The elevator.
The kiss.
The call.
The way he said my name.
I shove the thoughts away and push myself off the bed.
“If I’m going to be fired tomorrow,” I mumble, “I might as well go down swinging.”
Five minutes later I’m in the kitchen making coffee like it’s three in the afternoon instead of nearly one in the morning. My apartment is tiny, barely big enough for the little table and couch that came with the place, but the familiar clutter helps calm me down.
The iPad he gave me sits on the counter.
I pick it up.
“Well,” I sigh, tapping the screen awake. “Let’s find Mr. Vasiliev a wife.”
Profiles fill the screen instantly.
Dozens of them.
No—hundreds.
Beautiful women. Perfectly styled photos. Elegant smiles. Ivy League degrees. Last names that sound like old money and country clubs. Some of them are models, some are lawyers, some are daughters of politicians or CEOs.
All of them look like they stepped out of a magazine.
I scroll. And scroll. And scroll.
The more I look, the quieter my apartment feels.
I stare at a woman with sleek black hair and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Another with blonde waves and a body that probably lives in a Pilates studio. A third with a doctorate, a charity foundation, and a family estate in Connecticut.
I catch my reflection in the dark microwave door across the kitchen.
Plain brown hair. Loose sweater. Bare face.
“Mousy,” I mutter under my breath. The word slips out before I can stop it.
Compared to these women, I might as well be invisible. They’re polished. Perfect. The kind of women who belong on Aleksei Vasiliev’s arm at a gala.
Women who understand men like him. Women who wouldn’t panic in an elevator. Women who definitely wouldn’t insult him on the phone and hang up in the middle of his sentence.
I scroll again, slower this time. Each face feels like another reminder of how ridiculous tonight was. Because what was that kiss?
I press my lips together unconsciously, remembering the way his mouth felt. The way he picked me up like I weighed nothing. The heat in his voice when he said my name.
It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t the kind of kiss a man gives someone he barely notices. It was desperate and hungry, like hewantedme.
Which makes absolutely no sense.
I glance back at the screen, at the endless parade of flawless women. “Seriously,” I whisper to the empty kitchen. My finger hovers over the tablet. “If he has all of this…” I bite my lip. “Then why did Aleksei Vasiliev kiss me like that?”
By the time I finally force myself to choose a candidate, my coffee has gone cold and the sky outside my tiny apartment window has gone from black to the faintest shade of blue. Morning is creeping in, slow and unforgiving.
“Congratulations,” I mumble to the woman on the screen, some flawless brunette philanthropist with a jawline sculpted by the gods. “You get the privilege of dating a man who terrifies me and kisses like he’s trying to ruin my life.”
