Page 82 of Wicked Proposal
“Stop,” Eli laughs, “it tickles!”
“Say, what if we went out to dinner?” I whisper conspiratorially. “Just the two of us.”
His face lights up. “Are we getting pizza? Or ice cream?”
“How about we get both?”
While Eli runs excitedly around the house, chanting “Ice cream and pizza! Ice cream and pizza!”, I text Yulian back.
Thank you,I type, even though it’s not nearly enough.Seriously.
Before going out, I snap another selfie.
Going for pizza AND ice cream!
I don’t expect him to text back at all, but he does.
Careful,kotyonok.Gratitude looks good on you.
Those words make me dizzy all over. I remind myself of every reason this means nothing: the transactional nature of our relationship, Yulian’s wild mood swings that make it impossible to tell what he’s really thinking, the vow I swore to myself.
No more men.
No more mess.
No more scars.
And no more falling where no one will catch me.
25
MIA
On Saturday night, I meet Yulian again.
It’s another business meeting at the Goldenrod. This time, the night passes without incident.
I cling to Yulian’s arm like the good piece of candy I’m supposed to be, laugh politely at every bad joke, and show off Yulian’s spectacular sage dress and jewelry.
Somehow, it’s our coldest date yet.
It leaves me puzzled for the rest of the night. There was no shooting, no violence, no lecherous men pawing at his prize. I saw him shake hands, make deals, secure millions for his company.
By all standards, it was a success.
And yet, Yulian felt like a piece of ice all the way through.
We’ve gone out exactly twice more since then, all in the span of a single week. Every time, I’ve wanted to teach my soul to crawl out my body and astral project back home, with my sleeping kidand my deli lasagna and none of the thirty-plus forks that rich people dinners seem to have.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. After the text exchange, I got my hopes up. It’s not like I expected Yulian to suddenly turn decent and renounce his life of crime, but maybe we could be… friends? Companionable colleagues? Have a boss-employee relationship that doesn’t revolve around threats or strangely hot acts of borderline violence in alleys?
“Unrealistic,” Kallie decides once I’m done venting to her. “Repeat after me: men are pigs. Even smoking hot, GQ-stubbled men with abs of steel.”
“That’s not helping, K.”
“What’s not helping?” Eli mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his face as he walks into the bedroom. Then his eyes go wide. “Anotherdress?!”
“Whatcha think?” I grin, doing a little spin. This one is lilac satin with a high neck and a wide skirt. The box it came in also held a pearl-studded waist belt and a matching purse, as well as a stunning pair of Sophia Webster ivory heels. “Good enough for a Bond girl?”
