Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
I’m already walking toward the store, doing my best to hide the ridiculous rush of feelings his sweet talk to a bike stirs in me. He doesn’t even talk to me like that.
Irrational.
Everything about him makes me fucking irrational.
The store is quiet aside from the buzzing of the fluorescent light and the sound of the fridge. I grab two bottles of kombucha and head to the register.
The guy looks up from his phone and beams at me from behind the glass. He can’t be older than his early twenties—bleached hair, chipped black nails, and silver rings crowding every finger.
“Heya,” he says when I pass him the bottles.
“Hi. I’ll also pay for the gas at pump four.”
“Gas? Oh, you mean petrol.” He laughs like he’s dealt with this countless times.
“Yes. That.”
“You got it.” He scans one bottle, then jerks his chin toward Yulian, who’s just slotting the gas pump back into place. “That your boyfriend?”
My throat goes dry, my wallet halfway out.
The guy—Harry, if his name tag is to be trusted—must catch the stiffness in me, because he raises both hands in mock surrender.
“No hate, man. I’m gay, and I love seeing attractive guys. We don’t get that many around here. You’re both so bloody hot—I mean that as a compliment. I swear.” He chews on his nails as he steals a look at Yulian again, and the prick uses that exact moment to shake his hair.
Why does he even need to do that right now?
Harry doesn’t say the obvious part out loud. He thinks we’re both hot, but Yulian is his type, because he’s got those heart eyes while checking him out, biting his lip and everything.
I glare at Yulian. Fucking attention whore.
No matter what I do to drive people away from him, they keep circling him like hawks.
I clear my throat, and Harry finally tells me my total, so I tap my card on the screen.
As he hands me the bottles, he pauses. “Listen, if he’s not your boyfriend or you guys are open, can I get his number—”
“He’s mine. Back off.” I yank the bottles from his hands and walk out before I punch him in the face.
Fucking hell, what’s this violent version of myself I can barely recognize?
I nearly snarled at the poor dude. Maybe I actually did snarl.
Honestly, what the hell?
As soon as I approach Yulian, I resist the urge to devour him so Harry can see and not have any funny ideas. Then, just in the last split second, I remember we’re in public and just punch Yulian with the bottle against his stomach.
I nearly kissed him in public.
For the world to see.
Yes, it’s early morning, and no one is around, but still.
What the hell was I thinking?
That’s the problem—I wasn’t. My thoughts short-circuit whenever I’m around him, his recklessness and je ne sais quoi behavior bleeding into me.
And it’s dangerous. For both of us.
“What’s with the tough love today, Mishka?” He grips the bottle, strips off his gloves, and tosses them on the bike.
Flipping the bottle in his hand, he leans casually against the seat beside me. “What is this anyway?”
I say nothing, just drink the kombucha, letting the bubbles fill my throat, still fuming about Harry wanting Yulian so openly like that. Some people have a lot of audacity. Even I can’t admit how much I burn for this bastard out loud, so why can everyone else?
It took me such a long time to even touch him without my brain getting in the way. Took me ages to just…be with him like this.
So how can someone who just saw him express interest in him so openly?
Not everyone is as uptight as you, the voice in my head whispers.
Yulian takes a sip of his drink, then spits it right out, coughing. “What the fuck is this? Fermented urine?”
“How on earth do you know what fermented urine tastes like? Actually, don’t answer that and drink. It’s good for your gut that you only feed alcohol or greasy food.”
“Have you been stalking me? ’Cause I don’t mind.” He grins, taking another taste, then grimacing, but this time, he doesn’t spit it out, probably because I’m staring at him. “Seriously, this is an abomination. They have no beer? Cheap whiskey will also do.”
“You’re not drinking while driving, Yulian. You’re already reckless as it is.”
“Love it when you say my name so uptight and serious.”
I glare.
His grin widens, then he hits my shoulder with his. “Why aren’t you drinking? You’re not driving.”
“I don’t like drinking much,” I say, staring at the label.
“What type of blasphemy is that?” He jumps up in front of me. “We’re Russians. We love drinking.”
“Don’t be stereotypical.”
“But it’s true. Alcohol is in our DNA.”
“Must’ve skipped mine.” I pause, then add, “I just don’t like the way it dulls my senses.”
“Hmm.” He plants himself beside me, watching me intently.