Page 128 of Sexting His Assistant

I open the windows even though the morning air is humid and horrible. I spray room freshener, then immediately regret it because now the apartment smells like jasmine and panic. I smooth my hair in the mirror and realize that there is no fixing it.

“Shit,” I whisper.

I run to the bathroom, splash water on my face, check my neck, then stop breathing.

There is a mark.

Not large. Not obvious from far away.

But there, low near my collarbone, a faint bruise where Luka’s mouth had been.

I slap a hand over it, then grab the first scarf I can find from the back of the chair and wrap it around my neck.

I look insane.

The doorbell rings.

I take one last look around the room.

Good enough.

I open the door.

Misha stands there with one hand braced against the doorframe, looking me up and down with the kind of focus that makes police interrogations seem friendly.

His eyes go to my scarf immediately.

Then my hair. Then my face.

Then past my shoulder into the apartment.

“Good morning,” I say too brightly.

He narrows his eyes. “Why are you wearing a scarf?”

“Fashion.”

“In this heat?”

“Climate cannot control art.”

He stares at me. I stare back.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then he steps inside without waiting to be invited, because apparently the men in my life are now taking turns invading my apartment.

He looks around slowly.

My pulse starts acting suspicious on my behalf.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Looking.”

“For what?”

His eyes come back to mine. “Was someone here last night?”