Page 11 of The Bratva's Plus-Size Bride

I turn on the shower and let it warm up while I undress, shedding the layers of sweaty, ill-advised clothing onto the floor. My hair is a mess, and my face is glistening with sweat, just as I’d feared. The shower alone is larger than my bathroom back home, and I forget I meant to be quick, taking my time to explore the provided bath items and giving my hair a good scrub. By the time I step out and towel off, my fingers are wrinkled like raisins, and my skin is a bright, shining pink. That’s when I remember that I didn’t bring a change of clothes into the bathroom. Crap.

Wrapping myself in one of the plush towels, I peek outside the bathroom. Empty. I don’t see Mr. Milov anywhere, so I tiptoe out over to the dresser and start opening drawers, looking for something super lightweight yet appropriate for our meetings with the real estate agents.

“Enjoy your shower?” Mr. Milov steps in from the balcony, his shirt fully unbuttoned now, with a glass of something amber in his hands.

I swallow around the sudden dryness in my throat. “It’s really nice, yeah. Um, sorry, I forgot to grab a change of clothes.”

Thankfully, I have the shower as an excuse for being pink. The man has already seen me naked, but the way he’s looking at me right now, like he’s drinking me in, has me feeling more exposed than ever.

“Take your time,” he says with a knowing smile, making no effort at all to look away as I bend down to grab a pair of panties from the bottom drawer. “I’m in no hurry.”

His calm demeanor makes me feel even more like a frazzled mess, and even turned away, I can feel him watching me. I dash for the bathroom and pull the door closed, leaning against it while I wait for my pounding heart to steady.

Still damp, I pull on my clothes and run some product through my hair before combing it out. I use the time to try and find the pieces of that wall I’d worked so hard to build. Hard to feel professional when your boss catches you in a towel.

This time, when I step out, dressed and slightly steadier, he’s seated at the desk with his laptop open, head bent like he’s working.

“All yours,” I say, proud of how level my voice sounds.

He shuts his laptop. I’ve noticed he’s always private about his work, even though we’re working on the same project, always making sure I don’t get a peek over his shoulder, always careful to shut down his computer at the end of the day. Curious, but I know some people are just sticklers for computer security, and he seems like one of those guys. Careful. Measured. Private.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he says, moving past me, his open shirt fluttering to reveal toned abs.

While he showers, I pull out my own laptop and get to work while my hair dries. He’s quick, much quicker than I was, and when the bathroom door opens, there’s a billow of steam, and there he is, standing with just a towel wrapped around his hips. Low on his hips. So low I can see the V line tapering down from his hips, so chiseled he looks like he’s made out of marble. The man looks like a god.

“Forgot my change of clothes too,” he says apologetically, shrugging one shoulder.Only he doesn’t seem apologetic at all; he looks delighted. His face is bright and boyish as he takes his time choosing his clothes, hesitating over what appear to be two nearly identical shirts before settling on the darker one. Not that I’m staring or anything. When he turns around and pulls his shirt over his head, I quickly shift my attention back to thelaptop screen, but I’ve made about zero progress on what’s in front of me. How could I when I havethatright beside me?

There’s a suspicious heat between my thighs. I slam my laptop shut and flee for the vacated bathroom. In ten minutes, I’ve got my hair blown out and a quick makeup look on, and I’ve managed to pull myself together mentally, too. The wall is solid and double-layered now.

“Ready?” I ask, grabbing my purse and checking that I’ve got everything I need in there—pen, notebook, agenda. Check.

He runs his fingers through his damp hair and nods. “Ready. I’ve got the car waiting.”

We spend the afternoon running from meeting to meeting with real estate agents and lawyers. I look over proposals, inspect details of the potential sites, and internally gasp over the prices of everything. Mr. Milov is a ruthless negotiator, at turns charming and sharp. He’s perfected the push and pull and seems to always get his way by the end of the discussion. It, like everything else about him, is pretty freaking hot.

After our third meeting, I’m drained but trying not to show it. He’s popped in somewhere while I wait in the car, crunching numbers and wishing I could go take a nap.

“Here you go,” he says when he returns, handing me a cup of iced coffee. It’s creamy, while his is black.

I take a sip and sigh contentedly. “This is exactly what I needed. How’d you know how I like my coffee?”

In the office, I’m usually the one doing the coffee runs, and as far as I know, he’s never seen me order coffee before.

“Just a lucky guess.” He peers over at what I’m working on and nods approvingly. “That’s what I came up with, too. I think we can talk them down to that ballpark, don’t you?”

“You can talk them into anything,” I say with a snort.

“I want you to handle that negotiation,” he replies, leaning back. “It’ll be good practice for you.”

“Really?” It’s exactly the sort of opportunity I need to prove myself, but he’s so good at negotiations that it seems risky to switch places. “But you’re so good at it.”

“And you will be too.” He says it as if there’s no chance of any other alternative, as if he believes in me completely.

The car takes a turn that leads us back toward the hotel, and I sit up in surprise. “Aren’t we heading to the meeting with Mr. Walker?”

He waves his hand, brushing Mr. Walker aside like he doesn’t own half the land here. “I’m tired. I know you must be tired, too, so we’re headed to dinner instead.”

The dinner experience I’d been imagining for myself this evening involves ordering room service and eating it in front of my laptop as I finish up my work for the day. Sitting down at dinner with Mr. Milov, just the two of us, is a whole other thing entirely. While we’re busy working, focused on a goal, it’s hard enough to remind myself he’s my boss and can’t be anything more. This… this is going to be trouble. And I can’t even think about tonight.

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