n my bed, but he’s playing
hard to get. Maybe I should, too. My inner goddess nods
frantically in agreement. And as I stand in line, we come up
with a plan. Hmm . . .
Christian carries the grocery bags into the apartment. He’s
carried them as we’ve walked back to the apartment from
the store. He looks odd. Not his usual CEO demeanor at
all.
“You look very—domestic.”
“No one has ever accused me of that before,” he says
dryly. He places the bags on the kitchen island. As I start
to unload them, he takes out a bottle of white wine and
searches for a corkscrew.
“This place is still new to me. I think the opener is in
that drawer there.” I point with my chin.
This feels so . . . normal. Two people, getting to know
each other, ha一ving a meal. Yet it’s so strange. The fear that
I’d always felt in his presence has gone. We’ve already
done so much together, I blush just thinking about it, and
yet I hardly know him.
“What are you thinking about?” Christian interrupts my
reverie as he shrugs out of his pinstripe jacket and places it
on the couch.
“How little I know you, really.”
He gazes at me and his eyes soften. “You know me
better than anyone.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” Mrs. Robinson comes
unbidden, and very unwelcome, into my mind.
“It is, Anastasia. I am a very, very private person.”
He hands me a glass of white wine.
“Cheers,” he says.
“Cheers,” I respond taking a sip as he puts the bottle in
the fridge.
the fridge.
“Can I help you with that?” he asks.
“No it’s fine . . . sit.”
“I’d like to help.” His expression is sincere.
“You can chop the vegetables.”
“I don’t cook,” he says, regarding the knife I hand him
with suspicion.
“I imagine you don’t need to.” I place a chopping
board and some red peppers in front of him. He stares
down at them in confusion.
“You’ve never chopped a vegetable?”
“No.”
I smirk at him.
“Are you smirking at me?”
“It appears this is something that I can do and you
can’t. Let’s face it, Christian, I think this is a first. Here, I’ll
show you.”
I
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