Page 100 of House of Cards

“I deal with this more often than you might think,” he says.

“Nah, I figured this is right in your wheelhouse.” I snatch the box from him and shoo him out. For a moment I think he’s going to stay where he is, watching while I put in my fucking tampon, but after a last quick scan of the bathroom, he leaves.

Did he think I was bluffing? That this is some scheme I concocted?

Ugh. Men.

Putting on clean underwear and sweats feels like heaven after standing around half naked. I tidy up the bathroom and step out, raking the hair out of my face as I look around the room.

Smith is on the balcony, staring out over the city. He does that sometimes, and I’ve even joined him a few times, but I feel hot and prickly with irritation and embarrassment.

I’m thinking about getting into bed early. Smith sleeps on the couch, and I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with being gentlemanly. The couch faces the bed, so he can—and will—watch me sleep. When I keep my back turned, I can pretend it’s not happening, and I can fall asleep most nights. But sometimes I lie awake for hours with the feel of his eyes on me.

The smell of coffee hits my nose as I’m walking past the dining table. I glance over and give a double take.

There’s a jug of coffee on the table, two tiny milk jugs, sachets of various types of sugar…and a chocolate cake.

Not like a cutesie slice or two.

A. Whole. Fucking. Cake.

“It’s decaf,” Smith says, making me jump for the second time tonight. “In case you were wondering.”

“Not the coffee I’m wondering about,” I mumble, giving him some bodacious side-eye as he walks up to the table without looking at me. “It’s the twenty-pound cake.”

“I could send it back if you?—”

“I’ll cut you.”

I’ve never seen anything more glorious in my life…and I own a fucking diner. Even from here, I can tell the buttercream frosting is the perfect velvety, melt-in-your-mouth texture. Spirals of shaved chocolate crowd the edges of a glossy mound of?—

“Are thoseraspberries?”

Smith obscures my view. I scuttle around him, eyes latching to the cake as he slices a piece. It feels like the desecration of a sacred relic, but I’m already drooling.

“Damn, that smells good.”

He slides a slice of the cake onto a side plate. I hold out my hand—fucking meekly, in my opinion—my fingertips and tongue tingling in anticipation.

But instead of giving it to me, he puts it down in front of him on the table.

Okay, guess the second slice is mine then.

No worries.

I can wait a few more seconds.

But he doesn’t cut a second slice. He looks up at me, expressionless as he drags the flat of the knife over his tongue, cleaning up the streaks of icing.

The cramp in my ovaries has nothing to do with my period.

The way he’s licking that knife makes me want to bear ten of his children.

“May I?” I ask politely, pointing to the side plate.

“You may,” he all but purrs.

But when I reach for the plate, he smacks me on the back of the hand with the knife handle.

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