Jemma rolls her eyes, but she nods. “Fine. But if I find out you’re having a mental breakdown in the broom closet again, I’m sending the flower girl to drag you out.”
“Thanks.” I resist the urge to hug her. If I do, Jemma will definitely know something’s up. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I want a five-percent bump on my future salary for this,” she yells after me. “And I get to name your firstborn!”
After granting Jemma permission to do whatever she wants with my nonexistent descendants, I head for my office, grab the client file, and stuff it into my purse like I’m packing for exile. Then I make my way to the only place in this entire building where I might actually be left alone: a tiny storage room off the service hallway.
I slip inside, close the door quietly behind me, and finally—finally—let myself exhale.
Safe.Out of sight, out of mind. That’s the plan. No one knows me here. I’m just another overworked wedding gremlin having a panic attack next to a bottle of turpentine.
Until I see him.
Muscles. Scars. Jawline sharp as hell, but nose crooked enough to commit tax fraud. Light brown hair cut short atthe sides and back, with thicker curls at the top. Rich golden brown eyes, the color of good whiskey. A sea of tattoos covering his entire upper body, from his ridiculously sculpted eight-pack to the lines of his knuckles.
I know who this man is.
This is Petyr Gubarev.
ThatPetyr Gubarev. As in, the actual groom. The man I came in here specifically to avoid.
And he’s standing six feet away from me in nothing but his boxer briefs.
2
SIMA
God, he’s hot.
It’s the worst possible thought at the worst possible time, but it’s there. Undeniable. Immediate. Unavoidable.
He’s Petyr Gubarev, and he’s super fucking hot.
My brain is short-circuiting, sending all available power to my eyeballs while the rest of me just sorta… stands there.
I keep cataloguing new details. Tattooed chest. Abs like carved stone. Veins. Scars. The kind of body that makes you forget your morals, your last name, and how to use a doorknob. I want to look away—I swear I really do try to look away—but my gaze keeps dragging over every inch of ink and muscle like it’s been personally wronged by the idea of self-control.
And then he speaks.
“You’re early.” He says it so self-assuredly that I almost miss how wrong those words are. “I assume you have a name.”
My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “Sima.”
Then I realize what I just said.
Shit.
I blink. My throat goes dry. Inside, I let out a scream that could crack every piece of crystal stemware in the reception hall.
Shit, shit, shit!
I gave him my name.Myname. Not Sammi Banks, harmless wedding planner, but therealone. The one I’ve been guarding for twelve years. The secret no one is supposed to find out, not ever.
And now, I’ve gone and handed it to PetyrfuckingGubarev. As in, the big, bad boss of my family’s sworn enemies. The one person who’s got every reason to fillet me like a not-quite-vegan tuna fish.
If only that were all.
It’s not, though. Because not only did I just give him the one piece of information he never should have gotten his hands on—I’ve been ogling him like he’s a five-course meal, too.
