Page 64 of Sexting His Assistant

I open my mouth.

Nina answers first. “Broth, black bread, and tea with lemon. No sugar. And he’ll pretend he doesn’t want the cherry jam but bring it anyway because he’ll eat it if it’s there.”

Silence.

Misha looks at her. I look at her.

Nina realizes what she’s done half a second too late. Color rises in her face, but she lifts her chin as if daring either of us to comment.

“I manage his schedule,” she says. “And his meals. Sometimes. It’s not strange.”

It’s strange. Not because she knows. Because she knows accurately.

Because the answer came without effort, without checking a note, without needing to think.

Misha’s eyes move from Nina to me.

There is a question there now. Not accusation. Not yet.

How much of you does she know? How much of you have you let her see?

I keep my face empty.

Misha’s mouth tightens, but he only says, “I’ll tell the staff.”

“I can—” Nina starts.

“I’ll do it,” he says. The tone leaves no space for argument.

Nina closes her mouth.

He looks at me once. Then at her. Then he leaves.

The door closes behind him.

Nina and I are alone. For the first time since the parking garage.

She stands near the foot of my bed, coat still folded over one arm, hair loose, expression closed in a way that does not suit her. Whatever Misha told her in the hall has not left her. It sits in the angle of her shoulders, in the way she avoids the chair near my bed like sitting would mean staying.

I lean back against the pillows and look at her.

She looks back.

Neither of us speaks.

The silence is different this time.

Finally, she says, “You should rest.”

“Is that an order?”

“It’s common sense.”

“I rarely use that.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I let myself look at her for one second longer than I should. “What did Misha say to you?”