Page 55 of Shark’s Edge

The man’s warm smile was a reassuring sight. There was no way for a guy to be that sincere and friendly if he’d just physically injured someone, right? That crap took strain and adrenaline. But as Viktor stepped back so I could walk in, it appeared like he’d really had a few swigs of his imaginary cocktail. But he looked that way every day. Nearly as tall as Sebastian, he was more graceful about handling his massive muscles. He was relaxed in his skin and surroundings, whereas Sebastian always jolted and sprinted as if all of it was too small for him.

At the moment, I was feeling more of the latter, as well.

Viktor’s office was expansive and airy, composed of a lot of glass, steel, and white surfaces. Didn’t stop the space from feeling weirdly confining.

Especially as Viktor shut the door behind him with a loud clack.

“Umm.” I worked my lips together after muttering it. “Where do you want me to set everything down? The desk or the table?”

“Anywhere is fine.”

Viktor’s murmur was as polished as the curved front of his designer desk. While delivering to the desk trapped me behind the massive furniture for a few seconds, it also gave me a viable exit route. Fortunately, the penthouse office had a side door too.

“Rio added extra sauce to the veggie loaves today, so they should be really good.”

“They’re wonderful every day.” His voice was still all brushed steel and shiny glass, an ideal match for how he practically glided back into the middle of the room. But while his movements were full of dancer grace, everything north of his shoulders was locked in weight-lifter intensity. Even the smile I’d first considered charming when I met him now favored dry plaster. “But the best thing about them is the service that accompanies them.”

I scooted out from behind the desk, nervously fingering the apron ties at my nape. “Well, we’re happy that you’re happy.”

“Very happy.” He moved into the space between the desk and his chair, and I inwardly high-fived myself for escaping when I had the chance. “Except for one thing.”

“Oh?” I shoved aside the weird paranoia about my safety, returning to gut-deep paranoia about my business. “Is there a problem with something?”

Viktor leaned down and opened a drawer. My heart throbbed to the point of pain. I barely subdued the lump that rose in my throat as panic slammed my senses.

Was this it? The other shoe that would drop, validating Sebastian’s food-poisoning claim? Did Sebastian know about this already? Was that the motivation behind his avoiding me, instead of the bratty act I’d been assuming?

And how I knew every danger about assumptions.

“Well . . . yes,” Viktor finally said. “There is a problem, Abbigail.” He hitched up one side of his mouth while I visibly squirmed—which piled on more layers of weirdness to this exchange. Were Blake’s urbane exterior and golden-god looks just a front for a vile masochistic streak?

“You know I’m always open to feedback.” I stunned myself by sounding like I’d rehearsed that a thousand times, when this script was as cold as an ice block to me. A faint clicking sound vibrated the air, and I wondered if it was passing high heels in the hall or my knocking knees.

“I’m glad to hear that. Because I’m supremely uncomfortable about something.”

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s occurred to me that you filled a full lunch order for fifty last week with less than twenty-four-hours’ notice.”

“It was our pleasure to do so.” An attempt at a smile. Major fail at execution.

“And my comrades thoroughly enjoyed the meal.” He leaned over toward the open drawer. “But there was something missing.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” Screw the smiles. I was furious. Why had he waited a full week to bring this up?

“The chance to properly thank you.”

“Well, I’m sure if you just tell me what the—wait, what?”

Viktor’s grin was full of pleasure as he extended both arms. In his hands was an intricately painted oval. I dropped my sights to the beautiful object, absorbing all its details. The face with the big eyes, wrapped in a painted red head scarf. The painstaking detail in the pink and purple roses and the cheerful yellow daisies along the base.

“Oh . . . wow,” I finally stammered and then shot my gawk back up to his face. “Nesting dolls. Right?”

“In Russia, they’re called Matryoshka,” Viktor explained. “This set was handmade in the Khotkovo region, where my family is originally from.”