Page 59 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

A beat of silence. Then his voice, low, calm, edged with something I can’t place. “That’s a rude way to say hello.”

The way his accent curls around the words does things to me that I don’t want to feel right now. I shut it down immediately.

“You have someone following me. Why?”

Another pause. “It’s for your safety, solnyshko.”

I let out an incredulous laugh. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t need someone tailing me, Leonid. I’m not in danger. I’ve lived here for years without a bodyguard. I certainly don’t need one now.”

“You’re with me now,” he says, voice dropping lower. “That changes things.”

“I don’t need anyone following me.”

“You don’t get a choice.”

Anger flares hot in my chest. “Call him off!”

“No.”

“Leonid—”

“I have to go,” he cuts in, tone final. “I have another meeting now. I’ll call back when I’m done. We’ll talk then.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone in my hand. He hung up on me. I’m so pissed I can barely think straight.

Why the hell would he have someone watch me without even telling me? Without asking? The whole thing feels like a violation.

I spend the entire day trying to distract myself by preparing my lesson plans for the new week, and talking on the phone with Tasha, who keeps telling me to calm down and saying that Leonid might have a good reason for what he did.

When evening comes, I creep to the living-room window and peek through the tiniest crack in the curtains. The SUV is gone.

He listened. At least he did that much. Or the guy could be lurking around somewhere.

How long has he been having someone follow me? Days? Weeks? Just thinking about it makes me unhappy. Scared. Because if he’s already doing this without asking, what else will he decide “for my own good”?

I curl up in bed early, knees to chest, phone face-down on the nightstand, holding myself back from returning any of Leonid’s texts or calls.

Whatever “this” is. I can’t keep letting it go on. I need boundaries. I need to protect myself before he turns into another man who thinks he knows what’s best for me.

Sleep comes in fits. I wake around 2 a.m. to the soft click of my bedroom door.

My eyes snap open.

A tall shadow stands just inside the doorway. I let out a scream, startled, and grab the hairbrush from my nightstand.

“I have a weapon!” I hurl the hairbrush at the figure.

He catches it one-handed, mid-air.

“We need to work on your defense skills,” comes a familiar voice, dryly.

“Leonid?”