I mean, I've read enough books. I know the knee-buckle guys, the slow-burn heartbreakers who make any girl swoon with a smile, the sharp-jawed villains who says and does all the right things—but none of them, not a single fictional man, makes me feel as pathetically unhinged and discombobulated as Aleksandr Petrov.
"Aleksandr," I say, breathless—too breathless, like I'm Marilyn Monroe singingHappy Birthday, Mr. President. I want to smack myself.
There is zero reason to be using a breathy voice unless you're mid-affair with the recipient, and I am so far from being in an affair with Aleksandr it is laughable. I have a better shot of joining a demon cult in Queens than having an affair with Aleksandr.
He sees me as his younger sister's annoying bestie, or worse but way more probable—a little sister—since I am a year younger than him and two years younger than Nadia, but I was smart enough to skip two grades in middle school.
"Moya Lily," he murmurs, unreadable as always, voice low and smooth as he gently places me back on my own two feet. "Why were you walking and reading?"
"Why were you walking into people who clearly couldn't see you?" I shoot back, rubbing the tip of my nose. "I could have a broken nose right now because of you," I add, doing my best to sound annoyed instead of slightly delirious.
I take a step back—but not too far. He's still standing between me and the elevator, and I need both space and air that hasn't been through him first.
He just smirks.
Then he reaches for my wrist—lightly, but firmly. His fingers wrap around mine and heat blooms up my arm. Was he always this warm? Or am I just always this stupid around him?
He pokes the tip of my nose, his smirk deepening as he gently pushes my glasses back up the bridge. "Doesn't seem broken to me."
Before I can come up with a response that isn't just a string of vowels, he crouches to pick up my book from the elevator floor. His fingers brush mine as he hands it back—barely a second, barely a touch—but it crackles under my skin like a lit match.
It's always like that with Aleksandr. Brief. Electric. Dangerous.
And I hate—hate—how easily he can still do that to me. You would think that my body. My mind. My freaking soul! Would get a hint, but it can't. It won't because it's him, and despite him telling me there is nothing more, or that there can't be, something in me won't let him go.
"Still reading that one?" he asks, glancing at the cover before tucking a stray curl behind my ear like he has every right to touch me. "I thought by the time I got back you'd have finished it by now."
"Your sister interrupted me during the last book, so it's taking me an extra hour," I say, stuffing the book into my jacket pocket. "And now I am supposed to take my time getting Chinese food."
The elevator beeps impatiently, and he grips my shoulders and takes a step into my space, pushing me back into the hallway with him. I try to ignore the electricity flying across my skin despite my puffer jacket blocking his hands from touching my skin.
His gaze is on the conference room behind me as he looks over the scene taking place in there. I follow his gaze. Everything looks tense in there from the two men still shouting to Nadiastanding in the middle with a newly exposed gun on her waist, something I am used to her having, and am totally used to her showing some of the patrons.
"I should get out of here sooner rather than later," I mumble, more to myself than to him, as I tear my eyes away from the conference room and look up at Aleksandr with my eyes rolling over his gorgeous face.
It's just as unfairly perfect as it always is. Sharp cheekbones, clean jawline with a five o'clock shadow, full lips that normally quirk up into a smirk that shows all the emotion he tries to hide.
His eyes and hair are different from his siblings. He has black hair that is normally very neat, and knowing him every strand will be back in place by the time I get back.
He has deep stormy gray eyes, rimmed in the thick lashes no man should have unless he plans to ruin lives with them. There is also a faded scar over his left brow from when we were children, that only adds to his stoic expression.
I look away before I lose myself in him, as I have done countless times before, and clear my throat.
"I am assuming you want steamed pork dumplings?" I whisper, looking down at the chalky marks on my yellow boots.
"You're going outside like that?" His voice cuts clean through the fog of my thoughts—low, steady, laced with that no-nonsense tone he reserves for everyone but sharpens slightly when it's directed at me.
I glance up, confused.
He's already pulling a soft gray hat from out of his pocket, the fabric damp from melted snow. He shakes it once, then hands it to me without another word.
"Aleksandr, don't. I can use my book as a cover, see?" I hold the book over my head, and as much as it would pain me to do so it would work in a pinch. The Chinese restaurant is literally a block and a half away.
"You're going to catch a cold." His tone is sharp, and no nonsense in that way that makes your spine straighten and the urge to avoid eye contact as you sayyes sir.
"Take the hat, Lily."
I take the hat out of his hand and slide it on my head. It's slightly damp, but it has an inner lining that keeps my head warm and shielded from the cold.
