Page 12 of Charmingly Obsessed
“No, absolutely not,” I lie smoothly. “That was three years ago. Ancient history.”
“Some things don’t have a statute of limitations, honey. And trauma… sometimes it takes years to surface.”
She means me, processing life at the speed of continental drift. She’s not wrong. Turtles probably gossip about my reaction times. “Honestly, Albina, I’m fine. Forgotten all about it.” Another lie. How can I forget when the man involved refuses to let me? When his kiss from yesterday is still imprinted on my nerve endings?
The doorbell rips through the fragile calm.Too early.My stomach plummets. A quick glance through the peephole confirms my worst fear.
Frez.
Shit. Shit. Shit.The gangsters will be here any minute. Panic claws at my throat. Plan A: Don’t let him in. But he might wait downstairs, linger. He’d run right into Kozar’s men. Plan B: Let him in, get him out. Fast. Plan C: Hide him? Where? In the closet with Anya’s ghost?
No time. The thugs think I’m moving out tomorrow; they’re just bringing paperwork today. If I can get Frez out now…
I wrench the door open, grabbing his arm before he can fully register my appearance. “You need to come in. Quickly. Let’s go.” I practically haul him over the threshold.
But Mykola Frez doesn’t do ‘quickly’ when he’s on a mission.
He closes the door with agonizing slowness, his movements deliberate, controlled. He turns, his gaze sweeping over me, intense and searching.
Something flickers in his eyes – raw, unguarded, almost vulnerable – and it freezes me for a half-second.
Oh, right. I probably look like a lunatic. Wild eyes, flour dusting my cheek, dragging a billionaire into my doomed apartment.
“The dough!” I babble, latching onto the first excuse. “It’s about to spoil. Kitchen. Hurry.” The only way my dough will spoil is if I don’t get these pastries delivered to the homeless shelter van on time. Which, thanks to this unexpected invasion, is looking increasingly likely.
He follows me into the small, sunlit kitchen.
I’m hyper-aware of everything. The way my slim tweed trousers feel against my skin, the turquoise ribbon at the V-neck of my pink blouse lying slightly askew. The contrast with his casual-but-expensive gray jeans and that blue checkered blazer – the one with the ridiculously charming leather elbow patches. How does he make elbow patches look sexy?
He slides onto one of the worn kitchen chairs without being asked while I busy myself making coffee.
The silence presses down, thick and heavy, amplifying the frantic ticking of the clock in my head.Get him out. Get him out.Irritation bubbles up, hot and sharp, and I stride over to the window, yanking the curtains wider, letting the cold, indifferent sunlight flood the room.
“Thanks,” he says evenly when I place the steaming mug in front of him. His voice is that low, gravelly timber that does stupid things to my insides.
I slide the plate piled high with golden pastries towards him, then fuss with rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, the napkin holder. Anything to avoid looking at him. Which is why Idon’t immediately notice the odd expression on his face when I finally turn back.
He’s staring down into his coffee cup like it holds the secrets of the universe.
“W-what’s wrong?” The nervous tremor in my voice betrays me.Was the cup dirty? Did a bug fall in? Oh God.
I reach tentatively towards his mug, intending to inspect it, but he pulls it fractionally closer, breaking the spell. He lifts his gaze to mine.
“What?” I squeak.
“Nothing. Coffee’s good.”
Of course, it’s good.It’s exactly how he takes it – strong, black, no sugar. A detail absorbed unconsciously during those first six months when he still graced the office with his presence, lingering in the communal kitchen, charming everyone from the mailroom guy to the cleaners. The man went to our janitor’s wedding, for crying out loud. Gifted them a honeymoon in Mallorca. Henoticesthings. He remembers things.
Panic flutters. I stand abruptly, turning my back, busying myself at the counter, pulling things randomly off shelves.Look, almond flour. Fancy.
“Help yourself to the pastries,” I call over my shoulder, trying to sound casual. “Don’t be shy.” At this rate, I’ll have enough left over to offer Kozar’s goons a snack while they serve me eviction papers.
When I finally muster the courage to turn and sit back down, my face is set in what I hope is an expression of cool indifference. Time to take control. Time to lay out my plan.
Naturally, he speaks first, seizing control with the effortless authority of a man born to command.
And as I listen, the sheer audacity of his proposal leaves me utterly speechless.
