But even then, despite being occupied, she gives the guard a friendly, clumsy wave with her busy hands that earns her a beam. She always does that. Never forgets to treat those around her with respect.
Four weeks ago, when I first came here, that was one of the main things I noticed about her. She had walked up to the building that morning with two coffee cups in her hand, but instead of passing through, she stopped and chatted with the guard. She passed him one of the cups and spent a solid three minutes, when she probably had work to get to.
No one has time for shit like that in Corporate America.
Except Gela Jones, apparently.
The radio comes on. “You seeing this, boss?”
“Uh-huh. I see her,” I answer, half-absent.
“Not the girl. The black SUV is coming up from the north.”
I reluctantly shift my gaze. Sure enough, a black Escalade with tinted windows idles at the corner. Zakharov's men, no doubt.
“Keep an eye on it,” I order, but my attention has already returned to Gela.
She's paused on the steps, rummaging through that absurdly large bag she carries. What the hell does she keep in there anyway? I've seen her pull out everything from spare shoes to a large make-up bag.
This time, it's a small bag of cat food.
She crouches down on those gorgeous legs, folding them beneath her, and I watch with bated breath as she empties kibble into a disposable coffee cup for the mangy stray that haunts the building entrance.
I've seen her do this before. She never forgets that cat.
A woman who feeds stray cats is working in a building owned by men who wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in her head if it served their purpose. And for some reason, it fills me with rage.
Anton Zakharov. He’s playing with people like Gela, and the thought of him potentially harming her makes me want to gut him alive. To be honest, I don’t know why I care. It’s not like me to watch over a woman I don’t fucking know. Hell, I can’t even remember the names of some I’ve taken on dates.
I know it’s not right. But I never said I’m perfect. It’s just, with work being as hectic as it is, with our operations taking me nationwide and cross-continent, I’ve never had the time to find permanence in a woman. I enjoy them, of course. I love their company and dazzling smiles, but I’ve never remembered thelittle details, like how they like their coffee or the color of their eyes.
Brown. Gela’s are brown.
Right now, I'm transfixed by the way Gela's hair falls across her face as she leans forward to stroke the cat's head. The animal arches into her touch, and I feel a godforsaken stab of jealousy toward a fucking stray.
This has gotten pathetic. When I first started overseeing the Zakharovs, I came here out of routine. I found it boring, at best. Until I saw her for the first time, rushing through the revolving door as she tried to juggle it with her bag and phone, her skirt was deliciously tight.
I should have looked away and tried to keep my eyes out for trouble, but something about her caught my attention, and now I can't seem to look away.
“Hey, boss,” a voice crackles through the radio again. “We're coming up on shift change. You want us to stay longer or—”
“I'll handle it,” I cut him off. “Get back to headquarters and brief Trifon. Tell him I'm following a lead.”
There's a pause on the other end. “A lead on what exactly?”
“Just do as I say,” I snap, then soften my tone. “I'll check in later.”
This is unprofessional. Dangerous, even. If Trifon knew I was out here, risking our operation for a girl who doesn’t even know I exist, he’d take me off this mission immediately. I wouldn’t blame him, but my mind’s a mess. On one hand, I want to be the one to help bring the Zakharovs down. On the other hand, my mind keeps wandering.
I know better than to lose my focus while I work, but here I am once again, watching a girl as American as can be, standing and brushing cat hair off her clothes.
She's not even my usual type. I tend to go for the kind of women who understand the game—models, socialites, women who know exactly what they're getting into with a man like me. A night or two of mutual pleasure, no strings, no expectations.
But Gela Jones is something else entirely. Genuine. Innocent. Completely oblivious to the dangerous world that surrounds her in that building.
To her, it’s just her workplace. She’s worked hard. At twenty-four, she’s taken the leap and done things men my age, men in their wretched forties, are afraid to. She started her own thing—a social media marketing agency for start-ups. She worked for a year after graduating from college, then applied what she learned to herself. Last I checked, which was just three nights ago, to be honest, she’s got a team of six and her annual revenue is in the six figures.
Not bad, for a woman so young.
