She was an only child with two parents that stayed together. Nice house. Good Christmases. I was… not so lucky.
It makes me wonder about Ransome’s upbringing. I know a lot about him. Being his personal assistant, I see him from every angle. I know who he enjoys meeting with and who makes him tense. I know what parts of his job give him energy and which things make him reach for the liquor cabinet. I know how he likes his eggs (over easy), what kind of detergent he prefers for his laundry (Persil Intense), the number for the clippers at the barber (four on top, one on the sides), and which Russian restaurants have the bestpelmeni.
But I know nothing about his family, other than the fact that he often goes to the gym with his cousin Baron and that his friend Maverick is like blood. That, and he insists on pounding two fingers of whiskey on the way out the door whenever he is going to meet his father for lunch.
Does he have mommy issues, like Electra said?
Is his dad a toxic dick?
I don’t know. And anytime there is something about Ransome Rozanov I don’t know, an itch grows inside of me to find out.
An itch I can’t ignore.
An itch I can’t control.
I have twenty-four minutes left before my break is over. I take another bite of my salad and set the bowl aside. Then I open my laptop.
As I dig around Google and even social media, I type in everything I can think of.
Ransome Rozanov.
Anton Rozanov.
Baron.
Maverick.
A thousand headlines pop up, but they’re all Apex-related. Nothing personal. Nothing telling. Nothing interesting.
I sigh. If only I had a way of digging even deeper. If only I could see further inside his world… I know so much about him on the day-to-day but nothing about, well,him.
Surely he isn’t this robotic all the time. He must feel something about something. Or about someone…
My door suddenly flies open and slams against the wall. I jump back and my roller chair slides away from my desk. My salad lands with a splat on the floor in front of me.
“God fucking dammit,” Ransome spits out.
I can’t figure out where the words are aimed. At me? Did he see his name on my screen? I want to roll forward to hide it, but my salad is splayed out on the floor, lettuce carnage blocking the way.
“Yes, sir; I’m sorry sir; I—” I stutter because I don’t know what else to do. I am caught so off-guard that my face is on fire.
“I need you to cancel my four o’clock, Miss Parker.”
“Okay.” I nod vigorously. “Right away.”
I expect him to storm back out but instead, he paces the floor in front of my desk, spouting off in a torrent of furious Russian.
“Poochemu ya eto terplyu? Lenivyy starik. Trakhni moyu zhizn!”
I don’t know what he’s saying. I don’t speak Russian. I make a mental note to learn some. But until then, during one of the moments that he has his back to me, raking his hands through his hair in frustration, I jump forward and slam my laptop shut.
Then I bend down, the best I can in a pencil skirt, and attempt to scrape up my lunch off the floor.
“Miss Parker!” Ransome barks out.
I bolt upright again. “Yes, sir?”
He takes in an irritated breath and lets it back out. “Add to my schedule dinner with my father at five.”
