“I’ve been called worse.” I tilt my head. “And for the record, no. You’re the first flight attendant I’ve ever wanted to photograph.”
Her cheeks flush, but she hides it well, rolling her eyes. “That’s a line.”
“It’s the truth.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and the sound is warm enough to chase the chill off the water. The air between us shifts, the tension bending into something looser, easier.
A part of me enjoys it—just this. Walking the canals, hearing her laugh, watching her loosen. It feels dangerously close to a date. I haven’t had one of those in…years, maybe longer. Everything in my world is calculated, transactional. Women, too. But this? This feels unplanned. Human.
“Sasha! Come see this!” one of her colleagues calls from a little way down the canal, waving her over excitedly.
She glances at me, almost apologetic.
I give a small nod and step back, letting her go.
She crosses to join her friend, her laughter trailing behind her.
The rest of the tour winds on, and I make no move to reclaim her. I could, easily. But I don’t. I let her feel the absence, let her notice the quiet where my attention had been.
Patience. It’s a long game.
And I intend to win.
Night folds around us as we make our way back toward the airport, the crew drifting ahead in small clusters, their chatter soft against the hum of Milan. When we reach the sliding glass doors of the terminal, I fall into step beside Sasha again. This time, I feel her presence welcome me.
“Now,” I say, lowering my voice so it’s meant only for her, “will you allow me to make you dinner properly in New York?”
She tilts her head, lips curving in that maddening almost-smile. “I’ll think about it.”
I smirk. “You already have. You’re just playing with my heart now.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Stop being so overconfident.”
“This isn’t overconfidence,” I tell her, stepping just close enough that the air tightens between us. “This is certainty.”
For a moment, she holds my gaze—blue fire and stubborn willpower—but then she turns, walking through the doors without another word.
I watch her go, the echo of her smile still tugging at me.
Patience,I remind myself.
She’s already mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Chapter 3 – Sasha
It’s been just under twenty-four hours since I landed back in New York, and there’s been no sign of Lev Rusnak.
Not that I can blame him. I didn’t give him my number, didn’t give him anything at all to work with. When he stepped off the plane at the airport, all he said was, “I’ll find you myself.” As if that’s supposed to be easy.
Except…somehow, I almost believe it.
Still, New York is vast. Millions of people, endless noise, faces that blur together the moment you turn the corner. Whatever magnetic pull I felt in Milan, whatever dangerous charm he wrapped around me on that canal, it shouldn’t follow me here.
I tell myself that as I walk through the streets, the city alive with its usual pulse. I tell myself I’ve shaken him off, that I’m back to my life, my rules. But there’s a part of me—a part I hate—that keeps glancing over my shoulder.
Waiting.
Wondering.
