“Business has come first since the crack of dawn today,” she informs me with a tired sigh. “As soon as I’m done with this chapter, I’m calling it quits.”
“I take it class didn’t go well.”
“It did,” she says, but the slight rise of her voice betrays her lie. “Or I guess it went as good as could be expected. I was not… very present.”
A slow smirk curls my lip. “You were distracted.”
“Shut up.” Her cheeks flush instantly. “It’s not like that.”
“I didn’t say what it was like.”
“Well, whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”
My eyes rake over her. I can imagine exactly where her mind was at this morning. Same place mine has been since last night. Upstairs, in my bed, remembering how perfect we were together. How smoothly our bodies fit with each other.
But then I remember what happened afterwards. The missing shipment, the driver, Mikhael’s challenge.
I won’t let her distract me.
I turn away and tune into the History Channel. It’s adocumentary I’ve seen before, about cheetahs in the savannah, nothing too gripping.
Before long, I find my gaze drifting to Sima again. Find myself watching her work, her brow furrowed in concentration, her eyes focused on the pages of notes scattered around her.
After a few minutes, she shuts her book. “Alright. I’m done cooking my brain for tonight. Want me to nuke you that plate?”
“I’m not hungry,” I tell her.
But the truth is, it’s just food I’m not hungry for.
“Okay.” She throws me a curious glance. I see her eyes linger on the tight set of my shoulders, the creases on my forehead. “You look… tense. Did anything happen at work?”
“A lot happens at work.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “Keep your secrets. But you still need to relax.”
I decide to focus on the last part of her sentence. “Relax,” I repeat.
“Yep. You know, that thing people do after work? Wind down, kick their feet up, crack open a cold one?”
“You’re describing beer and sports.” My face remains flat. “I don’t do beer and sports.”
“And while I’m eternally grateful for that, I don’t think the cute cheetos there are cutting it.” She points a thumb at the screen.
“Cheetos?”
“That’s what baby cheetahs are called.”
“I think David Attenborough would disagree.”
“C’mon. Help me out here. Solve this mystery for me.” She sits cross-legged on the carpet and opens her arms wide. “Is there anything I can do to make the great Petyr Gubarev relax?”
“Yes,” I answer before I can stop myself. “But you’re wearing too many clothes for that.”
I expect Sima to act offended. Blush that pretty pink that makes her cheeks look so positively edible and stomp away to stew. Better yet, laugh it off like I just made a joke—which I don’t, ever.
Instead, she tilts her head a fraction, like a curious little fox in the wild, and sets her pen down.
She pushes to her feet and, in one smooth motion, pulls her sweater overhead.
