Page 5 of Sexting His Assistant

His eyes don’t leave mine. “Because I trust you.”

The answer comes quickly and simply.

And for one stupid second, it catches me off guard.

Luka trusts very few people. My brother, maybe. Two men in security. One accountant I’m fairly sure has buried bodies. Me, apparently, which feels less flattering when I remember I’m trusted to manage lipstick shades, champagne preferences, and the emotional debris of his dating life.

“That’s not a good enough reason,” I say.

“It is for me.”

“But not for me.”

His gaze drifts over my face like he’s reading a document he’s already memorized. “What’s the problem, Nina?”

I laugh under my breath. “You really want me to answer that?”

“Yes.”

I shouldn’t.

I absolutely should not.

But I’m tired, he’s impossible, and maybe I’m sick of being the woman who keeps every other woman in his life comfortable while pretending I don’t mind.

“The problem,” I say, “is that I’m your secretary, not your fixer.”

He says nothing.

“The problem,” I continue, “is that I spend half my week arranging your dates with women who look like they were born on yachts, and the other half cleaning up after them when they realize you’re emotionally unavailable even though they’ve literally puked themselves into becoming size zero.”

His expression goes flat and dangerous. “Careful.”

I ignore that. “The problem is that you hand me impossible tasks and act like I should be grateful you said my name before doing it.”

“Nina.”

“And the problem,” I say, because I’m already falling and might as well hit the ground hard, “is that I know too much about the women you take to dinner.”

His voice lowers. “Meaning?”

I swallow once. Then I say it anyway.

“I know what kind of flowers they like. What perfume they wear. Which one pretends not to drink. Which one lies about her age. Which one wants a ring. Which one wants a headline. Which one thinks she can change you.”

Luka doesn’t move. “And?”

I should really, really stop now.

But instead, because I’ve always been slightly stupid where he’s concerned, I say, “And I’m tired of keeping a diary of your women like it doesn’t make me want to scream.”

His face changes then, but only a little. A shadow at the mouth. Something sharper in his eyes.

“Why?” he asks.

The question is soft.

This is what makes it dangerous.