Page 9 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I inhale deeply. “I’m sure a man like that likes his women experienced,” I say quietly, staring into my drink.

Tasha waves a hand. “What I’m saying is, don’t shut this down. Go with it, for the plot. You never know what might come of it. Maybe it’s just one wild night. Maybe it’s more. But you’ll never find out if you keep playing it safe.”

Before I can respond, her phone alarm chirps. She glances at the screen and sighs. “Shit. Shift starts in an hour. Gotta head to the club.”

She fishes a few bills from her wallet and drops them on the table to cover both our tabs.

“I can give you a ride,” I offer, already reaching for my coat.

“Nah, babe. Taxi’s faster. You don’t need to drive all the way to the Meatpacking District and back in rush hour.”

We slide out of the booth and weave through the growing crowd toward the door. Outside, the air carries the familiar scent of exhaust and pretzels from a nearby cart. Manhattan rush hour is in full swing, horns blaring, pedestrians spilling off sidewalks.

Tasha steps to the curb and raises her hand. A taxi pulls over almost immediately. Before she climbs in, she turns to me, expression suddenly serious.

“Promise me something.”

I tilt my head. “What?”

“Go with the flow. See where the tide takes you. Don’t overthink it to death.”

She pulls me into a quick, fierce hug, then releases me with a wink and disappears into the back seat. The taxi pulls away, taillights disappearing into the sea of red brake lights.

I stand there for a second, breath fogging in the cold, then turn toward where I parked my Honda three blocks away. Finding a spot in Manhattan during rush hour is hell, so I had to walk farther than I wanted. My heels click against the sidewalk as I weave through the crowd, Tasha’s words looping in my head.

Should I go with the plot? I’m not hurting anyone, right? Last I checked, Leonid was single. The tabloids would’ve screamed it from every rooftop if he had a girlfriend.

I pause mid-step on the crowded sidewalk, a businessman brushing past me with an annoyed huff.

What if he does have someone? Someone the media doesn’t know about? The last thing I want, the absolute last, is to be the other woman. I’ve seen what that does to people.

By the time I reach my car, I decide that the safest and smartest thing to do is to end it. Before it goes any further.

An hour later, I lie in bed, freshly showered, the sheets cool against my bare legs. The room is dark except for the faint glow of the city lights slipping through the blinds. I should be exhausted, but sleep won’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I see Leonid.

My phone pings on the nightstand. I reach for it, screen lighting up my face in the dark. It’s a text from him.

Leonid Volkov: You awake?

My breath catches. My thumbs are already moving before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: Yes.

The three dots appear instantly. I bite my lip, pulse racing, and type faster, trying to get the question off my chest.

Me: Do you have a girlfriend?

The dots stop. Then:

Leonid Volkov: No. Why?

Me: Just… making sure I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes.

Leonid Volkov: And do you have a boyfriend?

I hesitate, a tiny smile tugging at my lips. I decide to play.

Me: What if I do?