Page 19 of Inked Adonis

Rufus barges between us, shoving us apart as he makes another giddy, muddy lap of the shoreline.

Moment ruined.

Thanks, Rufus.

I quickly shift to wicking water off of my leggings so Samuil won’t see my disappointment. “Thank you.” A cool breeze rolls off the water, and I shiver, though I’m not convinced it’s from the cold.

“I’d offer you my jacket—” Samuil holds the dripping garment between us. “—but I doubt it’d be of much use.”

“My a-apartment is only a five-minute walk from h-here,” I chatter. “You’re more than welcome to come over and get cleaned up.”

“Another ruse to get me out of my clothes, I see.” He arches a brow, and another shiver ripples down my spine.

“If you’d rather not, I completely?—”

“Lead the way.”

My attention snaps back to him. “To where?”

He can’t really be accepting my offer, can he? The man probably has a helicopter on standby, ready to air-drop him a fresh Armani at a moment’s notice.

But nothing in his face says this is a prank. He whistles for Rufus and snaps his fingers. Like magic, the good-for-nothing, rotten-to-the-core, lovably adorable beast comes barreling over and skids to a stop in front of us.

“Sit,” Samuil commands, and Rufus sits perfectly at attention like he’s been doing it his whole life.

With the Dane neutralized, Samuil turns his attention back to me. “To your apartment. If the offer still stands.”

“Right. Of course. You’re coming to my apartment.” I say the words out loud in hopes the reality will sink in, but nope. Still sounds insane. I wave him on anyway. “Follow me.”

Twice in two weeks, I’ve managed to soak Chicago’s most dangerous man. Both times, he’s handled it with inexplicable grace. Now, he’s following me back to my apartment.

What could possibly go wrong?

A glance over my shoulder reveals Samuil following a few steps behind, his wet clothes molded to a body that belongs in a museum.Or my bedroom.

I snap my eyes forward before he catches me staring.

Everything. Everything could go wrong.

And God help me, I think I want it to.

7

NOVA

I’m so focused on the world-ruining humiliation of that little display at the lake that I don’t think about all the future potential humiliations littering the path ahead until we’re standing outside my apartment door.

When was the last time I tidied?

Is my bra still hanging from the cabinet above the bookshelf to dry?

What if my laptop is somehow open to my search history from last week, and he finds out exactly how far I went down the rabbit hole of “photos of Samuil Litvinov shirtless”?

This time, I actually do consider rescinding the offer.Never mind. Find somewhere else to dry off. Goodbye forever.

But it’s too late. We’re here.

So I unlock the door and push it open. “Well, this is it. Shoebox, sweet shoebox.”

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