His eyebrows rise. “You arranged all three?”
“Yes.”
“For today.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
Then, dryly, “Ambitious.”
I glance at the calendar, then back at him. “I’m on a deadline. Apparently, my emotional well-being must yield to operational efficiency.”
The corner of his mouth moves upward. “Still dramatic,” he says.
“Still impossible,” I shoot back.
Instead of replying, he does something deeply unhelpful.
He perches on the edge of my desk.
Just like that. Like he has no idea what this looks like. Like he isn’t six-foot-something of expensive menace sitting far too close to me in the middle of an open office.
I glance around instantly, heat surging up my neck. “Oh my God.”
He follows my gaze, then looks back at me, all false innocence. “What?”
“Get off my desk.”
“Why?”
“Because people can see you.”
He leans back one fraction, clearly comfortable, clearly enjoying himself. “They’ve seen me before.”
“Not sitting on my desk.”
His mouth curves now. Definitely a smirk.
That bastard.
I lower my voice. “Mr. Vasiliev.”
He tilts his head, like he’s listening to a particularly entertaining presentation. “Ms. DeLaurentis.”
My pulse is all over the place. I can feel Lina’s stare from somewhere to my left. I can feel Owen’s soul astrally projecting across the room to watch this disaster in real time.
“If anyone sees this,” I hiss, “they’re going to think something weird is happening.”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then lifts again. “Something weirdishappening.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Because annoyingly, yes. That is the problem.
His eyes flick to my screen again. “Three dates.”
“Three opportunities,” I correct. “You only need one bride. I’m increasing your odds.”
“And exhausting yourself in the process.”
