Page 176 of Sexting His Assistant

His eyes hold mine for a second. “You barely drink.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to finish it.”

He lifts his hand, and a waiter appears almost immediately, as if summoned by money and fear.

Luka takes one glass and gives it to me.

I accept it, grateful for something to do with my hands.

“Slowly,” he says.

I look at him. “Do you supervise everyone’s champagne intake, or am I special?”

“You are special.”

He says it so plainly that I almost forget where we are.

I take a sip to cover the reaction.

Bad idea.

The champagne is very cold and strong notes of… something or the other.

I cough once.

Luka’s mouth moves. “Slowly.”

“I hate you,” I mutter.

“No, you don’t.”

I hate that he’s learning.

We enter the main conservatory.

For a few seconds, I forget to be annoyed.

The room is stunning.

The glass ceiling rises high above us, dark with night outside and scattered with reflected chandeliers. Tall palms and white flowers line the edges of the room. Round tables are dressed in ivory linen, crystal, and small gold lamps. The stage at the far end carries the Meridian Foundation emblem, and behind it, a wall of names glows in soft light.

Kazan Holdings is near the top.

People turn when Luka enters.

Conversations slow. Men straighten. Women look at him, then at me, then at his hand still resting lightly at my back.

I become painfully aware of my dress.

My hair. My face.

The fact that I’m not one of them, no matter how much the dress cost.

Luka leans down slightly. “Stop thinking.”

“I’m not.”

“I can see it on your face,” he says.