Page 14 of The Pakhan's Arranged Bride
I stare up at him, bewildered. I don’t know what to say or what he wants. I’ve never felt so small and vulnerable before. No matter how many times Nestor reprimanded me, it was never likethis.
“What were you looking for, Ulyana?” he says my name like I’m in trouble. My heart races wildly, my legs going weak. A strand of his dark chocolate hair falls in front of his eyes, and I am tempted to brush it away for him. But it would be too intimate. I don’t want to be intimate. As it is, he’s too close to me, and it’s doing things to me.
A nervous giggle spills from my lips, and I press my hand against his chest, wanting to push him away, but instead distracted for a moment by how solid he is.
If he tried to kiss me now, would I stop him?
Why are you even thinking about that?
His dominance and that stern look on his face are making it hard to focus on anything else except for how he’s making my body scream with need. Heat is pooling between my legs, as I picture him bending me over this desk and punishing me for catching me in here.
Think, Ulyana, before you do something stupid. Think.
He asked what I’m looking for, but I can’t answer that.
I bite my lower lip.
“You’re home earlier than usual. Did you miss me?” I ask with a grin, trying desperately to distract him from his question.
“I thought I would come home for lunch.” His smooth voice rumbles over me.
“Oh my word—is it lunchtime already?” I’m genuinely shocked. Was I really in here for that long? I was studying those notebooks for a while, trying to be thorough.
For a moment, Benedikt doesn’t move, and my body tenses even more. Finally, he steps away.
“Come and join me,” he says, more a command than an invitation, and I don’t dare decline after being caught in this awkward situation.
“I’d love to, I’m really hungry,” I say cheerfully.
He gestures for me to leave the office, and I duck past him, hurrying towards the door while he follows me downstairs. As we pass the kitchen, Benedikt sticks his head in and tells thechef we are ready for lunch. Apparently, he called ahead and ordered something, because the chef shouts back that it’ll be served in a minute or two.
I’m incredibly awkward sitting with him at the table, unable to make eye contact, scuffing my feet against the floor and wondering what he must be thinking about me.Is he still angry? What will he do?
“Do you like Moroccan food?” he asks, taking me by surprise. When I look up at him, it’s clear that he is as uncomfortable as I am about what happened in the office.
“I think so. I can’t say we eat it often, though,” I say cautiously.
“Some people really don’t like coriander, and it’s in most Moroccan dishes. I love it. I’ve been craving some chicken with Tajine, and the chef happens to be really good at this dish.”
“I’m looking forward to trying it.”
I wiggle in my seat, trying to relax a bit.
“Have you ever been to Morocco? Or did someone use to make this for you?”
“I’ve been to Morocco. It’s a beautiful place. I love the color, the energy—and the food, of course.” He smiles, and finally, that angry look dissipates from his eyes.
“I’ve never been. I’d love to go.”
“One day I’ll take you.” His eyes meet mine, and my heart spins. How is it so easy for him to set me on a daydream with one glance?
The chef walks in, breaking the moment, and I pause to gather my thoughts again.
We start lunch, and I’m blown away by how incredible the dish is.
“If I had had this before, it was nothing like this. This is amazing,” I say, impressed.
“I can make it, too. I didn’t have time today, or I would have. I rather enjoy cooking.”
