“There you are,” she says. “I was starting to think Mr. Vasiliev scared you off for good.”
My stomach drops all over again.
Lina notices immediately. “Oh my God, not in a weird way. I just meant because he’s…” She gestures vaguely toward the corner office. “Him.”
Owen snorts. “See? Everybody knows he terrifies people.”
Lina lowers her voice and adds, with perfect sincerity, “Although, honestly, if he ever looked at me for more than two seconds, I think I’d simply evaporate.”
I nearly choke on air. Because yes. That is the problem. That is exactly the problem.
I grab my coffee mug just so I have something to hide behind.
Owen notices. “You are beingsoweird today.”
“I’m not weird,” I say into the mug.
Lina tilts her head. “Zee, your ears are red.”
Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.
I stand abruptly. “I’m getting coffee.”
“You already have coffee,” Owen points out.
“This is backup coffee.”
He watches me stalk toward the break room, then calls after me, “For someone who didn’t have a wild night, you are handling thisveryinterestingly.”
I raise one finger behind me without turning around.
That only makes him laugh harder.
By the time I get to the coffee machine, I’m half mortified, half amused, and fully aware that if anyone in this office actually did know what happened, I would probably combust on the spot.
Still.
As I wait for the machine to sputter to life, one thought settles in with unpleasant clarity: If a harmless muffin joke can make me react like that, I am absolutely not emotionally equipped to survive whatever happens the next time Aleksei Vasiliev looks at me.
By the time I make it back to my desk with backup coffee, my dignity has mostly returned.
Mostly.
I sit down, open my calendar, and immediately regret everything all over again.
Because there they are. Three color-coded entries lined up across Aleksei’s afternoon like a very expensive speed-dating circuit from hell.
2:00 PM — Lunch, Adriana Bell
4:30 PM — Gallery walk, Sienna March
8:00 PM — Private dinner, Camille Reeve
Three women. Three venues. Three opportunities for Mr. Vasiliev to look devastating in a suit while I professionally facilitate my own emotional destruction.
Amazing. My work email is already a disaster.
Adriana has sent two follow-ups:
