Page 38 of Sexting His Assistant

“Beautiful women,” Misha says. “Dramatic women. Women who think they can soften him. Women who find out he’s not clay and then throw things.”

“He does inspire throwing.”

I grew up with Luka at the edge of my life in strange flashes: a tall man in black at our dinner table, younger then but still severe; a quiet voice in the hall when my brother thought I was asleep; a hand placing a ridiculous birthday gift on the table because he had no idea what little girls liked and apparently decided emerald earrings were appropriate for a twelve-year-old; a shadow beside Misha at important family moments; the man who never smiled much but once carried me to the car after I fell asleep at a winter party and pretended not to notice when I woke up halfway and kept my eyes closed because I liked being carried.

And now I’m one of those women.

The thought lands with such sudden ugliness that my throat tightens.

Not exactly, I tell myself immediately.

Worse, another voice answers.

Because the women in the diary at least get dinner first.

I close my eyes.

“Nina?” Misha says, softer now. “What is it?”

“It’s work,” I say. “Just work.”

“Leave early.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

Because your best friend just unlocked a door inside me with his tongue and walked away before I could decide whether to be furious or beg him to come back.

Because I don’t know if I’m the latest absurd entry in his invisible diary.

Because I’m terrified that if he calls me into his office now, I’ll still go.

“I have things to finish,” I say.

Misha sighs. “You work too much.”

The words make my stomach tighten. I turn away from the glass and look once more at the table, the closed door, the room that now knows something about me no one else does.

“Do you trust him?” I blurt out the question.

“With my life,” Misha says without hesitation.

I swallow. “And with mine?”

The pause is small. “With your safety,” he says.

I laugh lightly, because if I don’t, I might make a sound that means something. “Very specific.”

“You are my sister.”

“And?”

“And I trust very few men with anything that has to do with you.”

“But Luka?”

“With Luka,” Misha says slowly, “I trust him to protect you from everyone.”