Chapter 6 Life and Stuff
life and stuff
Talia
I only come up to Boris’s shoulder. He’s truly massive, with wide shoulders and huge biceps.
In profile, his straight-line nose and sensuous lips are really attractive so it’s hard not to stare.
Physically, he’s masculinity personified, but I’m getting the impression his character is quieter, more reserved than I first thought. He’s an interesting dichotomy.
“You know that I just moved here for a trade to the Crush.” His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders just slightly stooped as his eyes flit toward me shyly. “What has brought you to Las Vegas, Talia?”
“My boss, Harold Shaw, asked me to come here and build his entertainment and athletic business. Vegas is a great market and we already had a handful of high-profile clients here. If I’m successful, we can grow our company.”
“So just like that you picked up your life and moved?”
“I could ask you the same,” I say.
“A trade is a trade. There is no choice in it.”
“Well, I suppose not, unless you decide to go free agent.”
“My contract was not yet eligible, but I am okay with it. I got a nice package to come here—better than Austin. Which is why I need someone to assist with my portfolio.”
“I gotcha.”
“But you did not answer my question, Talia.”
Man, I love the way my name sounds coming out of his mouth. “Which one?”
“Your boss said go so you went? So easily? Didn’t you have to leave friends or family behind?”
“Oh, that. Well, my family is in LA. And I was going through, um…some personal stuff back in San Francisco, so a move was actually welcome. Fresh starts and all, you know? Plus, it gives me a chance to show Harold I can build new business for the firm. It’s a win-win for me.”
“Twenty-three seems like very young for needing a new start,” Boris observes. Why is he so persistent? Is it because he’s testing me?
“Ah, well, you know. Life and stuff.”
I literally cringe at how dumb that just sounded.
I’m nervous talking about this. I feel awkward and I keep running my hands over the front of my skirt as we walk.
It’s weird and I know it, but my hands are sweaty and gross.
I mean, I can’t just come out and tell this cute, new potential client (for whom I’ve already indulged in inappropriate and objectifying thoughts) that I moved here because I’m a home-wrecker.
No, that would not be a good way to start things out, even if it’s true.
Why does he have to be so pretty?
I remind myself to think of this dinner with Boris as if it’s an interview. Is there any good way to spin the fact I left my last job because I slept with a client?
Negative. It will probably never matter that I didn’t know the truth…
Ugh. I feel like I might throw up right about now. And why won’t my hands stop sweating?
“So, you’re from…Russia?” My voice is oddly squeaky, but the need to steer him away from asking about why I left San Francisco is imperative.
He shakes his head. “I was born in Romania. My mother is Russian, and my father is Romanian. My parents split shortly after I was born, we moved to Prague, in the Czech Republic. My mother and I moved again when I was twelve to return back home to her native Russia. I have lived in many places.”
Of course, he has. In comparison, I lived at home until I was sixteen, then the dorms for all four years because I was too young for an apartment, and now I’m here. In a word, I feel underwhelming. But he is fascinating.
“How did you start playing hockey?”
“I always got in a lot of fights in school.” He gives a somewhat apologetic shrug.
It’s kind of endearing, as if he’s embarrassed about it.
“My teachers suggested hockey to help manage my aggression. I did not do well academically, and it was frustrating, so I was always bad. Acting out in school helped to draw the attention away from my poor marks. At hockey I excelled though, and by the time I was a teenager I just wanted to quit school altogether. Thankfully, I was sent to an Olympic training facility shortly after. So really, hockey is what saved me.”
“Wow,” I say, not bothering to hide my utter fascination. “I can’t even imagine how anyone would ever decide to willingly quit school. I loved school. Every minute of it. I’d like to go back for a master’s degree at some point.”
We stop at the entrance to a restaurant.
It’s got an Irish vibe, though Boris only looks at the menu posted at the entrance for a split second before looking off into the distance.
I assume he doesn’t like Irish food, so we keep walking, stopping at three more restaurants before I realize there is a pattern emerging.
At this rate, I’ll starve to death before any food appears on a plate in front of me.
“You want me to decide, Boris?”
He shrugs and gives me a sheepish grin. “I’ll eat any kind of food. I don’t need anything fancy, in fact, I’d be happy with a hamburger.”
“Well, lucky for you, so would I.”
I try to ignore the flip-flop happening low in my belly when his handsome face lights up with a warm smile and he nails me with his gorgeous brown eyes.
I do try.
Even if it’s impossible.