Page 36 of Sexting His Assistant

Misha’s protectiveness can be suffocating, absurd, occasionally medieval, and impossible to defend in modern polite society, but it is also the language he learned first. He was old enough to remember the worst years before I was born, old enough to know exactly how quickly life can turn, old enough to understand that little sisters are not fragile because they are weak but because the world is very creative in the ways it tries to hurt them.

The problem is that I’m not little anymore.

The larger problem is that Luka Kazan has apparently noticed.

My pulse gives one traitorous throb at the memory, and I shift my weight, instantly regretting it because the soreness between my legs wakes like a secret.

Misha says, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m sure.”

“You sound breathless again.”

“I found the pen.”

“That made you breathless?”

“It rolled.”

“Where?”

“Under the table.”

I look at the conference table. Technically, a pen could have rolled under it. Technically, many things have happened around this table today.

“I bent down,” I add, then immediately hate myself because even the phrase bent down feels obscene now.

Misha makes a thoughtful sound. “You need to exercise more.”

My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”

“You are winded by a pen.”

“I’m not winded by a pen.”

“You just said⁠—”

“I regret every word I’ve ever spoken.”

“That’s wise.”

I laugh despite myself, and this time it comes out almost normal. “Anyway,” I say, desperate to move the conversation away from my cardio, my brother’s suspicion, and the very real possibility that Luka is somewhere in this building still carrying my underwear like a war trophy, “how is your day?”

“My day is fine.”

“That was detailed.”

“I had meetings.”

“With scary men?”

“With boring men.”

“Sometimes those are the same.”

“Not everyone is Luka.”

No. No, they are absolutely not.