Page 8 of Sexting His Assistant

I spend the rest of the afternoon pretending I’m not thinking about Luka Kazan.

By four, I’ve answered twelve emails, rescheduled one dinner, confirmed one private room, updated two briefing files, and reread the same line in a market report six times without absorbing a single word. Every time I look down, I see his face from earlier. Every time I look up, I hear his voice.

Too distracting.

I should resent that line more than I do.

Instead, it sits in the center of my chest like a lit match.

At four-thirteen, my phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen and see Daniil’s name.

He texted last week. I ignored him for three days, answered with one word, ignored him again, and apparently that was enough encouragement for him to keep trying. He’s one of those men who mistakes persistence for charm and routine for depth. He’s not offensive. He’s also not exciting. He is perfectly groomed, painfully reasonable, and so boring I once forgot I was on a date with him while still sitting across from him.

Which, at the moment, makes him ideal.

Safe. Flat. Forgettable.

Nothing like Luka.

I unlock my phone and stare at Daniil’s last message.

Dinner sometime this week?

I should leave it unread.

Instead I type back, Why? Are you out of documentaries to recommend?

His reply comes almost immediately.

Cruel.

I type, Accurate.

He sends, So is that a yes?

I lean back in my chair and look through the glass wall toward Luka’s office.

His door is open. He’s standing with one hand in his pocket, speaking quietly to Grigori from legal. Dark suit. White shirt. No tie now. The top button open. Completely unfair for a man like him to exist in natural light.

As if he feels me looking, his head turns.

I drop my gaze to my phone. Coward.

Daniil sends another message.

I’m free tonight.

I stare at the words for a moment too long.

Tonight I’m very much not free. Tonight I’m apparently going with my boss to a restaurant so I can take notes during a meeting and then help manage whatever beautifully dressed complication he’s arranged for dessert.

My fingers move anyway.

Maybe later, I type.

Daniil sends a thumbs-up, which somehow makes him even more boring.