We step out onto the sidewalk. Late afternoon light filters through the buildings, and the city hums around us—honking cars, distant sirens, the endless rhythm of urban life. Across the road, a sleek black SUV idles at the curb, tinted windows gleaming. Bobby’s face brightens.
“That’s my ride,” he says, waving half-heartedly.
My stomach does a little flip as the passenger door opens. There, in the back seat, sits Kirill. Even from this distance, his presence hits like a wave—broad shoulders filling the space, hair perfectly in place, that same unreadable, commanding expression. Our eyes lock across the street.
It feels electric.
A spark jumps between us, sharp and undeniable. My breath catches. Heat rushes to my cheeks, the same confusing mix of nervousness and forbidden thrill I felt in the gym shower flooding back. For a split second, the world narrows to just him—those piercing eyes that seem to see straight through my carefully maintained optimism.
In a moment of pure madness, I find myself walking across the road with Bobby, my gym bag slung over my shoulder, heart pounding louder than my footsteps.
What are you doing, Teddy?My brain screams at me, but my feet keep moving. I am irritated. Exhausted from the schedule disruption. Tired of being told what to do without a say. This ends now.
Bobby climbs into the SUV first, sliding across the leather seat. Before the security guy in the front can reach back and pull the door shut, I step forward and catch it with my hand.
Kirill’s gaze sharpens on me.
“Mr. Antonov,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Are you in the habit of telling people what to do instead of asking? Because, I’ve checked my schedule, and it’s not going to work. I’m not training Bobby anymore.”
The words come out fast, fueled by a week’s worth of resentment.
Bobby’s eyes widen in the back seat, but he stays quiet. It’s not like I didn’t mean it when I said he had potential, he definitely does. But this isn’t about Bobby. This is about me.
Kirill doesn’t look surprised. If anything, a faint flicker of amusement crosses his features. “Is there a problem with Bobby’s training?”
“No,” I admit. “He’s great. Hard worker, lots of potential. It’s not him.”
“Then what is the issue?” He leans forward slightly, his deep, accented voice calm but carrying that undeniable authority. The same tone that has haunted my thoughts for days.
I shake my head, irritation bubbling over. “The issue is the way you just… decided for me. No discussion, no schedule check, nothing. My life is already packed. I can’t keep dropping everything because you snap your fingers.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turn on my heel and start stomping off toward the sidewalk, cheeks burning.
Great job, Teddy.
Real professional.
Now you’ve probably lost the best-paying client you’ve ever had.
I don’t make it far before a firm hand lands on my shoulder—warm, strong, stopping me gently but inescapably. I spin around, ready to snap something else, but the words die in my throat.
Kirill stands there, having exited the SUV with surprising speed for a man his size. Up close, he is even more imposing: tall, broad-chested, dressed in a tailored dark shirt that hugs his powerful frame. That dark energy rolls off him again, wrapping around me like invisible smoke.
“Teddy.” Kirill’s voice is lower now, almost soothing in its control. “I will take you for coffee. By way of an apology for being so abrupt about Bobby. We can talk”
I blink, thrown completely off balance. “What?”
“Coffee,” he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be the ghost of a smile. “You look like you could use one. And we can discuss this like adults.”
My irritation wars with curiosity—and that stupid, traitorous flutter low in my belly. Part of me wants to refuse on principle. The other part remembers the way he looked at me in the gym, the commanding way he moves through the world. Before I can overthink it, I find myself nodding.
“Fine,” I snap. “But just coffee. Quick.”
He gestures toward the SUV. “Bobby, go home with the driver. I’ll handle this.”
Bobby gives me a small, knowing wave before the door closes. Kirill leads me down the block to a quiet café I have never noticed before—tucked away, with plush seating and the rich aroma of fresh beans. No bright, bustling chain. This place feels intimate, almost private.
Inside, I order my usual green smoothie with mushroom powder—adaptogens for focus, a little spirulina boost. The barista raises an eyebrow but writes it down. Kirill orders a double espresso, black, and pays without hesitation.
