Sergei throws the helmet on the sofa, takes off his jacket, and walks into the kitchen. As he passes my chair, he reaches with his hand and lightly brushes his palm down my arm, igniting goose bumps where our skin touches. And it’s not a bad type of goose bumps.
“What’s for lunch? I’m starving.” He sits down in the chair next to mine and looks into the pot in the middle of the table. “Meatballs again? Jesus. I’m signing you up for a cooking course next week.”
“If you have complaints about my cooking, feel free to start preparing the food yourself.”
Sergei sighs, and starts piling the food onto a plate. When he’s done, he looks down at his meal, curses, and digs in. He’s obviously not pleased with what Felix prepared, but I don’t see him going into a murderous rage or whatever. As I susp
