Page 31 of Your Sharpest Edge
“Okay,” he said, getting up from the floor. “What’re we making?” he asked from the kitchen.
“A shirt,” I said, moving my hands to the pedal as I shifted so it was easier to reach them by sitting on the couch.
“A shirt...” He came back to the couch and dropped an extra brownie on the table for me. “Cool.”
And that was the end of our conversation as he sat there, in silence, watching as I fumbled my way trying to make a shirt.
“Well, it’s certainly a shirt,” Alex said, putting his hands through two of the eight holes I had accidentally made.
I was laughing so hard I was clutching my stomach.
“It’s for an octopus, maybe?” he said, trying to pull it down, but it was so tiny that it fit him right below his chest.
“This is such a failure,” I said, rolling onto the wooden floors and kicking my feet like it was the funniest thing that had happened to me.
“It’s not a failure,” he said. He adjusted the shirt so the three extra holes kind of stuck out in the front, looking more like tubes. “The color is cool.”
I’d picked a pretty blue fabric. It was simple enough, but with all the holes, it looked absurd.
Alex looked outside, and then I glanced back at the clock, realizing it was already ten. “Are you really not going anywhere for the week?”
He shrugged, the shirt still on. “Nah. I have better things here.” He winked and quickly changed the topic. “Wanna grab some noodles? I know a good lo mein place down the block.”
For a moment, I hesitated. What if someone from the team was also still here and saw us together? We’d never been out in public together, neither of us had the other’s phone numbers. We really only saw each other on these small nights together.
With Dimitri gone, there was no reason we shouldn’t go out. I simply shrugged. “Sure. Let me get my purse from upstairs,” I said, remembering the money Dimitri had left me was sitting on the table.
“Nah. It’s on me tonight.” He headed to the door as I stood.
“You don’t have to do that.” I chased after him and then realized he was still wearing the octopus shirt. “Aren’t you going to change?”
He looked down at the holey blue fabric—because I’m not even sure if “shirt” could describe what it was. “You made this for me. I am wearing it out.”
I cocked my head to the side. “No, you absolutely are not.”
My eyes drifted down as his shirt started to ride up, revealing more of his chest. His well-defined pecs and chiseled abs peeked out, showcasing his muscular physique. His body was sculpted, each muscle standing out in sharp relief.
“It doesn’t even fit,” I added, my gaze lingering on his impressive form.
He looked down, tugging it past his nipples. “Looks like it fits fine.”
“Alex Popov.” I put my hands on my hips, grounding myself in the middle of the hallway.
He reached out for my hand. “Come on, malyshka.”
Malyshka?I froze. Why would he call me ‘baby’ in Russian? Was that... intentional?
“I meant Anastasia.”
I huffed, ignoring it because he must’ve made a mistake. “It’s just Stassi. I don’t know how many times we need to go over that.”
He shook his head. “It’ll always be Anastasia to me.”
12
alex
As we sat at a booth in the corner of the restaurant, I felt absurd. And not because of the shirt I was wearing, riddled with a hundred holes—truthfully, that was the best part of my outfit. I’d wear it every single day if she asked. The real reason I felt silly was that the moment we were in public, words seemed to evade me.
