She hugs the iPad closer to her chest. “I, um… picked a candidate. For your date.”
I blink. “My… what?”
She brightens a little, as if finally on safe ground. “Your date. The one you asked me to arrange. With—” She scrolls quickly. “Marina Leston. She’s a philanthropist, comes from a really respectable family, absolutely gorgeous—though not that it matters, I mean, obviously you don’t need—well, anyway?—”
She keeps talking. Words spill out in this anxious, determined ramble that would almost be funny if it weren’t directed squarely at me. Her voice is soft, hopeful even. Like she’s proud of herself for accomplishing something.
A date. With someone else.
My jaw tightens as she waves the tablet a little, going on about Marina’s charity involvement, her impeccable social standing, how well-connected she is, apparently how fluent she is in French and Italian…
And then it hits me. Last night.
My voice, raw from adrenaline. Her voice, sleepy and soft. Me asking her to arrange a date by the end of today. And her quiet disbelief. Then her muttering insult after she thought the call had ended.
I close my eyes for one second.What the hell was I thinking?
When I open them again, she’s still talking, “…and she already replied to your invitation. Said she’d be delighted. She chose Le Verdin for dinner, it’s exclusive but she apparently knows someone who can get a table on such short notice, and?—”
I stop hearing her. Not the words. Just the part where she’s arranging a date for me with another woman while standing in front of me flushed and beautiful and completely unaware of what she does to me.
“…and it’s set for tonight,” she finishes brightly, misunderstanding my silence for approval.
My mind snaps back. “Tonight?” I echo.
She nods eagerly. “Yes. Eight o’clock. You said you were in a hurry so I didn’t want to waste any—Mr. Vasiliev? Are you… alright?”
I stare at her. The woman I kissed like a starving man. The woman who dreams have no business following me into daylight. The woman who just scheduled me to sit across from someone else while every part of my body still remembers the way she trembled in my hands.
No. I’m not alright. Not even close.
But I force my voice steady.
“Tonight,” I repeat, more to myself than to her.
She beams, proud of her work.
And all I can think is that I’ve created a problem I might not be able to untangle—because the idea of going on a date with anyone who isn’t her makes something dark coil low in my chest.
She’s still smiling at me, waiting—expecting praise, maybe. Approval. Something a normal CEO would give an assistant who just pulled off a same-day high-society dinner arrangement.
But I’m not normal. And nothing about this is normal.
“Do you want to see her profile again?” she asks, tilting the tablet toward me.
Not really.
What I want is to drag her into the nearest corner and kiss her until her knees give out again. What I want is to forget the stupid date I told her to schedule. What I want…
I shut that thought down before it goes too far.
“Show me,” I say instead.
She steps closer. The scent of her shampoo—something soft and sweet—brushes against me as she lifts the tablet. Her fingers graze mine by accident, and the tiny touch punches heat straight through me.
I inhale sharply.
She doesn’t notice. She’s scrolling, narrating softly. “Marina Leston. Twenty-nine. Runs a literacy initiative for inner-city schools. Sits on the board of three charities. Featured in Vogue twice. And…” she hesitates, tapping her lip with her finger, “…also rumored to be very kind.”
