"Sorry," he says over his shoulder as he flips a switch near the entrance. "I didn't know anyone was coming over."
My eyes go wide as I take in the room, temporarily shocked out of my mental turmoil.
On first glance, it surprises me. I would have expected Dimitri's apartment to be sleek, modern and slightly impersonal. But obviously this was one area of his life that he was allowed to exercise control, and I have to admit that he has excellent taste.
A gorgeous chandelier drips from the center of the space, providing ample light for the open plan room. It looks like a work of art all on its own, twinkling with a green reflection from the walls. They're a rich dark green, lending the feeling of comfort that comes from being in the middle of the woods.
The brown leather sofa is huge and inviting, with a cozy looking blanket lying rumpled at one end and an empty bowl on the coffee table. I can picture Dimitri watching a movie before dinner, and that mental image strikes me in its normalcy. The brown of the couch is echoed here and there across the room by smaller accents, like the leather ottoman next to the coat rack by the entryway. Against the far wall, the huge windows offer an uninterrupted view of the city skyline, framed on either side by floor to ceiling shelves that are packed with books. An antique looking table sits before them, surrounded by six matching chairs upholstered in green velvet.
A flatscreen almost the size of my bed is pretending to be a painting one one wall, and I spot another shelf boasting an impressive collection of records as I follow Dimitri through the room.
"Lounge," he's saying, gesturing towards the sofa, "Dining room. But I normally just eat in the kitchen, which is through here."
He leads me through the start of a hallway and into the first room on the right. The lights overhead turn on as we enter, though I didn't see him touch anything. I'm greeted by a kitchen that could be in a magazine, and even though I don't have much time to cook, I find myself surprisingly eager to experience how the space functions for myself. While the slate grey countertops are clean, I see one corner with a dusting of flour, and a glass bowl with residual olive oil.
"You bake?" I hazard a guess as I take in more flour scattered on top of the stove. My voice is stronger, I'm sounding more like myself.
He smiles and opens a breadbox I hadn't noticed, emerging with a round loaf of dark brown bread.
"You bake artisanal bread," I say slowly, not quite able to fit this together with what I know of him. "Is the fact that it's dark brown supposed to make it more rock and roll?"
It's a weak joke, but he smiles anyway. And I'm relieved I'm able to attempt it at all.
Being in this huge apartment with Dimitri is so far removed from my normal life that it's effectively pulling me from the midst of my problem, at least temporarily. I may as well be in a dream, a real time dissociation. It doesn't quite feel real.
"It's borodinski bread, like my Mama used to make," he says, a fond smile on his face. That soft expression does something to my stomach. I could listen to him talk all night, and watch his beautifully expressive face. Even though earlier i noticed that he was comfortable at the bar, here he's clearly in his element.
And it's a different kind of magnetism than when he's on stage with the hypnotic lights and the raw attraction of a talented man. But I would never have known if I hadn't seen him like this in his home. It's the most normal I've ever seen him, but I feel so lucky that he's invited me into his space. Just watching him for a few seconds as he tells me about his childhood is more than enough time for me to decide which version of Dimitri I prefer.
"It was always my favourite," he's saying, telling me about the bread he's holding. "Mama used to make it for me sometimes after school."
I watch transfixed, drinking in every word.
"Those days where I failed a test, or got picked on...her cooking always seemed to make it all better. And once I got older, I could eat a whole loaf in one sitting."
His face is glowing, and there's an answering light in my chest. That voice is like honey, so much more beautiful for the way it's gifting me such a genuinely happy story. He's not even performing, but I can't take my eyes off him.
"She decided that enough was enough," he laughs. "So I had to learn how to make it myself."
I'm smiling with him, standing so close to him that I can feel the warmth of his skin just inches from my own. And suddenly I recognise that building in my mind all this time has been the thought that I really want to kiss him. More than I've ever wanted to kiss anyone before. The desire takes over my whole brain with a burning insistence, and I automatically press my lips press together in an attempt to soothe it.
I've for never felt this strongly before, this yearning in my core, not even with Mason earlier today.
At the thought of Mason, I recoil, and an echo of my panic rises up. I can't be feeling gooey over someone now! Not only did Mason genuinely hurt me, but how would it look to prove him right about his accusations? Not that I would have been here now if it weren't for the things he said. But still, I have the shit show he's caused to sort out first. One that I'm incredibly reluctant to return to, because it would mean leaving the warmth of Dimitri's company.
I've been quiet for too long, but Dimitri seems happy to let me think. I look at the strange dark loaf with its alluring aroma, and try to imagine what Dimitri's home in Russia is like. Friendly, warm probably. His mother sounds wonderful.
"You make it when you miss home?" I ask.
An enigmatic smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
"I don't understand how you seem to know me already."
He looks into my eyes intently, as though trying to figure out this connection we seem to have. Then his eyes flick back to the loaf in his hands.
"We didn't really have dinner. Do you want to try some?"
Those brown eyes shine with some unexpressed emotion, making my answer a simple one.
"I'd love to."
And so it is that I find myself leaning against the kitchen island, on a barstool next to Dimitri Belikov. It's surreal. He cuts even pieces of the loaf with a practiced hand, and we share a butter knife to slather generous amounts onto each piece that we devour. We don't even use plates, but there's something delightfully pure about this moment.
"It's like rye bread, but sweeter," I reply when he asks what I think. "And is that... liquorice?"
He laughs. "Close. Carraway seeds."
Ah, so that's what the crunchy little seeds on top are. I take another bite and concentrate on the flavour, imagining a tall dark haired boy at a table long ago, doing the exact same thing.
I feel myself smile.
"So is it working?"
I've just taken another bite, and I have to cover my mouth as I reply, a little flustered. "Is what working?"
He cuts himself another slice and I hand him the butter knife without him having to ask.
"The bread," he explains, gliding a smooth yellow layer over the dark crumb. "It always makes me feel better. How about you?"
"Hmmm," I muse, wondering how honest I should be. But the picture of his face while he told me about his mother is fresh in my memory, so I decide to go for it.
"Yes. But it's a combination."
"Of?"
In spite of myself, I blush. "The bread...and the company."
After what Mason said, after what he's done to my career, I should not be here flirting with Dimitri. Logically, I know this. And part of me is horrified at myself. But I'm exhausted and I want to stay in this bubble of safety with him for a while, before reality comes crashing down on me once more. And so I'm allowing myself to pretend that we can just enjoy tonight, like normal people who are attracted to each other.
He's looking at me again, in a way that warms me from the inside.
"The feeling is mutual," he says softly. "As badly as our not-a-date ended, this is one of the best nights I've had in a while."
"Me too," I admit, entirely aware that I'm including that first date with Mason in the assessment. But strangely, thoughts of Mason in the background of my mind don't even have an effect on me at the moment. Because Dimitri is leaning forward, and I'm staring at his lips as he moves close enough that we're breathing the same air.
He raises his hand, gently stroking a strand of my fringe out of my face.
"Roza," he breathes. I feel my name on his breath against my skin, and it's like someone struck a flint to start a fire.
My eyelids flutter closed, immersing myself in the smell of him so close, the feeling of his warm hand on my neck. I become sensation, anticipating the taste and warmth and touch of him.
And then I feel his lips, feather light and only for a second, as he kisses me on the forehead.
He stands.
"I need a second," he says, and leaves the room.
And I slowly slide off my barstool and sink to the kitchen floor, all alone. Fighting back tears for the second time tonight, but for a whole different reason.
Author's Note
So close, and yet so far. Sorry not sorry for the bait and switch, I may be having too much fun with this. To think this all started when I watched Imagine Dragons when they performed in South Africa. For those who have seen the memes, you know why I'm obsessed. For those who don't I suggest you Google it, or even go watch them live. It was a fantastic show fore more reasons than a shirtless Mr Reynolds.
Thank you so much for reading! And thank you for all your support and reviews. Please continue to tell me what you think, and feel free to follow and favourite if you want to keep up to date with when I post.
The VA universe and the characters therein are the sole intellectual property of Richelle Mead
