“How often do you skip meals?” he asks quietly.
It takes a while for my brain to process the question. It seems to have stopped working entirely the moment he decided to invade my space.
“Um… Sometimes? I forget to eat breakfast most days but I get to eat dinner every day. Papaw—that’s my grandfather—makes sure of it. I mean…I live with him,” I add with a nervous chuckle, then blush some more. I know I should stop rambling but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—the intensity in his eyes—that sets my body and soul on fire.
“Do you cook?” he asks, his eyes not leaving mine.
“No, Papaw has a live-in chef,” I reply. “I’m not allowed in the kitchen,” I add, wincing. “It’s for everyone’s safety.”
That earns a brief huff of breath from him. Not quite a laugh.
“What would you like for lunch?”
“Uh?” I blink at him in shock, wondering if I heard him right. “Um…I have a protein bar in my—”
“Nonsense,” he interrupts quietly. And without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his desk phone. “Reception,” he says when the call connects. “Go next door. Get two of my usual lunch orders from the bistro. Immediately.”
He hangs up.
I blink. “Sir, that’s not necessary.”
“It is,” he says simply.
I swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is. My skin flames hot under the attention.
I’ve heard rumors about him. About how demanding he is. How precise and sometimes unforgiving he can be. He has never been any of those things with me.
He steps closer.
I instinctively step back—straight into a bookshelf.
Something wobbles.
“Oh!” I gasp, stumbling further against the bookshelf.
A flower vase tips but before it can fall, his hand shoots past my shoulder, catching it effortlessly. He replaces it on the shelf, his arm braced above my head, caging me in. His body is close enough that I can feel his warmth. His hardness.
I suddenly forget how to breathe properly.
He leans in slightly, voice low. “If you’re going to be my assistant,” he says, “you need to take better care of yourself,solnishka.”
I recognize the word from the little Russian Papaw tried to teach me—triedbeing the keyword.Solnishkais something about sunshine.
My heart trips at the realization.Did he just call me sunshine?
He’s so close…so close that he can actually kiss me. But that’s crazy.Right?
Men like Mr. Popov don’t go kissing girls like me.
He steps back, immediately confirming my thoughts. I stand there, my heart racing like a wild horse, notepad clutched to my chest, wondering what I’m supposed to do with all these foreign sensations coursing through my body.
A knock sounds at the door, effectively cutting through the daze in my head.
“Yes,” Mr. Popov calls, sounding so perfectly in control. As always.
The door opens and the front desk receptionist walks in, carrying a large paper bag and two bottles of water. She doesn’t look at either of us as she crosses the room. She sets everything neatly on the coffee table in front of the couch, and leaves just as quickly as she came in.
The moment the door shuts behind her, Mr. Popov turns to me and, without asking, reaches for my hand.