“You’re not?”
Before he can respond, the door opens behind us and a pretty blond woman in killer heels walks in. She freezes in shock, looking from me to the man.
“Mr. Popov?”
Everything inside me goes cold.
Mr. Popov? As in,theMr. Popov?
My boss?
Chapter Two
Andrei
I don’t stop walking until I’m inside my office. The door shuts behind me with a soft, decisive click, and only then do I exhale. I shrug out of my suit jacket and toss it over the back of a chair, then peel the ruined shirt from my skin. The fabric sticks where the coffee soaked through, still warm, still smelling faintly bitter. I aim for the trash can and miss. The shirt lands half in, half out, like it couldn’t even manage to fail properly. I mutter a curse under my breath and turn toward the ensuite bathroom without fixing it.
The bathroom is clean and bathed in muted lights just like I like it. I cross to the closet built into the wall and pull open the door. Inside, everything is arranged with military precision…shirts pressed, suits hanging in neat rows, shoes aligned. Just like I like it. My staff know better than to ruin the order.
I can feel her behind me.
She hasn’t said anything since we walked in, but I know she followed. I know she’s standing there, probably twisting her hands together, replaying the last five minutes in her head and wondering how badly she’s ruined her life.
I keep my back to her. Because if I turn around right now, she’ll see the evidence of my arousal. I can’t believe I got hard while she innocently scrambled to get coffee off my shirt.The feeling of her hands—soft and warm against my skin…even thinking about it now, has my blood boiling with a mad need.
I haven’t craved a woman like this in a long time. Maybe ever.
Not like this.
I strip off the rest of the ruined shirt and grab a clean one from the rack, slipping it on and buttoning it slowly. Too slowly. I focus on the mundane motion, on breathing evenly, on getting myself back under control.
This is ridiculous.
I haven’t even known her for ten minutes.
I finish buttoning the shirt, adjust my cuffs, then finally turn around.
She looks like she’s bracing for impact.
Her shoulders are tense, her spine stiff, eyes wide and glassy like she’s trying very hard not to cry. There’s a faint flush on her cheeks that wasn’t there before, and when our eyes meet, something skitters across her face—fear, embarrassment, and a hint of something softer underneath.
“Mr. Popov,” she blurts, then winces like she’s already said the wrong thing.
I step toward her, keeping my expression neutral. “You can breathe,” I say evenly. “I’m not going to bite you.”
That doesn’t seem to help.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t know it was you. I mean, obviously I know now, but before—I mean—” she trails off, blushing harder.
“What’s your name?”
“Mila,” she answers quickly, nervously pushing a stray strand of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “Mila Voronin.”
Why does the last name sound familiar?
“Mila,” I say, testing the sound on my tongue. The name is beautiful. Suits her perfectly.
She nods once. “Y-yes sir.”