Page 13 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

Me: Or we could just meet this weekend, and have a quick conversation. It won’t take much of your time.

Leonid Volkov: I’m in DC until Thursday. Leaving for Paris Friday morning. That’s the window.

I read it twice. Of course a man like him doesn’t sit still. My mind drifts immediately to Alexei, alone in that massive house, probably with the nanny, or whoever else is on the payroll to keep an eye on him while his father moves around.

I remember asking Alexei about his mom a few weeks ago. He looked up from his drawing, shrugged those small shoulders, and said, “I don’t have one.” Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like it was just another fact about the world.

It broke something in me then. Still does now. The kid doesn’t get time with his dad, doesn’t have a mom in the picture. No wonder he shrugs off invitations to play. He’s learned early that people leave, or they’re never there to begin with.

My phone pings again.

Leonid Volkov: So?

I chew the inside of my cheek, fingers hovering.

Me: Can I get back to you on it?

Leonid Volkov: Alright.

I let out a long breath and collapse back onto the couch, the half-melted ice cream forgotten on the coffee table. Next weekend is Valentine’s Day.

A trip to Paris sounds tempting. But if I want to keep this strictly professional, if I want to protect my job, my heart, my sanity, I can’t go.

I can’t sit across from him on that trip and pretend the only thing between us is concern for his son. Not when every part of me still remembers how he made me come apart with just his voice.

I set the phone face-down on the cushion beside me and pull my knees to my chest. I need to say no. But the word “Paris” keeps echoing in my head.

The next evening, Tasha shows up at my door with a plastic bag full of takeout containers, the rich smell of garlic, ginger, and soy sauce wafting in with her.

We settle on the couch in my living room, legs tucked under us, chopsticks in hand, some mindless rom-com flickering on the TV. The takeout is perfect, greasy, salty, exactly what I needed after yesterday’s pasta disaster.

We’re halfway through the lo mein when Tasha glances sideways at me, smirking.

“So… how’s Mr. Nine Inches?”

I swallow a too-big bite of noodles and set my carton on the coffee table. “I’ve decided to keep things strictly professional.”

Tasha groans like I just told her the world is coming to an end. “Why? Why would you do that to yourself? To me? To humanity?”

“Like I already told you, if anyone finds out about the texts, I lose my job. My career. Everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out. “Alright, fine. Miss Responsible. But it was fun while it lasted right?”

‘Yeah it was.” I chew my lip, debating whether or not to tell her about my conversation with Leonid. Knowing Tasha, she’d encourage me to go. I shouldn’t tell her, but I can’t keep a secret from her.

“He asked me to go to Paris with him next weekend.”

Tasha freezes mid-bite. Then she screams, actual, high-pitched, neighbor-waking scream, and flings her arms around me, nearly knocking the chicken off the table.

“That’s amazing! Oh my God, Laurel! Wait, was it after he asked you to go to Paris that you decided to go back to keeping things professional between you two?”

I sigh, pushing her off gently. “No, before that. Even if he says he’s inviting me because that’s the only weekend he’s free, and that we’ll just be talking about his son, I still can’t—”

“Babe.” She grabs my shoulders, eyes wide. “It’s Paris. You’ve never been to Paris. And it’s Valentine’s weekend. You were literally planning to spend it alone with a bottle of rosé and a pint of ice cream, again for the fourth year in a row. Do you really want to do that when you could be in the City of Love with a man who looks like he stepped out of a dark romance novel?”

My stomach flips. “Tasha, I—”

“Listen.” She points a chopstick at me. “You’re not committing to anything. You’re going to talk about his son. That’s it. You’ll be in a foreign city, eating croissants, maybe walking along the Seine too. If things stay professional, great. If they… don’t… well, maybe that’s okay too. You deserve to feel something exciting for once. You deserve to not be alone on Valentine’s Day.”