Page 198 of Sexting His Assistant

Luka says, “I’m learning not to fight every answer I dislike.”

I study his face. “Who are you, and what have you done with Luka Kazan?”

Luka chuckles. “He’s unavailable.”

I almost smile. “Busy ditching his security?”

Luka says, “Among other things.”

We walk a little farther.

The park opens into a small clearing with an old fountain in the middle, dry now, with fallen leaves gathered in the basin. The path circles around it. The lamps are spaced far enough apart that the light comes in soft pools, and somewhere beyond the trees, a car passes on the main road, distant enough to feel like another world.

I stop near the fountain because my feet need a break. Luka stops with me. And for a moment, we simply stand there.

Then he turns toward me and holds out his hand.

“May I have this dance?” Luka asks.

I stare at him. “Here?”

Luka says, “Yes.”

“In a park?” I ask.

Luka says, “Yes.”

“There is no music,” I say.

Luka says, “There was barely music at the gala.”

I give him a look. “That’s objectively false.”

He holds my eyes. “I didn’t get to dance with you.”

That shuts me up.

The words are simple, but they go straight through me.

My throat tightens. I place my hand in his. “You’re still insane.”

Luka says, “I know.”

He draws me closer carefully, slower than he did in the closet, slower than he does anything when he wants control. One hand settles at my waist, the other holds mine, and because there is no music, we move to almost nothing at all. Maybe to the hum of traffic beyond the trees. Maybe to the rhythm of our own breathing. Maybe to some song I imagine because the moment needs one.

He's a good dancer.

He guides like he does everything else when he’s not being impossible, with quiet certainty and enough restraint that I can choose to follow. His injured shoulder keeps us from moving too much, so the dance is small, almost still, more swaying than anything else.

I look at his tuxedo, at the undone patience in his face, at the silver near his temples catching the lamplight, at the mouth that has ruined my sense of judgment completely, and something inside me goes soft in a way I cannot defend against.

He’s not my boss, anymore. He’s not even my brother’s best friend. He’s Luka Kazan.

This is Luka standing with me in an almost empty park because he did not want to take me home while I was still hurt, because he wanted one dance without photographers, without introductions, without the word staff cutting between us.

The realization arrives quietly.

I’m falling in love with him.