Page 212 of Dance of Defiance
“It’s a surprise! Fuckingobviously!”
“I’m not a huge fan of surprises.”
I roll my eyes. “God, I can’t imagine what a grumpy, emo little fuck you were as a kid. You hated Christmas, didn’t you?”
He laughs quietly. “Please. I loved Christmas.”
“Even with all those fuckingsurprises, AKA presents?” I tease.
His brow furrows under the blindfold. “I just don’t get why it has to be this big thing where youknowyou're getting something butyou have to wait a whole week, looking at it all wrapped up. I mean, what’s the point?—”
“You will be visited bythree spirits!” I crow in the best Dickensian tone I can muster. “The ghost of Christmas Past, where you’ll see what a miserable little shit you were at the age of nine. Christmas Present, where?—”
“I get it,” he grunts tightly.
“Relax, wreckage,” I chuckle, making him flinch for a second when I reach over to pat his thigh. “You’re gonna love this surprise. It’ll change your whole perspective on them, actually.”
“Bigfucking words,” he sighs.
“Please. You like it big.”
I grin as his face turns scarlet.
“Almost there, Scrooge,” I laugh as I merge into the right lane and take the next exit.
I’ve never been here, because why would Ieverhave driven most of the way across Long Island for anything before. But for him, and the look I know I’m going to see on his face, it’s worth it.
Fuck,anythingis worth it for him.
I pull into the parking lot and turn off the engine.
“Keep it on,” I warn as I step out of the car and walk around to his side.
I help him out, then guide him across the road to the small, unassuming, but apparentlyphenomenalAustrian restaurant perched high above the rocky beach.
“Okay,” I grin as I step in front of him. “We’re here.”
I strip the blindfold off with a flourish and step to the side, my eyes glued to his face. He blinks, looking confused for a second before suddenly, his brows arch. His lips curl. Then I see that twinkle in his dark eyes that I love so much.
“It’s not Vienna-Vienna,” I shrug, turning to glance at the restaurant. “But it’s third-generation family owned, and the original owners were, like, the best sausage makers back in Vienna?” I shrug. “I dunno. Maybe that’s just internet hype. If it sucks, we can get back in the car and?—”
He cuts my words off with a deep kiss, wrapping his arms around me and sliding his fingers into the back of my hair. I groan and kiss him back, hungry for his taste, inhaling his scent and losing myself in him.
“Who the fuck are you,” I groan, pulling away. “And what have you done with Roman Nikitin?”
He gives me a puzzled look.
“You just kissed me,” I murmur. “In public. It’sdaylight.”
His cheeks burn. “I—I mean, we’re?—”
“Just fucking with you, wreckage,” I grin, kissing him again. “I brought us out hereso we could do what you just did. Kiss. Have a dateoutas a couple.”
His mouth twists. “I—I’m working on it?—”
“Roman.” I shake my head. “You don’thaveto work on shit. I don’t care.”
I don’t need him to roll out a banner or fly a pride flag off the Empire State Building. He’s out to me, our friends, and most importantlyhimself.
