Page 94 of Sexting His Assistant

For one second, I think it is Misha.

Then I know it’s not. I know before I look through the peephole and see Luka Kazan standing outside my apartment door in a black coat, face hard, eyes colder than the hallway light.

My heart slams once against my ribs. I open the door before I can decide not to.

He holds up the envelope. “What is this?” he asks. His voice is calm.

I grip the door. “You read it.”

“Yes.”

“Then you know.”

His eyes move over my face. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Nina.”

“There it is again,” I snap, and my voice shakes so badly I hate it. “That tone. Like you own my obedience, but news flash, you don’t. I’m not your employee anymore.”

His jaw tightens. “Let me in.”

“No.”

His gaze flicks once down the hallway.

I hate that he is right before he says anything.

“You want to discuss this here?” he asks.

I look past him, toward Mrs. Sokolova’s door, where I know for a fact she listens whenever someone so much as coughs near the elevator.

I step back. “Fine.”

He comes in.

The apartment instantly feels half its size.

Luka has no business in my home. He’s too tall for it, too dark, too expensive, too harsh against the soft mess of my real life. He looks at the little kitchen, the blanket over the couch, the books stacked on the floor because I never bought the shelf I kept meaning to buy.

His eyes soften for half a second.

That makes me angrier.

“Don’t look at my apartment like that,” I scowl.

“Like what?”

“Like you have thoughts.”

“I do have thoughts.”

“Keep them.”

He looks back at me. The envelope is still in his hand.

I close the door and fold my arms. “You shouldn’t have come here.”