20
Sara
What he dishes out is food. Lots of deliciously smelling food.
Stunned, I gape at the spread on my dining room table. There is a whole roasted chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a big leafy salad—all of it prettily arranged between lit candles and a bottle of white wine.
I figured I might get ambushed in my house tonight, but I didn’t expect this.
“Hungry?” a deep, lightly accented voice asks from behind me, and I whirl around, my pulse leaping as Peter Sokolov steps out from the hallway. The front of his hair is wet, as if he just washed his face, and though he’s dressed in a blue button-up shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he’s not wearing shoes, only socks.
He looks gorgeous—and more dangerous than ever.
“What—” My voice is too high, so I take a breath and try again. “
