Page 56 of Reverie
Jesus Christ.
“I want to actually have a conversation with you,” he says, his voice tight. When I raise my eyebrow and just stare at him, he cracks his neck from side to side before taking a short breath.
“Luna…suggested that perhaps I’ve been a little too heavy-handed with my approach toward you.” He shrugs, placing his hands in his pockets. “So I figured we could simply talk. There’s much to discuss, and I’m sure you have many questions.”
I hate that he’s right—I do have so many fucking questions, but the more questions I ask, the more confusing everything gets.
“All right,” I mutter, “let’s talk.”
Misha doesn’t respond to my statement. He turns on his heel and heads in the direction of the kitchen. The kitchen I just defiled with my…Winter.
I smile, even though there’s a part of me that struggles to file away the fact that I am also confused as fuck about Winter. Well, notaboutWinter. I’m all in on my feelings about Winter and the future we’re going to have together. That is, if we stay alive long enough to even have a semblance of a future. But more, I’m confused about where we go from here.
Misha makes an immediate move for the refrigerator, and after half a minute of rummaging around, he turns around withtwo white plates covered in Saran Wrap. On the small plates are individual slices of chocolate-on-chocolate cake.
“The chef knows that this is my favorite,” Misha says, not looking at me.
I silence the words that demand to be spoken: That chocolate cake is my favorite too.
I’m turning into a goddamn sap, and I fucking hate it.
“Fine,” I say, my response not making any sense. He pulls out two sterling silver forks and slides a plate and silverware across the counter to me.
He doesn’t wait for me before he slides onto a stool and starts eating.
I sit on the opposite seat, and when I lift the fork to my mouth, I’m almost angry at how good this cake tastes.
“You wanted to talk, so talk,” I grumble around another bite of cake.
Misha puts his fork down, and a quick glance at his plate shows that it’s empty. Wordlessly, he goes to the bar on the opposite side of the kitchen and keeps his back to me as he prepares coffee. I’d expect a man like Misha to have a state-of-the-art coffee maker, but he surprises me when he pulls a can of Folgers from the cabinet and starts a cheap brew.
“Coffee at night?” I say, unable to resist my desire to be an ass to him.
Misha tilts his body so I can see his face, his eyebrow quirked. “I have a long night ahead.”
I grunt in response.
After a few minutes, Misha turns around with two mugs of coffee. Without speaking, he slides one of the cups in front of me.
While he pours creamer into his mug, he says, “I know you haven’t known about me, but I have known about you for quite some time.”
The words aren’t comforting.
“Luna told me about your father and Amelia,” I say. Eyeing the creamer, I pour a dollop into my mug.
My head hurts.
“What do you call her?” I ask.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Who?”
“The woman who birthed you,” I say, my jaw clenching.
He takes another sip of his coffee. “Why don’t you ask what you really want to know,” he offers back.
I feel the muscles tense in my face.
“Was it just us she hated, or was she a mother to you?” The words that come out aren’t the ones I’d planned on saying. I wanted to know more about how he and Amelia work together. I wanted to know when she reconnected with him and why.