Page 6 of Sexting His Assistant

I stare at him. He stares back.

And suddenly it feels like the wrong answer might ruin everything.

So naturally, I give him one.

“Because it’s pathetic,” I say.

“For whom?”

“For all of us.”

Luka rises from his chair, and I hate how aware I become the second he stands. He’s too tall, too solid, too controlled.

Every instinct I have tells me to step back.

But I don’t.

He comes around the desk slowly and stops in front of me.

Not touching. Not close enough to call it inappropriate.

Just close enough that I can smell cedar, clean starch, and whatever dark expensive thing clings to his skin by noon.

“For all of us,” he repeats.

My throat goes dry. “Yes.”

“And you include yourself in that?”

I force myself to hold his gaze. “I’m the one keeping the diary.”

His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second. Then lift again. “You sound jealous.”

The word burns.

I laugh, but it comes out brittle. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

I hate him.

I hate the way he sees so much. I hate the way he waits. I hate the way one quiet sentence from him can peel the skin off every lie I tell myself.

“I don’t care,” I say.

He tilts his head. “Poorly done.”

“Believe whatever you want.”

“I usually do.”

He’s so close now that it feels deliberate, even though he still hasn’t touched me. If he lifted one hand, if he leaned in a fraction, if he gave me the smallest excuse, I’m not entirely sure I would do the sensible thing.

“You’re impossible,” I whisper, a mixture of anger and something else crushing my chest.

Luka’s eyes darken. “And yet you’re still here.”