Then my brain fires off like a deranged pinball machine.
I’m planning tomarryKonstantin Belov.
I violently shove the vacuum forward.
I’m considering signing a contract. With a man who could buy and sell my entire existence without blinking.
Pull it back.
He smells expensive.
Shove forward.
Like cedarwood and sin.
Jesus Christ.
I turn the dial to MAXIMUM SUCTION like that’s going to help.
Because this is not the time to be thinking about Konstantin and the way his suit fit when I saw him today.
Or the way his voice felt more than it sounded.
Or the way he looked at me like he was already certain of my answer.
Orwould those strong hands pin mine above my head? Would he make me beg or—
I slam my brain's emergency brake.
Oh, my God.
What thehell is wrong with me?
I clutch the vacuum handle like a lifeline, suddenly overheating.
Because there is a clause.
Right there, page three, section five.
Physical relationship: As often as we both want.
A wife in name and presence.
I groan and turn the vacuum off.
This is not helping.
I need order.
Structure.
A clear head.
So, I move on to the next logical thing: decluttering my kitchen like my soul depends on it.
And that’s when I find the drawer.
The one every house has. The junk drawer.
