Page 24 of Pay the Piper

“It’s fine,” I sigh, picking at a loose thread on my caterpillar. “You’re not wrong. I need some more personal touches. It’s a bit sterile. I’m still trying to figure out my style.”

“I like it. Especially the ‘Fuck the Patriarchy’ canvas in the entryway. I couldn’t agree more. Things tend to go better when women are in charge.”

That canvas was another part of my drunken haul, and the only thing gracing the barren white walls of the condo for now.

“Thanks.” I’m not sure what else to say. I’m still a little shocked that he’s here. Judging my fridge magnets and complimenting my one decor choice.

The call for the food delivery interrupts our silence, not quite companionable but not awkward. Just thick, as if neither of us knows what to say. Food, the great equalizer, gives us something else to talk about other than my obviously sad and solitary existence. Whoever Mimi is, she obviously knows her shit.

“Oh my God.” My moan around my first bite of garlic bread is indecent, but I don’t even care. This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth, and Misha isn’t even finished opening all of the take-out containers yet.

“Wait until you have the fiocchi. Do you like pears? I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your preferences, but I wanted you to have as many of Mimi’s classics as your heart desired.”

“I love pears. Although I’ve never had it paired with cheese in a savory dish before. Unlike you, based on how much you ordered. Is that your favorite?”

His boisterous laugh as he dishes pasta onto my plate with a wink relaxes me a bit, and after explaining a few more dishes and adding generous portions, he presents it to me with a fork and a flourish.

“Everything from Mimi’s is my favorite, but you’re right. This fiocchi is the premier pasta dish in the city, by far. So eat up.”

I don’t know what I would have considered my favorite food before, but now I know for certain it’s this pasta. Misha eats with perfect manners but a ravenous appetite befitting a man his size, and I’m getting full while he loads up a second plate.

“You must have quite the workout regimen to eat so much and stay in shape. On top of my skate practices, which I know must wear you out.” I’m mostly joking—although he still hates the BOSU ball and complains every chance he gets.

“I enjoy many forms of physical activity,” he says with a smirk, and I feel my blush creep up my neck despite my best efforts to keep my cool. “You certainly put me through my paces. But I eat to fuel my workouts, not the other way around. Usually I wouldn’t indulge in so much fat with one meal, but you said you wanted comfort food, so there was really only one answer.”

Humming my agreement, I dig into the last sack left on the table for something sweet, but only find napkins and packets of parmesan. No dessert? Guess he’s not so perfect, after all.

“In the fridge,” he murmurs, snagging a parmesan packet and adding it to his final few bites of food.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re looking for your dessert, Abby.” He doesn’t ask, he says, and fixes me with a stare so intense I can’t look away. “It’s all in the fridge. If you’re ready for it now, I’m happy to bring it to you. Cheesecake, chocolate cake, and a Key Lime pie slice. You can have your pick.”

I fucking love cheesecake.

“Cheesecake it is.”

Misha stands gracefully from the couch, taking both our plates to the kitchen on his way. Before long, he’s back with a mouthwatering slice of cheesecake and two spoons.

“It’s my favorite, too. Mind if we share?”

As soon as I shake my head, he sits down beside me, much closer than he was before. I can feel his heat now and smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something that must just be him. It’s an overtly masculine smell, and it’s a wonder I’m not running for the hills. Thinking that a smell associated with a man is intoxicating is as impossible for me to consider as the giant freaking crush I’ve developed for the first time in a decade.

It takes all my willpower to hold in another moan at the creamy cake, but Misha doesn’t make the same effort. The low sound of pleasure he makes as his first bite hits his tongue travels straight to my core, and I have to break this tension before I combust.

“Is your fridge full of magnets from your vacations?”

He shrugs as if he was waiting for me to circle back to the magnets, handing me the plate with the last couple of bites and sinking back farther into the couch.

“Many are. Some are just funny ones I’ve seen in gas stations. A few I’ve received as gifts.”

“What’s your favorite?”

There’s no hesitation before his answer.

“I have a few. One is a sunrise over Thunder Bay that my friend bought for me when we first moved here. Another is an opossum wearing a cowboy hat that I picked up in a truck stop in Texas.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, quieter than before. “I also have a pair of emerald-green figure skates that I’ve grown quite attached to.”

The air charges between us, and time stands still. The urge to burrow under his arm for a cuddle is an undeniable itch under my skin, but at the last moment, I come to my senses and plop down beside him instead, an inch away.