The Invasion
1459 Words
Elena pov
Adrian Kane is in my kitchen at seven am and I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating.
I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating because no human should look that good making coffee:
He’s shirtless.. In my kitchen. At seven in the morning. Like this is totally normal behavior for fake fiancés who move into your life without permission.
I’m frozen in the doorway wearing my rattiest sleep shirt and dinosaur pajama shorts, staring at what appears to be a Greek god operating my coffee machine with the confidence of someone who owns the place.
Which, technically, he does now.
“Morning,” he says without turning around, like finding him half-naked in my kitchen is just a typical Tuesday.
“Put on a shirt,” I croak, sitting down.
“I’m making you coffee.”
“Put on a shirt while making me coffee.”
“I went for a run.” He turns around, holding out a mug that’s steamed to the exact perfect temperature, and I completely forget how to breathe.
Adrian Kane shirtless is like looking directly at the sun. Broad shoulders that belong in marble museums, a chest that makes me understand why people write poetry, and abs that have their own gravitational pull.
There is even a tattoo snaking across his ribs that I absolutely cannot read because that would require staring, and I’m already staring too much.
“Why are you naked in my kitchen?”
“I’m not naked. Naked would definitely involve significantly less clothing.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Something that might be amusement flickers in his gray eyes. “Would you prefer I take off the rest?”
“I would prefer you put on more pleas!”
“The coffee is getting cold.”
He holds out the mug to me again and I snatch the coffee and immediately burn my tongue because I’m too flustered to test the temperature like a rational adult.
“Hot!” I yelp, dancing around my kitchen like an i***t.
“I told you it was hot.”
“You didn’t say it was lava hot!”
Adrian reaches into my freezer and pulls out ice cubes like he has lived here for years instead of hours. “Here.”
“This is all your fault!”I said angrily.
“My fault that you burned your tongue on coffee?”
“It’s your fault that I’m too distracted by your… your…” I gesture wildly at his entire shirtless existence. “Your situation !”
Now he’s definitely amused. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile, which somehow makes him even more attractive, which is completely unfair.
“My situation?”
“The naked situation happening in my kitchen!”
“I offered to put on a shirt.”
“When?”
“Just now. You said don’t you dare.”
I replay the conversation and realize he’s absolutely right, which makes me want to throw coffee at his perfect face.
“I meant don’t you dare take off more clothes, not don’t you dare put on clothes!”
“Communication is very important in a marriage.”
“We’re not married!”
“Yet.” “Speaking of which, I have taken the liberty of making some adjustments in the house .”
“What adjustments?”
He opens my spice cabinet.
My beautiful, perfectly organized, alphabetically arranged spice cabinet that represents the only corner of order in my chaotic life.
It’s been destroyed .
“What the f*****g hell did you do?” I shriek, rushing to the scene of the crime.
Everything is wrong. Cumin is sitting next to cinnamon like they’re friends. Thyme is mixed with turmeric in complete violation of the alphabet. Paprika has abandoned its rightful place between oregano and parsley and is cozying up to black pepper like some kind of spice traitor.
“I reorganized it by the one we use more often ,” Adrian explains, like he’s done me some kind of favor. “Ehich I must say is much more efficient.”
“Efficient ?” My voice cracks. “This is chaos! This is spice terrorism!”
“It’s logical. Why would you put rarely used cardamom next to everyday cayenne?”
“Because C comes after B in the alphabet.
I start frantically trying to put everything back where it belongs, but Adrian has mixed them so thoroughly that I can’t remember where anything goes. My hands are shaking and I’m making small distressed noises and I think I might be having a breakdown over condiments.
“Elena.”
“Don’t Elena me! Fix this! Fix it right now!”
“Or what?”
I spin around to face him, and he’s standing way too close. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his gray eyes and count the droplets of water still clinging to his shoulders from his shower.
“Or I’ll make your life miserable,” I threaten.
“You’re already doing that.”
“Good!”
“Not in the way you think.”
His voice drops to something that makes my skin tingle in places that have no business tingling right now.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means watching you run around in that shirt is making it very difficult to be a gentleman.”
I look down and realize my sleep shirt has ridden up during my spice-related panic attack, exposing way too much thigh. And the morning light streaming through the windows has made the thin cotton somewhat transparent, which explains why Adrian’s eyes keep drifting downward.
Heat floods my face as I tug the shirt down, but the damage is done.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Stop giving me reasons to look.”
“I’m wearing pajamas in my own home!”
“Our home. And those aren’t pajamas.”
“What are they then?”
“An invitation.”
My breath catches in my throat. Adrian Kane is looking at me like I’m something he wants to devour, and my traitorous body is responding in ways that make no logical sense.
“Good,” I say, before my brain can stop my mouth.
“Good?”
“If I have to suffer through this arrangement, you should suffer too.”
Adrian goes very still, his eyes darkening to something that looks almost dangerous.
“Be careful what you wish for, Elena.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.” He steps closer, and I can smell his soap and something else that’s purely him. “Keep pushing me like this, and I might forget to be patient.”
“Patient with what?”
“With waiting for you to admit you want this as much as I do.”
The admission hits me like lightning. Despite my anger about the spices and the forced marriage and everything else, heat pools low in my belly.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“Your pulse says otherwise.” His thumb hovers near my throat without quite touching it . “I can see it beating right here.”
“That’s from anger.”
“Is it?”
His almost-touch makes me shiver, and we both know it’s not from cold.
“Elena.” My name sounds like a prayer when he says it. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Then tell me,” I whisper.
“Not yet.” Adrian steps back abruptly, leaving me cold and confused and more turned on than I want to admit. “Not until you stop running from this.”
The rejection stings. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel.
“I need to get dressed.”
“Good idea.” Adrian moves toward his gym bag. “Unless you want me to do something we’ll both regret.”
I flee toward my bedroom, but his voice stops me.
“Elena?”
“What?”
“The spices stay organized . Remember that we are married now ..we need to learn to compromise.”
“We are definitely not married !”
“Give it time.”
I slam my bedroom door and lean against it, with my heart pounding so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack my ribs.
This is a disaster. I’m attracted to my captor. I’m turned on by the man who reorganized my spice rack like some kind of domestic dictator.
And the worst part? Adrian Kane is right about the spice organization. It does make more sense.
I might actually hate him for that most of all.
- Writer
