Back in my office, Dima is leaning against the far wall, scrolling through something on his phone. He glances up as I enter, taking in my expression.
“What now?” he asks. “Someone dead? Someone need to be?”
“No.”
He tilts his head. “You look like someone stole your favorite knife.”
I ignore him and pull out my phone, dialing Lauren directly even though we only just left the meeting. Dima raises an eyebrow as the call connects on speaker.
“Mak?” Lauren answers, mildly breathless as if she wasn’t expecting to hear from me again this soon.
“I need you to arrange a delivery,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “Something for the house…Roxanne’s house.” I shake my head, feeling like an idiot as there’s a beat of silence on the other end.
“What kind of something?” Lauren asks carefully.
“Something—” I rub the bridge of my nose, annoyed at myself. “Luxurious. High quality. Appropriate for a housewarming.”
Lauren pauses. “Okay, like a floral arrangement? Champagne? A furniture piece? A?—”
“All of it,” I snap.
She blinks audibly. “All of it? Mr. Medvedev, it’s a small cabin. I don’t think?—”
“Flowers. Champagne. And something else.” God, why is this so difficult? And then I remember: I know nothing about her, despite how drawn we are to one another. It hurts more than any injury I’ve ever had, any knife or bullet wound, towant to know her.“She should feel welcomed.”
Across the room, Dima is staring at me like I’ve grown antlers.
Lauren’s tone shifts—warms, sharpens with interest. “Mak, this sounds like overkill.”
“It’s not,” I say immediately.
“It is,” Dima mutters under his breath.
I glare at him. He smirks. Lauren clears her throat. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” I breathe in, steadying myself. “Send a full crew to help her unpack. Move furniture. Whatever she needs.”
Another too-long pause. “Mak,” Lauren says carefully, “that’s not a standard employee benefit.”
I clench my jaw. “Do it anyway.”
“As you wish,” she says, amusement creeping in. “And dinner? Should I schedule something?”
I swallow. I don’t want to admit it. I barely admit it to myself. “Yes.”
Lauren inhales sharply, delighted. “From where?”
I grit my teeth. “From that pretentious farm-to-table place you dragged me to last year. With the ridiculous wine pairings.”
“Harbor & Hearth?”
“Sure. Them.”
Lauren makes a soft, knowing sound that grates along the inside of my skull. “I’ll have it delivered to her house around six.”
“Make it five,” I say.
“Of course.”
