Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
IMANI
Blake drags me to an Italian restaurant that’s close to the village but seems overly touristy.
They up-nod the hostess and make the finger sign for two while I trail behind them, scowling the entire way.
This whole place smells like so much butter.
As I walk behind Blake on the way to our table, I deconstruct every meal we pass, internally tabulating the calories these people are ingesting oh-so-casually. It’s enough to make me grimace.
Blake settles into a chair and gestures with a wide wave to the seat across from them.
I sit daintily and unfold the napkin, placing it carefully in my lap.
They open their menu and start bopping their head along to whatever song they’re humming as their eyes trace the food options. “Ooh, yes!” They say aloud to whatever conversation they’ve been having in their head.
“Oh, good. What diet-ruining dish will you be having this evening?” I question them.
“This food is a good source of nutrition. I’m having Ossobuco. Which, I’ll have you know, is an excellent source of protein and carbohydrates. The beer I might let you sneer at, but your bad attitude isn’t going to get to me, Cupcake,” they inform me.
“Hmph,” is the only sound I utter in response.
“What are you getting?” They question.
“I told you that I’m not getting anything,” I remind them.
“Yeah, you need to eat. Come on. Be a good Cupcake and open up that menu before I order you something you don’t want,” they threaten.
I glare at them, but I grab the menu and immediately zero in on the salads. I close the menu. “I’ll have a salad.”
“We’re in Milan. That doesn’t count as a meal here; that counts as a precursor to a meal. Try again,” they tell me.
“If they can make it to accompany a meal, they can certainly make me one to eat without anything else. That’s what I’m having,” I assert.
Blake cocks their head and surveys me intensely. Their scrutiny makes me so uncomfortable that I squirm in my seat.
Fortunately, we are saved by the waitress’s arrival.
When it’s my turn to order, I tell her, “A salad, no cheese, no meat, dressing on the side.”
Both Blake and she look at me in horror, but it’s Blake who pipes up. “Are you a vegan?”
“No,” I answer, but offer no further information.
“She’ll have chicken on her salad,” Blake informs the waitress.
“I said no meat!” I protest.
“Thanks so much.” Blake ignores me, dismissing the waitress, who looks at both of us warily and then decides to ignore my protests as well.
I slump in my seat, thinking about the additional calories. If I eat this chicken, it would be so lackadaisical of me, which I cannot afford to be during these crucial two weeks. I decide to take my frustrations out on the person causing this internal debate. “You can’t just order me around.”
They look at me intensely, and I almost look behind me to see if they can see through me.
“Tell you what. I’ll pay for this meal. And you can decide what to do about the dreaded meat when the order arrives.
But I will remind you that you can’t be successful on that ice if you’re not properly fueled—which includes a steady injection of protein.
” They punctuate their words with a raised eyebrow.
I need to change the subject and fast, and for a couple of reasons: I need to get Blake off the topic of my eating habits, I need to stop feeling so hot when Blake gets serious and orders me around, and I really need to stop squirming because I think they know they’re getting me worked up.
“Are you going to help me with my interview situation or just lecture me on how you’re a superior athlete? ”
They press a hand to their heart. “Cupcake, I can do both. It’s called multi-tasking, and I’m exceptional at it.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” I roll my eyes at their overdone antics. I can’t believe I’m actually into this right now.
“Ciao, bellas!” We are interrupted by an enthusiastic greeting from a white brunet man with a professional camera slung around his neck.
“Ciao!” Blake greets him.
I can’t help the sneer that I grace him with as I eye his camera, expecting some terrible scam to make this dining experience even more hazardous to my health.
“A honeymoon couple, I presume? Please, bellas, pose for a picture to capture this moment in time!” The photographer beams at us, overexuberant.
“Oh, wait, no—” I try to stop this train wreck from occurring, but Blake is already grinning at me in delight.
They clamber over to my side of the table, throw an arm around my shoulders, and lean their body into mine.
The photographer moves to the opposite side of the table, brings his camera up to eye level, and announces, “Formaggio!”
I’m smiling automatically, trained for years to act the part when a camera is placed in front of my face, even as fake as I know it will be.
I can’t keep track of what’s happening. Blake is so close to me.
My heart is pounding in my chest. Some man thinks we’re on a date.
Is there a part of me that wants this to be a date?
I resolve to stay as still as possible until Blake releases me.
But suddenly, they turn their face toward mine and inhale deeply.
I startle in my seat. “Did you just smell me?”
They laugh and shrug. “You smell good, Cupcake.”
“Get the fuck off of me,” I snap, not liking how my skin heats at the compliment.
They lean right into me, and I’m completely aware of how close their lips are to mine. “Tell me, what would you do if I sat here for the entire meal?”
“Not eat a single bite,” I say with certainty.
“Mm. Not worth it, then,” Blake decides, and swaggers back to their side of the table.
I breathe a little easier with them having moved away from my side, but I’m still wondering what in the absolute fuck is wrong with me.
When did I decide that I was into… whatever the fuck Blake is?
They’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. And I remind myself that not just a day ago, I was resolved to stay away from them.
They’re nice to me during a breakdown, take me to lunch, and suddenly I want to hop into bed with them? No. Just no.
Our food arrives, and I eye the creamy polenta on Blake’s plate. “Do you know how much fat is in that?”
They grin and spoon up a heap of it. “Yum. I’ll burn it off on the ice, Cupcake. And if I gain a little weight, all the better to slam that weight into the opponent, yanno what I mean?”
I consider their words. What a novel idea that gaining weight in a sport could be seen as an advantage. This is just another reason for me to keep my conversations with Blake focused on the interview angle. We’re too different to be friends; nevertheless, more than friends.
Despite all the water I’ve had today, my hand shakes as I reach for my fork, so I grumble my way through the salad Blake ordered me—I eat all the chicken, but none of the dressing, thank you very much!
When Blake is humming as they finish their meal and wiping the cream sauce off their lips—an action I totally don’t zero in on—the photographer appears again and brandishes a piece of paper I can only assume is our photo.
Blake excitedly takes it from him, raking their eyes over the picture and making small noises of approval.
I reach out for it. “Let me see this monstrosity,” I demand.
“Only if you’re a very good Cupcake and don’t tear it up,” they insist.
“Yes, yes,” I sigh, realizing that at some point I’ve stopped trying to fight the pet name they’ve given me.
“You’re a lovely couple,” the photographer compliments us.
Blake hands the photo over so I can see it, and instead of telling this guy we are decidedly not a couple, they agree with him. “Aren’t we, though? Cupcake, you tell me if you think this is a good picture of us.”
I gaze at the captured moment, the two of us looking cozy together, while Blake hands the man some euros for his troubles.
“Ciao!” He departs us, and I finally look up at them.
“You shouldn’t have paid for this. It’s silly. You know we’re not together,” I chide Blake.
“Now, now, Cupcake. Enjoy your first picture of us together. It’s a good memory,” they laugh as they lean back in their seat, throwing an arm over the seat next to them and taking a sip of their beer with the other hand.
My cheeks heat, and despite my dark skin camouflaging the blush, something again niggles at me that Blake absolutely knows what they are doing.
“Why are you flirting with me?” I decide to attack the problem head-on.
“Why are you enjoying it?” They parry, leaving me gaping at them.
I laugh as coldly as possible. “And why would you ever think you could have such an effect on me?”
A slow grin spreads across their face as they raise a beautiful blond eyebrow. “Should I share your tells?” They reach across the table and take my hand in theirs, erotically caressing it with their other hand. “Should I divulge how I can read you?” Their voice is impossibly low.
My breath catches. I feel like the two of us are trapped in a room, transported to a solitary dimension where no one else exists. I cough to cover what I fear might be a moan, and pull my hand back.
Blake returns to their insouciant position on the chairs. “You’re right,” they grin. “Why give you the chance to hide all those delightful reactions from me?”
The whiplash between their dark dominance and their casual goofball sides is…
overwhelming. I don’t know what to do with them, or what to make of what’s happening with my body.
So I just glare at them and look away, catching the eye of the waitress, miming the sign for a check.
I need to get out of here. But… fuck. We’re in the same room at the Village.
I can’t get away. Closing my eyes, I find my center and gather my strength.
When I open my eyes, that shit-eating grin is on Blake’s face, like they can read my mind.
I am in so much trouble. And not just from Katya Artyomov.