Page 168 of Sexting His Assistant

I close the door and walk around to the driver’s side. My shoulder protests when I sit, but I ignore it, start the engine, and wait until the security car pulls into position behind us.

Nina buckles her seatbelt and smooths her dress over her thigh.

I notice.

She notices me noticing. “Eyes on the road,” she says.

“We’re not moving yet.”

“Practice.”

I almost smile and pull out of the garage.

For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. The city slides past in evening traffic, lights catching on her earrings whenever she turns her head. She looks out the window, but I can see her reflection faintly in the glass.

She is thinking too much.

So am I.

“What did you tell Misha?” I ask.

She glances at me. “About what?”

“Tonight.”

She shrugs. “Nothing.”

I look at her briefly, then back at the road. “Nothing?”

“He hasn’t been back at the apartment since yesterday.”

My hands tighten on the wheel.

“He left?”

“He came, dropped his bag, interrogated me, insulted my coffee, then disappeared later. I assumed he had work.”

“You assumed.”

She turns toward me. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Actually, I don’t want to get into it right now.”

For a few minutes after we leave the garage, neither of us speaks.

Nina sits beside me in the passenger seat, one hand resting on her lap, the other gripping the edge of her small evening bag. She keeps looking out the window, but I can see her reflection in the glass. Her jaw is tense. Her shoulders are too straight. Every time headlights wash over the windshield, I catch the nerves in her face before she hides them again.

The gala’s making her nervous.

Her fingers tighten around the bag. The dress has shifted where she sits, the slit opening over her thigh. Smooth skin. Bare knee. The fabric riding high enough that I have to force my eyes back to the road.

“You’re nervous,” I say.

“I’m not.”

“You are gripping that bag like it owes you money.”