Page 80

“But…” I stop, too confused to continue.
Ark smiles, seemingly pleased by my bewilderment, before asking, “What was your preference for dessert again? Ice cream or…?”
He leaves his question open for me to answer how I see fit.
I follow along nicely.
“Mousse. Mousse was my pick.”
His smile makes me so hot that you’d swear I didn’t recently climax.
“Did we remember to get mousse?”
I stare at him as if he is daft. It is all an act. A man as brilliant and motivated as him wouldn’t be mindless. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t remember the name of the cleaner I’ve used every day for the past six years if asked right now. Nothing but working out how I can keep Ark’s smile planted on his face is on my mind.
“We didn’t buy any because I already had some,” I answer when Ark patiently waits. “Chef made way too much Thursday night.”
“Ah. Yes. That’s right. I forgot.” He’s lying. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. “Dessert?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He moseys to the fridge and rifles through the limited items inside like he’s lived here as long as me.
It takes a few moments for my bewilderment to clear enough for lucidity to take hold.
His reaction wasn’t in response to me touching him.
Horror only filled his face when I stuttered.
Gosh. Does that mean what I think it does? Does he fear me stuttering in his presence more than he does me touching him?
This is horrible for me to admit, but I hope that is the case.
Trust is one of the greatest gifts you can give someone, second only to love.
34
ARKADIY
Icy barbs pierce through the scars on my back when I bury my head under the water pumping from Mara’s showerhead. I can’t face scorching-hot showers. I haven’t since I was a child. It is either cold or freezing. It will never be close to warm.
As I work my jaw from side to side, I step under the spray more. I’m meant to be prepping to officially meet Mara’s daughter, not fighting to rid my skin of sweat that plagues it anytime I consider becoming someone’s stepfather.
My stepfather was a monster, a reincarnation of the woman who birthed him. He did terrible, horrible things, and although I’d give anything to pledge that I am nothing like him, my mother’s concerns have my mood circling the drain any time Mara brings up Tillie.
I want to protect her. I’d never do anything to hurt Mara, and hurting Tillie would do that. But how do you protect someone if you’re the one they could need sheltering from the most?
It is seriously fucking with my head, and every time I think I’m getting a hold of it, I get bombarded by a severe case of anxiety.
As my mother has said numerous times over the past two weeks, I didn’t marry and have kids in my prime for a reason. Yet now, right at the pinnacle of my career, I’m minutes away from playing house like a family was always on the agenda.
Ugh.
Why the fuck, out of all the men in the world, did my mother choose him? I could have had close to a normal existence if he hadn’t been introduced to Karolina’s life and mine when we weren’t old enough to take care of ourselves.
I bang my fist on the tile, too worked up to discount all the signs our mother ignored not to respond. They were right in front of her, flashing in neon lights, yet she let them happen.
She let them continue.
She ruined our chance of normalcy, and now my insecurities are doing the same.