Page 100 of Carnal Games

“Poached or scrambled.”

“I know both,” I proudly announce. Pretty sure I’m still blushing. I can’t say blatantly flirtatious things to him until I end it with Nathan. I have to control these urges, lest I blow my cover. Twisting toward the stove, I switch it on. “You can sit at the dining table while I make them. Should be ready in two minutes.”

I feel him straighten and ask, “Where’s your coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Chai tea lover?”

“Oh yes.” My heart is pumping faster at him taking an interest in me.

“Did you drink it already?”

“Uh… I got busy prepping breakfast.”

“I’ll make you some. Where do you keep the pan?”

“What?” I swing my head toward him so fast my ponytail hits my cheek. “No. You don’t have to, Kian.”

“Pass me the sugar and tea leaves,” he orders, moving past me to stalk to the refrigerator and pull out the carton of milk.

Sensing he won’t budge, I pass him the items. Butterflies dance in my stomach when he stands beside me. Our arms brush as he sets the pan filled with water. I wouldn’t have guessed heknew his way around a kitchen or that he’d offer to make tea for me.

Both of us fall into a comfortable rhythm while the seductive voice of Jennie singing “Seoul City” plays in the background. I’m tempted to pause the playlist, but figure it’ll draw more attention. A few minutes in, my curiosity hijacks my brain. “What do you usually do to relax on Sundays?”

“You’re very nosy, Miss Mannan.”

“You’re very stubborn, Mr. Singhania,” I retort. “Will I ever hear you say Iris? Do you have something against my name?”

“Yes,” he drawls.

I smirk. “You’re just saying that so I’ll quit asking you to say it.”

“You said you like a challenge.” Taking a sip of his coffee, he says over the rim, “I’m obliging your wish.”

“What if I say please?” His fingers turn white around the pan’s handle. I don’t recognize the sultry woman that possesses me—damn you, Jennie—and has me murmuring, “If I beg?”

“I’d remind you that you belong to my brother.”

Instead of heeding the warning edge in his tone, I rasp, “If I didn’t belong to Nathan?”

“You’d be playing with fire.” With a twist of his wrist, he turns the stove off. “Your tea’s ready.”

My fingers curl around the counter’s edges after he walks off, leaving me a breathless mess.

Before either our eggs or my tea gets cold, I carry them to the dining area. Placing his plate in front of him, I say brightly, “I hope you like it.”

“Thank you.”

I boldly sit on the chair next to his, instead of across from him. His shoulders go taut as he breathes deeply. Am I affecting him? In a good way or bad? I’m too afraid to guess. Even whenhe sometimes gives my body a once-over, I can never tell his emotions. He’s too good at concealing them.

I hold my breath, watching him lift the fork to his mouth. He chews slowly and immediately dives in for a second bite. “It’s delicious.”

“Told you I wasn’t bragging.”

“How’s the tea?”

“Perfect.” Because he made it for me. Not wanting to look like a creep staring at him, I focus on my plate. Sitting together with him on a crisp Sunday morning, with the gorgeous view of the sky visible through the balcony, feels romantic and domesticated.

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