Page 47 of Beautifully Deranged

Silence.

The restaurant hums on, oblivious.

Roman sighs, rubbing his temple. “If I ever get this caught up over a woman, shoot me in the head.”

Lola’s eyes are calculating, searching.

Then—

“Still not forgiven.”

Roman barks out a laugh. “Oh, you are so fucked, brother.”

?Chapter twenty Two?

Lola

Currently, I’m in the studio I should have refused. I should have thrown the key back in his smug, groveling face. But when I stepped into my apartment last night and nearly drowned in a sea of canvases, I knew pride alone wouldn’t keep me sane. So, like the practical woman I am, I accepted the gift. Might as well make the most of a six-foot-five man trying to buy back my good graces.

Not that I’m letting him off the hook. He broke my pride. Then, somehow, the bastard stitched it back together, right in front of the person he shattered it for.

I wipe a streak of charcoal off my fingers, and smear it across my wrist instead.Perfect. The last of my commissions are finally finished, neatly stacked and ready to be shipped out. I close my eyes as someone knocks on the studio door. Exhale through my nose. Manifest patience.

The door swings open, revealing a woman in a crisp white suit. “Mr. Volkov is requesting you in his office.”

“Requesting?” That’s a new one.

She waits, expectant, like I’m about to hop to my feet and rush into his arms.

“That’s cute. But if he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me.” Because I’m not the one chasing after him. Not anymore. Despite how it goes against every ounce of my instinct.

The woman stares at me like I just slapped her across the face with a wet paintbrush. As if the idea of someone telling Mikhail Volkov “no” short-circuited her entire system.

She scowls and gives a tight nod. “Understood.”

I watch as she turns on her heel and heads upstairs, no doubt to deliver the message. I return to my work, but my peace doesn’t last long. Mere minutes later, I hear the heavy sound of footsteps descending. I don’t look up right away, even when I feel the weight of his presence settle over the room.

His fingers brush under my chin, tilting my face toward him, and my stomach does this traitorous little drop. Mikhail Volkov looks like sin wrapped in a suit. He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. The kiss is soft. Deceptively gentle. It doesn’t belong to the man I know him to be. “I have something planned for us tonight, sweetheart.”

“Funny. I was free yesterday. I’m not today.”

“What’s keeping you busy?” There’s a glint of something violent in his eyes.

“I have a date.”

“With who?” he hisses.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “With my bathtub. And a book.”

“Cancel it.”

“Oh, absolutely not. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

“I’ll handcuff us together if that’s what it takes.”

“Would love to see you try.”

The challenge makes his nostrils flare. His free hand ghosts over my waist. “You think I won’t?”

---