Page 45 of Sexting His Assistant

Nina’s standing beside one of the concrete pillars, coat over her arm, dark hair loose around her shoulders, looking as tired and furious as a woman has any right to look after the day she’s had.

The dress is gone. She’s changed into a softer black one, and I’m annoyed with myself for noticing. Her face is composed, but her eyes are too bright.

She has been waiting. For me.

“What are you still doing here?” I ask. “It’s late.”

Her mouth curves without humor. “That’s what my brother said.”

Everything in me stills.

“Misha called you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“After you left me in the boardroom.”

I look past her toward the security camera angled over the garage, then back to her. “What did you tell Misha exactly?”

Her eyebrows rise. “So that’s what you’re worried about?”

“That is not an answer.”

“No,” she says. “It’s an observation.”

“Nina.” There’s warning in my voice.

She steps closer anyway. “I told him I was fine,” she says. “I told him you were not making me do funny errands.”

I say nothing.

“Yes,” she adds. “That was the phrase he used.”

A sound almost leaves me. Not a laugh. Something darker. “And did he believe you?”

“Of course not. I lied terribly.”

“That seems unlike you.”

“I had a difficult afternoon.”

I deserve that.

I look at her properly now, because I’ve avoided doing so for hours and because apparently my punishment is that looking at her does not make me want her less.

It makes it worse.

She’s angry. Embarrassed. Still drawn tight with awareness, though she’s trying to hide it under sarcasm. I can see the questions she’s brought down here with her, the ones she’d rather bite through her own tongue than ask first.

Why did you leave? Why did you avoid me? What am I to you now?

I don’t know which answer would hurt her least. So, I choose none of them.

“You should go home,” I say.

Her eyes flash. “That’s it?”