“What? I’ve never hated you, Katja. Even when I really, really wanted to,” I reply, setting my fork down to meet her gaze. “Do you hate me?”
In the softest voice she answers, “No. I don’t hate you.”
“Well, then we—”
“I mean, I should hate your twisted, bossy, dominating, and infuriating morning-person self, but I don’t.” The corner of her mouth lifts a little and I find my lips mimicking hers.
“You like me dominating,” I whisper, enjoying the return of the pink to her cheeks. “Admit it.”
“What happened to not humiliating me at breakfast?”
“Do I need to repeat the question louder?”
Her eyes widen. “No. I heard you the first time.”
“Then answer me.”
She hesitates, pushing her spoon through the yogurt in little patterns until she quietly says, “You already know the answer.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Dex.” She snaps my name out in a harsh, exasperated whisper, but I don’t back down.
“I can make a scene if you want me—”
“Yes, okay?” she says, sighing. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” I tease, grinning as she clenches her jaw, a little muscle in her cheek twitching from the effort.
“Yes, I like your… your dominating personality,” she finally whispers, before adding, “Sometimes.”
“Good girl,” I praise quietly, pointing at her bowl again. “Now take a bite before I pull my chair over there and feed you myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
I grin. “Try me.”
Katja acts like I’m forcing her to eat something disgusting instead of perfectly ripe fruit with organic muesli and pasture-raised, organic, and whatever-the-fuck-else yogurt. I find it more than a little satisfying as she eats three small bites and a whole blueberry before reaching for her water. “Happy?”
“I’ll be happy when you actually make some progress on the bowl, but that’s okay. We have time. Plus, the longer we sit here enjoying each other’s company, the more staff and guests will get the chance to see us,” I say, noting the way her back straightens just a little further, the tension returning. “And we have plenty to talk about anyway.”
"How much do I need to eat?” she asks, glancing around us again.
“Enough.”
“So helpful,” she snarks. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
“Us.”
“Us?” she repeats. “Is there an us?”
“That’s an excellent place to start. I think we proved last night that there are certain aspects of a relationship where we work together well.”
Her blush intensifies, and she takes a bite to avoid responding, which is fine. She needs to eat.
“It’s the other parts that we haven’t really tested.”
“Such as?” she asks without looking up from her bowl.