Page 38 of 10 Days to Ruin

I take a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of my glass. Her eyes follow every movement I make.

“What a shame,” I remark, voice pitched low enough to make her shiver. “I had such plans for dessert.”

Ariel shrugs and giggles like a wind-up Barbie doll. “Oh, no!” Then she signals for the waiter to come back over.

From there, it’s like a fucking montage of pickiness.

A salad arrives: almonds and peas and the most inoffensive greens ever made. I’ve never met a woman who doesn’t gorge on rabbit food. Surely she won’t have anything to object to this time.

And yet…

“What now?”

“I have an almond allergy,” she explains prettily.

No, you don’t. I had a file put together on you. If you so much as sneezed at cats, Feliks would have found out.“Pity.”

The voice in my head urgingPatienceis starting to grow hoarse.

The duck: “Oh, I’msosorry,” she says with a remorseful glance at the duck confit drizzled in cherry compote. “Duck reminds me too much of my childhood pet. I had a duckling named Sir Quacks-a-Lot.”

Steak tartare: “Is the cheftryingto give me parasites?”

Again and again, she dismisses everything brought to her, and again and again, I can’t help but feel like something’s off about this whole performance. The brattiness comes and goes like a tide, rising whenever the waiter approaches, falling when we’re alone. Her body betrays what her mouth denies—the quick flash of her tongue when each new dish arrives, the white-knuckled grip on her wine glass every time I lean close.

I catch her staring at my hands as I slice through the tender meat of the short rib course. Her pupils blow wide when I bring the fork to my mouth, a flash of heat lightning in those green eyes before she remembers herself and looks away.

Oh, she’s not immune. Not even close.

I spear another piece of perfectly-cooked wagyu, watching her push food around her plate like a child avoiding bedtime. “Something wrong with the sauce?” I ask as she scrapes it carefully off her fifth untouched dish.

She glances up through those thick lashes, radiating fake innocence like a nuclear reactor. “Just not a fan of mixing fruit with meat.”

I set down my knife with deliberate care, metal clicking against bone china like a bullet being chambered.

Alright.

Fuck patience.

Time to end this little charade.

I signal the waiter. “Bring the lady’s dish back to the kitchen. Remove the sauce.”

Around us, the restaurant goes quiet. In the decade I’ve patronized this place, I’ve never sent back a dish. Ariel’s cheeks flush pink as nearby diners turn to stare.

But she says nothing.

Maybe there’s hope for the little filly after all.

When her new plate arrives, I watch her with dark amusement. “Better?”

She takes a bite, unable to refuse without making a scene. “Perfect,” she manages, but her voice has gone husky.

I lean forward, close enough to catch the scent of peaches on her skin. Close enough to imagine tasting it. “I thought it might be.” My voice drops lower, meant for her ears alone. “I always know exactly what a woman needs, even when she fights it.”

The fork trembles slightly in her grip. She’s not playing with her food anymore, and we both know why. Her little games have only made her more appetizing.

That’s when the lightbulb finally goes off.

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