I push through the door, and they both turn.
“Mr. Karpov.” Peterson straightens immediately. “I was just—we were just—”
“Taking a break,” Kirsten finishes. Her smile fades when she sees my face. “Is something wrong?”
Everything is wrong. But I can’t say that. There’s no way to coherently explain the irrational anger bubbling up inside me without breaking the boundaries we agreed to and revealing our relationship.
Peterson isn’t Bratva. He’s just some guy from analytics who probably went to a state school, drives a sensible sedan and has no idea that the woman he’s flirting with is married.
Married to me.
“The meeting ended early,” I explain. “I need you back in the office.”
“I was just getting coffee.”
“You can get coffee later.”
Her eyebrows rise. I can see the question forming on her lips, but she doesn’t ask it. Not in front of Peterson.
“Fine.” She turns to the other man. “Nice talking to you, Derek.”
“You too, Kirsten. We should grab lunch sometime. There’s this great Thai place around the corner—”
“She’s busy,” I cut in.
Kirsten’s head whips toward me, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
“Actually,” she says sweetly, “I’d love that. Text me the details.”
She brushes past me on her way out the door. I follow, leaving Derek standing alone by the coffee machine, looking confused.
The walk back to our office is silent. I can feel the anger radiating off her with every step, but I don’t care. She was laughing with him, touching his arm, throwing her head back, and acting like they were old friends.
We step inside. She closes the door behind us with more force than necessary.
“What the hell was that?” she demands.
I hold my arms out and ask, “What was what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You practically dragged me out of there.”
“I asked you to return to work.”
“You were rude to Derek.”
“I was direct.”
“You were a jerk.”
I sit down at my desk and pull up my email. “Peterson can survive a little rudeness. He’ll get over it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point, Kirsten?”
She storms over to my desk and plants both hands on the surface. “The point is that I’m allowed to have a conversation with a coworker without you swooping in like some jealous—”
“I’m not jealous,” I insist, but even I don’t buy it.
