Page 32 of Preferential Treatment

“Awesome,” the saleswoman said brightly. “Color?”

“This one?” she gestured to a deep indigo-blue, the first color that caught her eye on the display.

“I love that color,” the saleswoman gushed, bending to pull a box off the shelf. “If you guys are ready, I can take you to the register, otherwise I can keep this until you’re done.”

“Um…” Kate was suffocating on that warm feeling. In normal people, it was probably a good feeling, but Kate was starting to feel hot and itchy and like she wanted to sprint out of the store.

“We’ll keep looking,” Mikhail said.

Kate allowed herself to be guided past the Le Creuset, towards a locked display of Wüsthof knives.

“Are you alright?” Mikhail asked softly.

Ah, fuck, why did he have to do that? He wasn’t allowed to be sweet and perceptive. She couldn’t handle it on top of everything else. “I’m fine,” she said briskly.

She forced herself to slip back into the spoiled princess persona, and by the time they left the store, Kate was the slightly unsettled new owner of a Le Creuset dutch oven, a hand-forged steel Santoku knife, a set of Waterford crystal water goblets, and—just because Mikhail was getting mouthy—a set of mother of pearl caviar spoons (despite the fact that she’d never eaten caviar in her life).

“You should try caviar the Russian way,” Mikhail said, examining the fancy little spoons with bemused skepticism.

“Is that when I make a certain Russian feed it to me?”

Mikhail chuckled. “I wouldn’t object.”

Kate could think of at least eighty million things sexier than being spoon-fed fish eggs, and she couldn’t help the grimace that crossed her face.

He laughed again.

As they spilled back out onto the sidewalk, Mikhail loaded down with an absurd amount of bags and boxes, Kate’s arm looped habitually through his, that unpleasant glowy feeling started to overwhelm her again. She stared at all the things he’d gotten her and a hard lump rose in her throat. She didn’t know why, but her eyes started to sting. She turned away from Mikhail, pretending to stare at passing store windows, while hot tears trickled down her cheeks.

“Knyazhna?”

“Hm?” She kept her gaze fixed on a passing window display of men’s suits.

“What’s wrong? Look at me.”

She was glad his arms were loaded down with a dutch oven and a multitude of bags. It meant he couldn’t reach for her, couldn’t make her look at him.

Or so she thought. With his long-legged stride, he easily cut in front of her, bringing her up short. Her head jerked up in surprise, her wide-eyed gaze meeting Mikhail’s for a stunned second before she twisted away from him. Despite all his cargo, Mikhail managed to snake a hand out and catch her by the arm. He reeled her in towards him, his face set in grim lines as he searched hers.

“What’s this?” he asked, brows drawn together. “You’re crying?”

“It’s nothing. Honestly. Just ignore me.”

A hint of distress broke through his stoic expression. “No crying, Katya.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. The new nickname just brought the tears on harder.

Mikhail made an alarmed sound, swearing under his breath in Russian.

“Sorry,” Kate said thickly, wiping at her cheeks, breathing deeply to get herself back under control.

“Is there something else you want?” Mikhail asked urgently. “Tell me what it is, we’ll get it.”

Oh, god. The tears resurged with a vengeance. She pressed her hands over her face, mortified. “No,” she said, her voice watery and hoarse. “I’m honestly fine.”

“Please stop crying,” he pleaded with the panicked air of a man who was suddenly in way over his head. “Are you hungry? Will food help?”

He wanted to buy even more for her? More gifts? She swallowed a snuffling sob.

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