Chapter 7
Maeve
There is a specific kind of intimacy that comes with knowing someone’s coffee order. It’s a small thing, trivial really, but it feels like a secret key to their soul.
Kai took his black. No sugar. No cream. No joy. Just caffeine and bitterness.
I, on the other hand, took mine with oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, and a sprinkle of cinnamon, because I believed life was hard enough without drinking hot dirt water.
It was Tuesday. "Tutoring Tuesday," as I had dubbed it, though Kai refused to use the alliteration.
We had been in this rhythm for two weeks now.
Two weeks of late nights at the kitchen island.
Two weeks of me explaining the nuances of ethical egoism while he stared at my mouth.
Two weeks of him explaining the nuances of the neutral zone trap while I stared at his hands.
And tonight, we were celebrating.
Kai had gotten a B+ on his midterm paper.
A B+. The professor had written “Significant improvement in voice and argumentation” in the margins. When Kai had shown it to me, holding the paper up like a trophy, the look on his face—a mixture of relief and a rare, boyish pride—had done something dangerous to my heart.
So, I was taking him out.
"You have been staring at yourself in the mirror for twenty minutes," a deep voice rumbled from the hallway. "Are we going to get burgers, or are you preparing to walk a runway in Milan?"
I turned away from the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I was wearing high-waisted vintage denim, a black bodysuit with a sweetheart neckline, and a leather jacket draped over my shoulders. It was casual-chic. It said, I didn't try, but I look expensive.
Kai was leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing jeans.
Dark wash, perfectly fitted jeans that hugged his thighs in a way that should be illegal in at least twelve states.
He had a grey thermal shirt on, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing the forearms that I had spent entirely too much time fantasizing about.
"I am contemplating my footwear," I informed him, gesturing to the two pairs of boots on the floor. "Heels or combat boots?"
Kai walked into the room. He didn't hesitate at the threshold anymore. The "lines" we had drawn in the sand—my room, your room—had been washed away by the tide of our late-night study sessions.
He stopped in front of me, looking down at the shoes, then up at me. His grey eyes were warm. Not the cold slate of the first night. They were like smoke now.
"Boots," he decided. "It's icy. And if you wear heels, you'll complain about your feet, and I'll have to carry you."
"You like carrying me," I teased, slipping my feet into the combat boots.
"I tolerate it," he lied. "You're heavy. All that ego weighs a ton."
"Ha ha. Very funny, Volkov."
I stood up, stomping my heel to settle the boot. I grabbed my purse.
"Ready?"
Kai didn't move. He reached out, his hand brushing the collar of my leather jacket.
He adjusted it, smoothing the lapel. His knuckles grazed my neck, sending a shiver straight down my spine.
It was a casual touch. Domestic. The kind of touch you give someone when you know the map of their body better than your own.
"You look nice, Maeve," he said quietly.
My breath hitched. "It's just jeans."
"It's not just jeans," he murmured, his eyes dropping to my lips. "Let's go. Before I decide we should stay in and celebrate... differently."
The air in the room thickened instantly. The "Deal"—the one favor I was owed—hung between us like a loaded gun. We hadn't cashed it in yet. We were playing a game of chicken, seeing who would break first.
"Burgers," I squeaked, stepping around him. "We need protein. You're a growing boy."
Kai chuckled, a low, vibrating sound that followed me down the hall.
We took his car. It was a matte black SUV that smelled like leather and him. It was massive, aggressive, and entirely unnecessary for a college campus, but it fit him perfectly.
I controlled the aux cord. This was a major victory. The first time we drove together, he had tried to put on a Russian podcast about geopolitics. I had threatened to jump out of the moving vehicle. Now, he tolerated my "Sad Girl Winter" playlist without complaint.
We were heading to The Grease Pit. It wasn't actually called that—it was called Benny’s Diner—but everyone called it The Pit. It was twenty minutes off campus, tucked away on a back road, far away from the prying eyes of the hockey team and the sorority sisters.
"So," I said, turning down the volume on Lana Del Rey. "How did practice go? Did you hit anyone today?"
Kai kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel at twelve o'clock. "No hitting. Just skating. Coach is happy with the conditioning. He thinks we have a shot at the title."
"And the scouts?"
His jaw tightened slightly. "They're still around. Watching."
"Let them watch," I said, reaching out to rest my hand on his forearm. I didn't even think about it. It was automatic. "You're playing better than ever."
He glanced at my hand, then at me. His muscles flexed under my touch.
"I'm playing better because my head is clear," he admitted. "The grade... it took the weight off."
"See?" I squeezed his arm. "I told you. You just needed a muse."
"Is that what you are?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. "My muse?"
"Obviously. I inspire greatness. It's my burden."
"Your humility is truly inspiring."
We pulled into the parking lot. The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a pink and blue glow on the snowbanks. The diner was busy, the windows steamy with warmth.
"Ready to eat something that wasn't steamed, boiled, or grilled?" I asked.
"I am going to eat a cow," Kai declared, turning off the engine. "A whole cow. With cheese."
We got a booth in the back. The red vinyl was cracked, and the table wobbled, but it was perfect.
It felt... normal.
That was the terrifying part. Sitting across from Kai Volkov, sharing a basket of onion rings, didn't feel like a chore. It didn't feel like a "fake" arrangement. It felt like the highlight of my week.
He was wearing his glasses—wire-rimmed frames that he usually only wore for reading. He said his contacts were drying out, but I secretly suspected he knew they made him look like a sexy professor, and he was doing it to torture me.
"So," Kai said, dipping an onion ring in ranch dressing (a blasphemy I had introduced him to). "You saved my academic career. Now let's talk about you."
I froze, my milkshake halfway to my mouth. "What about me?"
"The designs," he said. "I saw the sketchbook in your studio. The one you tried to hide under the fabric swatches."
My stomach flipped. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Maeve," he gave me a look over the rim of his glasses. "You are a terrible liar. You want to design lingerie."
I put the milkshake down. I looked at the table, tracing the pattern in the Formica. It was my biggest secret. My father wanted me to go into marketing for a Fortune 500 company. He wanted me to be corporate. Safe. Respectable. He didn't want his daughter designing "underwear."
"It's not just lingerie," I whispered. "It's... structure. It's architecture for the body. It's about making women feel powerful in their own skin. Armor that looks like silk."
I risked a glance up. I expected him to laugh. Or look bored.
He was watching me with an intensity that made my toes curl. He wasn't looking at my chest. He was looking at my eyes.
"Armor," he repeated. "Like you."
"What?"
"You wear armor," he said softly. "The clothes. The makeup. The attitude. You dress like you're going to war every day."
"I like fashion," I defended weakly.
"I know," he said. "But your designs... they are different. They are softer. Vulnerable. But strong."
He reached across the table, taking my hand. His thumb rubbed over my knuckles.
"They are beautiful, Maeve. You are talented."
Tears pricked the back of my eyes. It was stupid. I had thousands of followers on Instagram who told me I was pretty. But hearing Kai Volkov tell me I was talented? It hit differently. It hit deep.
"My dad hates it," I confessed. "He thinks it's trashy."
"Your dad thinks anything he can't control is trashy," Kai said, his voice hardening. "He doesn't see you."
"And you do?"
"I'm starting to," he said. "I see a girl who is terrified of being ordinary, but who is already extraordinary."
I couldn't breathe. The air in the diner had vanished. It was just him. Just those grey eyes and that warm hand holding mine.
"Well, well. Isn't this cozy."
The bubble popped.
I snatched my hand back, looking up.
Carter.
My ex-boyfriend. The Business Major. The guy who had told me I was "too much work" when he broke up with me last semester.
He was standing by our booth, wearing a polo shirt (in February) and a smirk that made me want to commit a felony.
A girl was clinging to his arm—a freshman, wide-eyed and pretty.
"Carter," I said, my voice icy. "Don't you have a frat house to vomit in?"
"Feisty as ever, Maeve," Carter laughed. He looked at Kai, his eyes narrowing. "And Volkov. I heard the rumors, but I didn't think it was true. You're actually shacking up with the Ice Queen? How much is the Dean paying you to babysit?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. Babysit.
It was my deepest insecurity. That I was a burden. That people only tolerated me because of who my father was.
I opened my mouth to retort, to deliver a cutting remark that would shred his ego, but Kai beat me to it.
He didn't stand up. He didn't have to. He just leaned back in the booth, draped his arm over the back of the seat, and looked at Carter with an expression of utter, bored indifference.
"Carter, right?" Kai asked.
"Yeah," Carter puffed out his chest.
"Walk away," Kai said. It was a simple instruction.
"I'm just saying hello," Carter sneered. "Just warning you, man. She's high maintenance. She's got more baggage than an airport. You'll get tired of the drama in a week."
I shrank back against the vinyl. The words stung because I believed them.