Chapter 3 Sienna
Sienna
I tell myself this isn’t a big deal.
It’s just a delivery.
Same as yesterday.
Nothing to overthink.
And yet, as I check my reflection in my car’s sun visor mirror for the third time, it’s clear that I am, in fact, overthinking.
The makeup is minimal. A little mascara, some concealer, and a swipe of tinted lip balm. Just enough to look put together but not like I’m trying.
Because I’m not.
Obviously.
Shoving my visor up, I grab the large pastry box from the passenger seat and head toward the building. The same receptionist is at the front desk, looking just as polished and bored as before.
She gives me the same slow, unimpressed once-over but doesn’t say a word as she taps something on her keyboard.
Finally, she gestures toward the elevators. “Top floor.”
Cool. Good talk.
Balancing the pastry box against my hip, I press the button and wait, mentally hyping myself up.
He’s just a customer.
In a very tall building.
It doesn’t matter that he’s handsome.
He’s just a guy.
Big deal.
Who cares?
The doors slide open and I step inside, rehearsing what I just said in the elevator, but it falls flat.
I immediately realize this is not the same as yesterday.
There are men in suits. Several of them.
They’re gathered around a sleek, dark wooden table near the floor-to-ceiling windows, with papers and tablets in front of them.
The air is thick with quiet conversation, a low hum of serious voices speaking in… Russian?
They barely glance my way, but I still feel the shift of energy in the room like I’ve interrupted something important.
Benedikt is at the head of the table, leaning back in his chair, but he’s noticed my arrival.
He’s cool, collected, and unfazed.
Why can’t I be?
I lift the box slightly. “Pastries?”
He exhales through his nose, stands, and gestures toward his desk. “There.”
I walk past the suits, keenly aware of their presence, and carefully set down the box, straightening a little before turning back around.
I feel his eyes everywhere.
“Enjoy, gentlemen.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Benedikt is already moving toward me when I begin to panic.
“No, thank you,” I retort, holding a palm up in the air as if that’s going to do anything in this scenario.
It doesn’t.
Stop being so damn weird.
Now that we’re out of the office, away from the suits and their low, murmured Russian conversations, I realize something that hadn’t quite clicked.
Benedikt Volkov is big.
Not in an over-the-top, bodybuilder way, but in a broad-shouldered, powerful way. The kind of build that makes you think of stone walls and locked doors. Something immovable, unyielding.
And he’s taller than I thought. I barely reach his shoulder, even in my boots.
Everything about him is sharp and put together, and his suit fits too well to be anything off the rack.
And yet, he moves in it like it’s nothing.
Like it doesn’t restrict him. Like he could just as easily throw someone through a wall in it as he could sit through a boring meeting.
We step into the hallway and the heavy door clicks shut behind us, muffling the conversation inside.
Benedikt doesn’t say anything as he walks me toward the elevator with his hands in his pockets like he’s considering something.
I steal a look at him, and he’s staring at me. “Join me for dinner.”
It’s not phrased as a question, but I know it is one.
Nope!
Pressing the button, I step back from it and from him. “I can’t.”
“Plans again?”
I push my lips together and nod.
“What day?”
Crap.
“Uh… it’s up in the air right now.”
“Next week, then.”
I stare at the button. “Listen, Mr. Volkov, I don’t date customers.”
“Who said anything about dating?”
Double crap.
Why do you do this?
Lifting my chin, I force myself to glance over to him and into his stunning blue eyes. “And what is this dinner for, then?”
“Talking.”
“Talking?” I perk a brow. “I don’t think I’ve gotten more than five words out of you, Mr. Volkov.”
His lips coil a little. “I’m not that social.”
“I can see that,” I mutter. “I’m busy, but I appreciate the… invitation.”
“You’re talented, Miss Graves.”
“Thank you?”
“And I could use someone like you.”
“Was that six words?” He doesn’t fill the silence, just waits, his gaze steady on me.
I chew my lip. “Are you in need of breakfast to be served every morning or something, Mr. Volkov?”
“Something like that.”
I huff a small laugh. “If you’re trying to lure me into a business proposition, you should lead with that instead of, ‘join me for dinner.’”
He tilts his head slightly. “Would you have stayed if I had?”
Probably not.
I cannot imagine myself sitting across from this man for more than an hour and trying to eat.
Benedikt takes my silence as an answer and says, “You don’t have to decide now. Just think about it.”
Ten words.
I glance at the elevator, willing the doors to open. “I don’t know what there is to think about.”
“I do.”
I glance at him again, suspicious this time. “And what’s that?”
“You’re intrigued.”
I am, I just don’t understand his play.
I’m not his type.
I work at a bakery. He works on an exclusive floor that I have to go through a haughty receptionist to get to.
This man probably has a bank account that could pay my rent a million times over.
He probably drives an expensive car, eats at five-star restaurants, and lives in a penthouse suite away from the world.
The elevator dings then, and I step inside like I’m proving a point. Benedikt doesn’t move to stop me, just lifts his phone slightly.
“Let me text you,” he says. “You can tell me no later.”
I exhale slowly but with a bit of confidence. “Fine. If you want to waste your time.”
A single nod, like he expected that.
As the doors close, I realize I just agreed to continue this conversation. He knew he’d get me one way or another with more talking.
I need to change my number.
Wait, I didn’t give him my number.