I turn to see Semyon watching me.
“You drink coffee?” he asks.
“Yes, I love coffee.”
“But you don’t know how to use that.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m kind of old-fashioned. I use, like, a French press. That’s my favorite way.”
Of course, it makes sense that he would have this type of contraption—immaculate, precise, and unnecessarily excellent.
“I’ll be right back,” he says to Stefan. “You stay right there. This game isn’t over.” There’s a small, playful edge to his voice, but it’s still laced with command.
Stefan sits still, taking a huge bite of his pastry. Crumbs spray onto the table and he gives me a grin around a mouthful.
I don’t remember the last time my brother grinned.
I face the coffee machine, telling myselfI can do hard things.I can figure this out.
Before I get the chance, Semyon reaches over. “You use these pods here,” he says.
He’s standing behind me. I can feel the heat of his chest pressed up against my back, and god, hesmells so good. Iclose my eyes as heat floods my chest. We’re so close. Just the feel of his warmth next to me and his scent is driving me mad…
“See?” he says, his voice low and almost seductive. Or am I imagining that? “The brown ones are espresso, and the black are coffee. You put them in here and press this button.”
“Do I have to, like, tell it what size cup I want or…?”
“No. Each one is calibrated for the exact amount with the right pressure. Espresso shots will be smaller, coffee larger. How do you take your coffee?”
“Cream, milk, whatever.”
“Not ‘whatever,’” he says, reaching for a crystal-clear mug and sliding it under the coffee machine. “I asked you what you like, not what you’ll tolerate.”
My heart thumps.
“Cream. I like cream and three sugars. How do you like yours?” I ask because it feels like the polite thing to do.
His lips almost twitch. Almost. “Cream, three sugars.”
Is he mocking me? I narrow my eyes at him, but he only shrugs.
“I don’t lie, Anya.”
I don’t think he could if he tried.
I watch as the machine bubbles and clanks, the fragrant smell of coffee filling the air. He takes the finished cup, pours in cream and three sugars, gives it a stir, and holds it between his hands, staring into it before handing it to me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, half wondering if I’m thanking him only for the coffee.
With a nod, he makes another cup for himself, and Stefan asks for tea. He likes to pretend he’s grown-up, but he’s not quite ready for coffee yet.
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
I flick the button on the electric kettle and watch as Semyon cleans everything with precision. The pods go into a labeled recycling bucket. He takes a cloth from the sink, wipes a few droplets of coffee off the counter, folds the cloth neatly, and puts it back. He returns the cream to the fridge—immaculate, perfectly arranged, of course—and slides the sugar container back into its exact spot next to the milk.
I watch, half mesmerized, trying not to think about what has to happen between us.
How could someone so beautiful be so cold?