Page 125 of Sexting His Assistant

He would be correct.

That doesn’t matter.

At the estate gates, the guards open before I stop. One of them looks at me through the windshield, notices the state of my shirt, then wisely decides blindness is a survival skill.

I park myself instead of handing the car off.

The moment I step inside, my mother is waiting in the breakfast room.

Yelena Kazan sits by the window with tea, wrapped in a pale shawl, her silver-blonde hair pinned loosely at the back of her head. She looks soft to people who have never known better. I know exactly how sharp she can be when she wants an answer.

Her eyes move over me once.

My face. My shirt. My shoulder.

Then back to my face.

“You look terrible,” she says.

“Good morning, Mama.”

“It was,” she says, “until my son came home looking like he dressed while escaping a jealous husband.”

I take coffee from the sideboard with one hand. “There was no husband.”

“That is not a denial of the rest.”

I drink the coffee. It’s too hot, but I don’t care.

She watches me carefully. “You drove yourself?”

“Yes.”

“With that shoulder?”

“It is my left shoulder.”

“You use both shoulders to drive.”

“I managed.”

She shakes her head. “You’re too stubborn.”

“I already have a doctor.”

“And yet you avoid him.”

“Because he annoys me.”

“He annoys you because he is correct.”

I set the cup down. “Where is Mirov?”

“On his way.”

I look at her.

She lifts her teacup. “Don’t look at me like that. I called him before you entered the house.”