Maddy
MADDY
I follow Mihai downstairs, his hand wrapped lightly around mine as he guides me to the kitchen. He’s still shirtless, his sweatpants riding low on his hips, and I can’t help but admire the way his tattoos shift and stretch with each step he takes.
The black ink crawling over his chest and arms is mesmerizing, and my eyes linger a little too long before I look away.
We reach the kitchen, and Mihai releases my hand to move toward the fridge. He opens it, rummaging through its contents.
“Omelet sound good, baby?” he asks over his shoulder, his deep Romanian accent curling around the word like it’s something sacred.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how dry it feels. “Perfect,” I reply, watching as he moves effortlessly around the kitchen.
It’s unfair, really—how someone can look so good doing something as mundane as making breakfast. His movements are precise, efficient, and I can’t take my eyes off him.
The way the muscles in his back ripple when he reaches for a pan, the way his curls fall into his face when he leans down to grab something from a lower cabinet—it’s all too much.
“Keep staring like that, and I might start charging you,” Mihai says without looking at me, his voice teasing and laced with that deep, gravelly edge.
My cheeks heat instantly, and I straighten up, trying to play it cool. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Sure you weren’t,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder with a smirk that does wicked things to my stomach. “You’re worse at lying than I am at being subtle.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “I was just… observing.”
He laughs, low and warm, as he cracks an egg into a bowl, whisking it with a flick of his wrist that somehow manages to look effortlessly sexy.
“Observing, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?” The smirk on his face makes me want to either throw something at him or melt into the floor. “It’s okay, though. I get it. I am pretty nice to look at.”
I snort. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, you’re still watching,” he says with a wink, setting the ingredients on the counter. “What do you want in your omelet? Cheese? Bacon? Or are you one of those weird people who likes pineapple on everything?”
I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the way my stomach flutters at his playful tone. “Cheese, peppers and mushrooms, please. And for the record, pineapple has no place in an omelet.”
“Smart girl,” he says, turning on the stove. “Cheese, peppers and mushrooms it is.”
I watch as he moves around the kitchen, so at home in his own skin, so effortlessly confident, and I can’t help but admire the way he carries himself.
“You always stare at your boyfriends while they’re cooking?” he suddenly asks and my heart skips a beat.
“Boyfriend?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling you now?”
He glances at me again, his smirk softening into something almost playful. “What else would you call me?”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words get stuck somewhere between my brain and my tongue. Damn him and his stupidly perfect everything.
Instead, I settle for, “We’ll see how this omelet turns out before we start assigning titles.”
He laughs again, and I hate how my core clenches at the sound. “Fair enough. But if this omelet doesn’t win you over, I might have to pull out the big guns.”
“And what exactly are the big guns?” I ask, leaning forward despite myself.
“Want me to show you again?” he says, his tone suggestive enough to make my cheeks flush all over again.
I rest my chin in my hand, watching as he chops some bell peppers with a precision that’s almost hypnotic. “Do you always talk yourself up like that?”
He grins, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “Only when I know I can deliver.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Modesty clearly isn’t your strong suit.”
“Modesty’s for people who don’t have anything to back it up,” he counters. “Lucky for you, I’m not one of those people.”
The way he says it, in that deep, accented voice of his, makes the words sound less arrogant and more like a promise. And damn if I’m not tempted to see just how much he can back it up.
“You cook a lot?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the fact that I’m blatantly ogling him.
He glances at me over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, when I have time. It’s relaxing. Plus, Marina’s a disaster in the kitchen, so someone had to step up.”
I laugh, picturing Marina trying to cook. “I can see that. She strikes me as the ‘order takeout and call it a day’ type.”
“Oh, she is,” Mihai says, his tone affectionate. “But she means well. She tried to make spaghetti once and ended up setting the sauce on fire.”
I laugh again, the sound spilling out before I can stop it. “How in the bloody hell do you even set sauce on fire?”
“Beats me,” he says with a shrug. “But somehow, she managed it. Smoke alarms, fire extinguisher, the whole nine yards. She hasn’t stepped foot in the kitchen since.”
He shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping him as he sprinkles cheese and mushrooms into the pan. The smell fills the kitchen, and my stomach growls loudly, betraying me.
Mihai glances at me, his smirk widening. “Hungry, are we?”
I roll my eyes, my cheeks warming. “Shut up.”
“Hey, no shame,” he says, flipping the omelet with ease. “I’m about to make you the best breakfast of your life. You’ll probably fall in love with me on the spot.”
“Big talk,” I shoot back, unable to keep the smile off my face. “You better deliver, Crown Prince.”
His grin turns wicked, and he winks at me. “Oh, I always deliver, baby,” he says, his tone so casual it makes my cheeks flush again. “Now stop distracting me, or your omelet’s gonna burn.”
I watch as he works, and there’s something almost domestic about the sight of him cooking, his tattoos stark against his tanned skin, his hair still slightly mussed from sleep. “You’re entirely too confident for your own good.”
“Confidence is a Crown thing,” he says with a shrug, turning off the stove and sliding the omelet onto a plate. He sprinkles some cheese on top before setting it on the counter in front of me with a grin. “There. Made with love and a little bit of showing off.”
“Showing off?” I ask, arching a brow as I pick up a fork. “You think you’re so impressive, don’t you?”
“I don’t think that,” he says, leaning on the counter with a cocky grin. “I know. Now eat before I’m tempted to feed you.”
The omelet smells amazing, and my stomach growls again as I pick up a fork and take a bite. It’s perfect—fluffy eggs, gooey cheese, earthy mushrooms.
I glance up at him, catching the way his eyes are locked on me, watching every move I make. It’s unnerving and thrilling all at once. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, though the smirk on his face says otherwise. “Just thinking about how good you look eating my food.”
I choke on my bite, coughing as I reach for a glass of water. He laughs, coming around the counter to pat my back.
“Easy, baby,” he says, his voice low and warm. “I didn’t mean to make you choke.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I manage to say, glaring at him through watery eyes.
“I could always make you choke on something else, if you’d like?”
My jaw drops, and I nearly spit out the sip of water I just managed to swallow. My face flames instantly as I gape at him, utterly mortified.
“Mihai!” I sputter, clutching the glass like it’s the only thing anchoring me to reality.
He throws his head back and laughs, the deep, rich sound echoing in the kitchen. “What?” he asks innocently, his grin wicked. “I’m just offering options.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, setting the glass down and crossing my arms over my chest. “And completely inappropriate.”
He steps even closer, his presence overwhelming in the best and worst way. Smirking, he brushes a stray strand of hair from my face.
“Inappropriate would be me spreading you out on this counter and having breakfast where anyone could see you coming for me.”
My face heats up more and I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll combust on the spot. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p as he leans on the counter beside me. He props his elbow up, resting his chin in his hand as he studies me. “But I like this look on you. All red and squirmy. It’s a good look, baby.”
I huff, trying to muster up some indignation, but it’s hard when his dark eyes are smoldering, his lips tilted into that stupid, irresistible smirk.
“So,” I say, desperate to change the subject, “how come you’re such a good cook?”
He shrugs, reaching for a bottle of water. “My mom taught me. Said a man should know how to take care of himself.”
There’s something softer in his tone when he mentions his mom, and it tugs at my chest. “She sounds like she was a smart woman.”
“She was,” he says, his voice quiet now. “Smart. Strong. Stubborn as hell.”
I smile at the affection in his voice. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
He glances at me, his lips quirking up in a half-smile. “Maybe she rubbed off on me.”
We lapse into a comfortable silence, the kind that feels natural despite the unspoken tension humming between us. I finish my omelet, setting the plate aside, and Mihai watches me with a small smile.
“Done already?” he asks.
I nod, leaning back against the stool. “It was fantastic, thank you.”
He smirks, pushing off the counter to clear the plate in the sink. “Glad to know I can impress you with my cooking skills.”
“You don’t have to try so hard,” I say before I can stop myself.
He freezes, his back to me, and for a moment, I think I’ve said too much. But then he turns around, his expression unreadable, and takes a step closer.
“What if I want to try hard?” he asks, his voice low, his accent thick. “What if I want to impress you?”
My breath catches, and I suddenly feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. He’s standing so close now, his eyes locked on mine, and I don’t know how to answer.
“Then…” I swallow, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re doing a good job.”
His smirk returns, softer this time, and he leans down just enough to brush a kiss to my forehead. “Good. Because I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.”
And just like that, he turns away, leaving me breathless and wondering how the hell one man can have this much power over me.
And, God help me, I think I’m falling for him.