Chapter 76 Unfortunately, I Love You
Chapter 76 Unfortunately, I Love You
Dmitry
How can one be so attractive and infuriating in the most beautiful way? She’s ignoring what happened this morning, her focus fully on her phone now and I’m really tempted to groan out of frustration.
Twelve fucking hours with her and now she’s here, she pays me no heed?
“You going to talk to me or keep ignoring my ass?” I question, arms crossed as I stare at her.
She’s in my grey hoodie and runner shorts, and all I can think about is devouring her, with consent of course.
Her brow quirks but she doesn’t look up from her phone. “Let’s say, you’re not as interesting as you think, Mr. Orlov.”
My cock twitches at her use of my surname and I almost turn blue.
Mr. Orlov.
She only pulls that out when she’s trying to ignore her aching desire and need for me, by putting distance between us. I’ve catalogued all of her distance tactics at this point; it’s become something of an involuntary hobby.
One I fucking dislike.
“You called me Dima last night,” I point out.
“And if I recall, I was very horny last night.” She scrolls something. “I’ve since recovered, thank you very much, by the way.”
Eta zhenshchina khochet moyey smerti. \[This woman wants my death.\]
I cross the room and sit on the coffee table directly in front of her, which forces her to either look at me or make a point of not looking at me. She makes the point. Keeps her eyes on the phone. Her jaw does a small, tight thing that means she is very aware I’m sitting here and is choosing not to acknowledge it.
I reach over and tilt the phone screen down with one finger.
She looks up. Finally.
“Hi,” I say.
“I hate you,” she says.
“I know.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Talk to me.”
She studies me for a moment with those eyes that have always seen more of me than I intended to show. Then she says: “Why didn’t you tell me Rhonda came to you before last night? How many times has she been here?”
Ah. There it is.
“Twice,” I say. “I dealt with it.”
“You keep saying that.” Her voice is even. Which is worse than if she was angry. “You handled it like you handle everything, but somehow after your handling, she fucking disappears! You say you want me in your life but you do everything but keep me in it, except to fuck me, right.”
I clench my jaw tight. I know very well what she’s hinting at but I’ll be damned if I let her believe that I do not value what we have beyond sex.
“It’s not that I do not want to let you know; I just don’t want that to be your problem.” I try to counter.
“Like leaving without any notice five years ago wasn’t my problem?” She sits forward now, matching my gaze. “You’ve said you had to, but it doesn’t explain why you never talked to me. And now, somehow, it’s happening again in a different way, but it’s the exact same thing.”
She holds a finger up to me, pausing my words. “I don’t know what I am to you, but I’d rather not be with someone who feels it’s okay to keep things that can lead to misunderstandings away from me.”
“You know what you are to me,” I say.
“Do I?” She tilts her head. “Because from where I’m standing, you tell me things on a need-to-know basis and decide what I need to know without asking me.” A pause. “That’s not a relationship; it’s just you micromanaging us.”
I lean away from her, rubbing my hands across my face. Fuck, she’s so damn right. And naturally this would be the best time to bring up what went down in Toronto. I should. I fucking should.
“You’re right,” I say.
She blinks. She was braced for an argument. “What?”
“You’re right. I have never had to share things with people before, not even Alec, and I don’t because—” I stop, run a hand through my hair. “Because people have high expectations of me, and my family will be damned before they let me ‘open up’ to someone. It’s a fucking sin. One punishable by disownment. Not that I would mind being disowned.”
I chuckle darkly. The Orlov men are some of the most terrifying men to exist in Toronto, fucking psychopaths.
Gianna looks at me for a long moment. Her phone is face-down on the cushion beside her and her mouth curves into a small frown.
“I only expect you to be truthful with me, Dmitry, because unfortunately I do love you. I never stopped, and I’m not certain I can handle another heartbreak from you.”
My heart staggers, drops to the floor and runs out the door celebrating.
She loves me. She admitted she loves me.
Holy shit.
Fuck. How do I respond?
“I know.”
Her head snaps to me fast, glaring dead at me. “Great, I tell you I love you and you say you know?” She huffs, picking up her phone again. “You better act like you know.”
I look at her sitting across from me in my grey hoodie with her legs tucked under her and her chin slightly raised the way it goes when she’s decided something, and I think: This woman is going to end me and I am completely fine with that.
I cup her face, making her look up at me. “I love you too. I love you more than the air I breathe, and I’d die proving it.”
She blinks, her eyes glossy, but she pries away from my grip. “God, that was so fucking cringy. Don’t ever do that again.”
“Are you sure? I was just about to tell you—” Gianna palms my mouth shut. Her hand feels warm against my mouth and I stick my tongue out, licking it. Her eyes go wide, surprised by my action.
“Are you a fucking dog?” she asks, removing her hand from my mouth slowly.
“Depends on who’s asking. Just so you’re aware, I wasn’t going to say anything inappropriate.”
“You were absolutely going to say something inappropriate.”
“I was going to say I love the way you look in my hoodie.” I pause. “Which is appropriate.”
She stares at me. “That’s it?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You weren’t in the scouts.”
I chuckle. “No shit. I promise, that’s it.”
She narrows her eyes like she’s checking the statement for hidden compartments. “Fine,” she says finally. “It’s a good hoodie.”
“It looks better on you.”
“Obviously.” She tugs the sleeve down over her hand — that habit she has, pulling fabric over her fingers when she’s trying to look unbothered. It does not make her look unbothered. It makes her look like she’s trying not to smile. “Don’t push it, Orlov.”
Orlov again. I have a theory that she switches between Dmitry, Dima, and Orlov depending on exactly how much control she is trying to maintain over a situation. Right now, Orlov means: I have just told you I love you and I need approximately forty-eight hours to pretend I didn’t.
I’ll give her thirty minutes. I’m being generous.
She pads toward the kitchen and I follow because I follow her everywhere now; it’s become reflexive, like breathing.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, opening the fridge with the confidence of someone who has decided we are moving on from the emotional portion of the morning.
“You’re going to cook?”
She turns. “I’m going to look at what’s available and then we can snack on it.”
“Ahh, the greatest chef is one who can make edible food even more edible.”
Gianna flips me off as she leads the way into the kitchen. “Mock me all you want, Dmitry; you know I’m an amazing chef.”
With that, she pulls out eggs and studies them. “I can make eggs.”
“I know you can make eggs.”
“Then why do you sound like that?”
“Like what?”
“Scared, like I said I’d try operating on you for fun.”
I lean against the counter and watch her locate a pan with the focused energy of someone navigating a minefield. She holds it up, looks at it, and then at me.
“Don’t,” she says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
I press my lips together.
She turns the stove on, cracks the first egg — cleanly, which I note she looks quietly proud of — and says without turning around: “You really said ’I know.’”
I raise a brow, confusion sparking in my head. “To what?”
“When a woman tells you she loves you, the correct response is not ‘I know’”
Oh, so we’re back to that.
“Han Solo would disagree.”
She turns fully around, spatula in hand. “Did you just quote Star Wars at me in response to my love confession?”
I consider this. “…Yes.”
She stares at me for a very long time.
Then she bursts into full-blown laughter, holding her stomach as she bends over.
“You are insane,” she says, in between laughs.
“You love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.” She plates the eggs — slightly overdone on one side, which I am not going to mention — and slides a plate across the counter toward me. “Eat.”
I look at the eggs, which are slightly overdone, by the way, and then at her. A triumphant smile tugs at my lips. I want it written on every tabloid, on every piece of paper, spread across the internet: tonight marks the beginning of Dmitry Orlov’s best year in existence.
I eat the eggs.
They taste like everything I’ve wanted for six years because they’re from her.
“Good?” she asks, watching me with her fork halfway to her mouth.
“Perfect,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. But she’s smiling at her plate when she thinks I’m not looking.