4. Lacey
4
LACEY
I wake up to the insistent beep of my alarm, heart pounding as I remember what I did last night. My phone sits accusingly on the nightstand, still on Do Not Disturb .
"Please don't let that have been real," I whisper, reaching for it with shaking fingers and check my messages.
But there it is—the photo of me in nothing but Vadim's suit jacket, legs spread wide, and finger between them.
Oh God. What was I thinking?
I look at the bottom of my message.
Delivered.
Not Read , just Delivered .
I want to crawl under my covers and never come out. The confidence I felt last night is all but forgotten now. What kind of person sends nudes to a stranger? A successful, powerful billionaire at that.
He's probably used to getting nudes from models and movie stars.
Not catering staff playing dress-up in his clothes.
I close out the messaging app and scroll through my camera roll. The photos mock me with their boldness—each one more revealing than the last.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid." I tap my forehead against my phone screen.
The worst part is, a tiny voice inside me hoped he'd respond. That maybe he'd found me as intriguing as I found him. That the intensity in his storm-gray eyes when he looked at me meant something.
I'm here because I see potential. In a lot of things.
But clearly I was wrong. Just like I was wrong about Nathan. Just like I'm wrong about belonging anywhere.
My finger hovers over the delete button, ready to erase the evidence of my momentary insanity. But something stops me.
Whether Vadim responds or not, I still felt bold last night.
Desirable.
Free.
Even if he will never see them, these photos remind me that underneath all my insecurities, there's still a part of me that dares to want more.
A part of me that deserves more.
I leave the photos where they are and head to the shower. I have work to do, a life to get back to—even if that life feels emptier than ever—and a handsome billionaire whose path I'll have to cross again in the evening.
I fidget with the new catering uniform I picked up from Kohl's, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles as I walk through the striped tent to pick up a tray of champagne.
The polyester material feels stiff and scratchy against my skin—a far cry from the soft caress of Vadim's suit jacket. When I walk into the kitchen, the rest of the catering team is already busy at work.
The doors behind me swing close, and I pull out my phone to look at the message again.
Delivered.
All day, I've checked my phone off and on, hoping to see the message go from Delivered to Read.
And all day, nothing has changed.
Disappointment sits heavy in my chest.
I can't help glancing toward the entrance every few seconds, my heart jumping each time a tall blond man enters.
Stop it , I scold myself as I turn my gaze away towards the crowd. You're here to do a job, not moon over some guy who didn't even respond to your texts.
A banner staked into the ground outside shows a picture of Savin Vorobyov a few years before his death. With thick white hair and a dark mustache, Savin was from a Russian aristocratic family and grew up in Italy with his mother. He established himself as a couture designer in Europe before moving to Seattle nineteen years ago to start his luxury brand: Vorobyov Ensemble .
At least, that's what the sign says at the entrance.
I spare it nothing more than a passing glance.
My eyes are searching for something else.
No, scratch that, someone else.
For broad shoulders in an impeccably cut suit. For that knowing smirk that makes my stomach flip.
But Vadim is nowhere to be seen.
Maybe it's better this way. I'm not sure how I'd react if I were to see him now.
The weight of the tray grows heavier with each step as I weave through the crowd. A group of women in designer dresses beckon me over, their jewelry glinting under the chandeliers. They pluck flutes of champagne off my tray, and then go back to their conversation without so much as a 'thank-you.'
Which suits me just fine.
Just as I walk away, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I set the plate down at a nearby table, pull it out, and my heart stops when I see it.
A new notification in my message thread with Vadim.
Read today at 6:44pm.
But that's not what I'm focused on.
It's the tiny heart reaction on the photo.
Heat floods my cheeks as I gawk at the update underneath the photo of me wearing nothing but his suit jacket, sprawled across my bed with my legs spread open and pussy exposed.
Suddenly, three blinking dots appear.
He's writing something!
My mouth goes dry. The crowd's chatter fades to white noise as I wait with bated breath for his response.
When it comes, it's the last thing I expect.
It's a photo of Vadim.
To be specific, it's just his lips. In the photo, his mouth is curved up in a devious smile, his tongue is trailing slowly across those full, sensual lips, exposing a single canine tooth that's practically gleaming through the screen of my phone.
Somehow, he's managed to make a completely ordinary photo look insanely hot.
The dots start blinking again. And a second later, a follow-on text comes.
I hope you taste as good as you tease.
Oh fuck!
His words send wet fire pooling between my legs. Gripping the edge of the table to steady myself, I feel my cheeks searing. My head starts spinning, and I'm grateful that all of the other servers are too busy to notice me.
A couple walks by and I quickly lock my phone screen before they can see. But the image is seared into my brain—the deviously sexy smile, the predatory point of his tooth, and the way his tongue traces the sensual curve of his mouth.
Focus, Lacey. You're working.
Suddenly, my skin feels tight, and every nerve ending sings with awareness. Is he here somewhere, looking at that photo of me spread open for him? Thinking about tasting me?
My phone vibrates again. Another message. Another picture.
It's me. Mere moments ago and captured from behind when I steadied myself against the table.
The black uniform hugs my curves. My back is slightly arched as I lean forward, ass jutting out just enough to look suggestive without being deliberate about it.
The angle is perfect, and the slightly grainy quality tells me that he had to zoom in with his camera for it.
That last touch of voyeurism sends my pulse racing again.
He's here. Watching me. Hunting me.
I turn and scan the crowd, half-hoping to find him standing right behind me.
"Miss? Could we get more champagne?" A woman asks.
"Yes!" I snap my head up, face burning as I raise my tray towards her. "Right away."
Just then my phone vibrates again, making me jump.
Another text.
Keep working. I enjoy the view.
Heat crawls up my neck as I try to act normal, knowing he's tracking my every move from somewhere I can't see. Each time I bend to pick up another empty glass or used plate, I wonder if he's capturing another shot. My heart starts thundering against my throat, and my skin tingles with the weight of his invisible attention.
For the next few minutes, my phone stays disappointingly silent. But I know he's out there.
Watching me. Waiting for me.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I close my eyes and take a deep breath to steady myself when my tray is finally empty.
But the moment I do, I see myself lying back down on my bed in Vadim's suit jacket. His storm-gray eyes darken with desire as he steps closer, and his large hands start sliding the jacket from my shoulders to expose my breasts.
Stop it! I force my eyes open, and hurry back toward the kitchen, phone burning a hole in my pocket. Each step makes me more aware of how my uniform clings to my skin, how my heart won't stop racing, and how wet my pussy is.
As I start walking towards the back to get more champagne, my phone suddenly starts ringing.
I don't need to look to know who it is.
Then, for my second reckless act in less than twenty-four hours, I fish it out of my pocket, put it against my ear, and hear his deep rumbling voice.
"Turn around, zvyozdochka ."
I turn around and there he is, leaning against a marble column with his phone still held to his ear. His storm-gray eyes lock onto mine as a knowing smirk plays across his lips.
"I believe you have something that belongs to me." His accent wraps around each word like silk, and sends my heart thump-thump-thumping against my chest.
"Last I checked, I don't have a small business for you to buy." I try to keep my voice steady. "Unless you're talking about the suit? It’s in my car and?—"
"I was thinking of something else entirely." His lips curve into that same playful smile from the photo.
"I—" Heat floods my cheeks. "About the photo..."
"It was inspiring." His gaze travels down my body, making my skin tingle. "That jacket looked better on you than it ever did on me."
Heat flushes my face again, and I start chewing my lower lip. "I'm not usually so..." I gesture vaguely, searching for the right word.
"Improper?" His eyebrow arches.
"Bold," I correct him, lifting my chin. "And for the record, I didn't intend to steal your suit. But when you get caught up in the heat of the moment, who's really looking at what they're grabbing off the counter?"
"Not you." He steps closer.
"Not me." I breathe.
"I am a little surprised," he says. "That a woman with such an excellent eye for fashion is serving champagne at this event instead of being a part of it."
"Life doesn't always work out the way we plan." I shrug, trying to keep my voice light. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with being a caterer."
"No, there isn't." His eyes gleam with interest. "Especially not one with a portfolio as bold as yours."
"Is that what we're calling it now? My portfolio?"
"What else would we call it?" He steps closer. "If I know anything about an artist's portfolio, it's that she'll only ever showcase her best work."
My cheeks burn at his insinuation. "I'd hardly call last night's photos my best work. The lighting was terrible."
"Are you saying you can do better?" His eyes dance with amusement.
"That's not—I mean—" I stumble over my words as he takes another step towards me. Close enough that I catch a whiff of his light and spicy scent beckoning me to lean in closer. "A proper portfolio would have better composition. Better staging."
"In that case, I think I prefer an improper portfolio." His voice drops lower, sending shivers down my spine as he steps closer until I'm craning my neck up at him. "They're so much more intimate, wouldn't you agree?"
His hand rises, and for a dizzying moment, I dare to imagine that he's about to pull me in for a kiss.
But then his fingers—thick and powerful—plucks a flute of champagne from my tray, and I feel disappointment rush through me again.
Eyes never leaving mine, Vadim lifts the glass to his lips and takes a slow, deliberate sip. A drop of champagne lingers on his bottom lip before his tongue darts out to catch it.
My breath hitches. "I should get back to?—"
"Sit with me for a moment." He gestures to a nearby table with several people sitting around it already.
Panic seizes my throat at his offer.
"I'm working." I stammer. "I can't just?—"
"You can. And you will." His tone brooks no argument as he pulls out a chair. "And if anyone tries to give you trouble, I'll tell them that I made a special request."
Looking around, I see no one paying attention to us. The other servers are busy with their own sections, and the guests are wrapped up in their own conversations.
"Does that line usually work for you?"
"I don't know. Does pretending you don't want to spend time with me usually work for you?"
"Who says I'm pretending?" I say, setting down my tray on a nearby service station. "But why not? Five minutes."