocolate syrup in their fridge.

Right?

I pour myself a glass and go to shut the door when something else catches my eye. There’s a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries, garnished with an artsy little swizzle of white sprinkles. There’s also a package of handmade macarons, light and airy, their rainbow hues hinting at an array of flavors. Oh my God, temptation fell from heaven and is sitting right here in front of me.

When did he get these? We met with his family a week ago, and I admitted my love for cake. Though… something tells me none of that was news to Viktor.

I peek in the freezer out of curiosity and shake my head. I swallow. There are three different types of hand-packed ice creams from a local dairy, all in my favorite flavors—moose tracks, peanut butter swirl, and cookies and cream.

That can’t be a coincidence. It can’t.

I shut the freezer, my mouth watering. Now I’m legit starving.

So he has my favorite ice cream.

My favorite desserts.

Even the damn chocolate syrup and milk I drink.

Out of curiosity, I walk over to the pantry.

There’s no way?—

I yank open the door. It’s huge and well stocked, the kind of pantry that could make a woman who loves cooking lose her mind.

The first thing I note is the tubs of protein powders and shaker bottles in here, obviously because Viktor can’t magically grow to his size without some intentional decisions. Fair, fair.

But when I scan past the protein powders and shakes, I stifle a gasp. Gourmet, kettle-cooked chips. Sourdough pretzels. Jars of my favorite peach salsa and lime-flavored corn chips. A variety of flavored nuts. The honey-roasted peanut butter I slather on buttery crackers and Italian chocolate-hazelnut spread that I eat by the spoonful.

He has everything.

I shut the pantry and head back toward the fridge.

I’m eating the damn cake.

I open the door and remove the large white pastry box Polina brought over, along with a canister of whipped cream. I grab a spoon from the drawer and prop myself up on one of the stools.

Just one bite. I’ll just take one bite.

I will die of mortification if he comes in here and sees me. I don’t eat the shit out of dessert in front of anyone.

I take a dollop of the red velvet first and a generous taste of the cream cheese frosting. I squirt whipped cream on it, and boom, down the hatch.

I moan, savoring the taste of it. I’ve been so damn good on my diet, and I’ve missed this so much. I lick my lips and swallow before I reach for a taste of the marble cake.

I swirl a good-sized bite onto the spoon, top it, and eat it. Oh, yeah, that’s even better than the chocolate. This is perfection. If the best sex known to man were magically converted into a cake, it’s right here.

Next up, strawberry with vanilla bean icing. I stifle a snort to myself.

I don’t like vanilla, I said, right in front of his family and everything. God.

I take a bite of the spice cake with cream cheese icing and another of the red velvet. My belly is content. I swing my legs on the stool and swipe my finger right through the billows of whipped cream frosting on a strawberry shortcake layer cake.

“Did you save some for me?”

I drop the can of whipped cream to the floor with a bang.

Viktor stands in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, bare-chested, but still wearing his jeans slung low about his waist.

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