Page 1 of Sexting the Pakhan

1

ZOYA

I’m halfwaydown the fiction aisle with a cart full of returns when I see him.

Every Thursday, like clockwork.

It’s almost funny at this point, how predictable he is. The library gets quieter around five thirty, after the after-work crowd tapers off and before the students settle in for the evening, and that’s when he appears. Always then. Always alone. Always looking like he stepped out of some other life and wandered into mine by accident.

I stop pushing the cart for half a second, which is half a second too long, because one of the wheels catches and the whole thing jerks sideways with an embarrassing squeak.

Great.

I tighten my hands on the handle and keep moving like nothing happened, even though my heart is suddenly beating in my throat.

He’s just inside the front doors, shrugging out of his dark coat with that calm, unhurried precision he seems to do everything with. He’s tall enough to stand out in any room, but that isn’t the first thing people notice about him. It’s the stillness. The way he never fidgets, never rushes, never looks uncertain. Like the world rearranges itself around him.

Ruslan Karelin.

I know his name because I’ve checked out his books for months now. I know his library card number by sight. I know he reads history, philosophy, biographies, and occasionally books that are so obscure I have to pretend I’m not impressed when I scan them. I know he speaks very little, returns everything on time, and smells faintly like cold air and something dark and expensive that lingers long after he walks away.

I know all of that, and none of it is useful. Because none of it changes the fact that every Thursday he walks in here and I turn into a complete idiot.

“Don’t stare,” I mutter to myself.

Naturally, I stare.

I tell myself it’s harmless. Everybody has a crush. Mine just happens to be on a man in his forties who looks like he could ruin someone’s life without raising his voice. Not that I think about that in any inappropriate level of detail. Not often, anyway.

I steer my cart into the next aisle and start shelving books with the kind of concentration usually reserved for bomb disposal. Alphabetical order. Spine straight. Move on. If I keep my head down and my hands busy, maybe I can stop being aware of the fact that he’s somewhere in the building.

I reach for a hardcover, misjudge the angle, and send it slipping straight to the carpet.

I close my eyes for one second. Perfect.

When I bend to pick it up, I see polished black shoes stop at the end of the aisle.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Still crouched there like my dignity has never existed, I look up slowly.

It’s him.

Ruslan stands there with one hand resting lightly against the shelf, watching me. His expression doesn’t change much, but that’s normal for him. I’ve seen him smile exactly once in seven months, and I’m still not fully convinced I didn’t hallucinate it.

Up close, he’s even worse for my nervous system. Hard face, calm eyes, dark hair brushed back from his forehead, silver at the temples that somehow makes him look even better. There’s something very controlled about him. Like every part of him has been trained never to reveal more than he intends.

Meanwhile, I’m on my knees on industrial carpet clutching a copy ofRebeccalike I’ve been caught doing something shameful.

“Sorry,” I blurt.

His brow shifts just slightly. “For what?”

His voice does something deeply unfair to me every time I hear it. Low, smooth, impossible to ignore.

“For being in your way,” I say, standing too fast.