Chapter 2 #2
Her face lights up, and I realize she’s missed me more than she’s let me know. And given that I’ve always prioritized my friendships with my girlfriends over everything else, I wonder how I let her down so badly—and what I can do to make it up to her.
“I’m Petra Volkova,” I tell the receptionist as I step up to the desk in the lobby of the lawyer’s office. “I’m here to see Tom Shepherd.”
“Oh, yes,” the receptionist says. She stands at the wooden desk she shares with the two other receptionists. I glance behind her where Callahan, MacDonald, Reardon & Shepherd is written across the frosted glass wall in gold lettering. “Mr. Shepherd is expecting you. Follow me.”
She waits for me to step up next to her before she turns and leads me around the glass wall that separates the reception area and the rest of the office.
I tower above her as we walk down the aisle between desks.
My goal with high-profile clients is to give off the vibe of professional power, and nothing makes me feel more powerful than a well-fitted dress and sky high heels.
Leaning toward me with a conspiratorial grin, she tells me, “I’m probably not supposed to say this, but I’ve just been temping here, so whatever,” she waves her hand in the air like she’s brushing away the stigma around whatever it is she’s about to say.
“All the girls in the office are in quite a tizzy today. We always are when he comes in. We’ve all been dying to see who he and Mr. Shepherd are meeting with. ”
This type of inane chatter is exactly why I could never work in an office. And though I’m still not sure who he is, I’m guessing that whoever Tom Shepherd called me here to meet is extraordinary in his own right.
“I can’t say that I see what the big deal is,” I shrug, feigning nonchalance while hoping she tells me who I’m meeting with.
She gasps. “Okay, maybe you’re not a hockey fan, but you’re clearly a woman. You can’t possibly be immune to a guy that looks like he does.”
I’m sure my face conveys exactly how unimpressed I am. I know next to nothing about US hockey and care about it even less. I’ve never loved the sport, and Sasha ruined it for me like he ruined so many other things.
“Hockey players don’t impress me,” I tell her as we come to the end of the rows of desks that sit outside the offices lining the wide hallway we just traversed.
In front of us is a wall of glass windows looking out over Midtown Manhattan.
“There’s something very—” I pause as I search for the word.
“—brutal about the sport . . . and the men who play it.”
I’ve actively avoided hockey for the past fourteen years so it’s not like, even if she’d told me his name, I’d have ever heard of this mystery man.
“Brutal, sure.” She shrugs and adds, “But he’s hot as hell.”
She takes a left and I follow her down a hallway of conference rooms with frosted glass doors.
When we come to the end of the hallway, an executive assistant sits alone at a desk with her back to another bank of windows.
Across from her is a small but elegant waiting area with comfortable chairs, a marble table with a variety of magazines, and an elegantly simple chandelier lighting the space.
It feels cozy and graceful and not at all like the waiting area of a high-rise office building.
The assistant stands when we approach. Her light brown hair is coiled on top of her head in a loose but tidy bun, and her tortoiseshell glasses are a brand I wouldn’t think she could afford on an admin’s salary.
A smattering of freckles across the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose make her look even younger than she probably is.
She nods to the receptionist, dismissing her, then reaches her hand across her desk toward me.
“Hello, Ms. Volkova. I’m Avery Parker, Mr. Shepherd’s assistant. ”
“Hi, Avery,” I say, shaking her hand. “Please, call me Petra.”
“Right this way, Petra.” She steps around her desk and walks toward the door where the hallway ends. Thomas Shepherd is written across that door in modern raised letters reminiscent of the lettering on the glass wall in the reception area. Inside the office, we can hear raised voices.
She glances at me, obviously not expecting arguing behind the door. She knocks twice and there’s dead silence in there as she pushes the door open for me.
My stomach gives a small lurch as the door swings in, but I make sure I exude confidence on the outside as I take in the imposing space.
Natural light from the two adjoining walls of floor-to-ceiling windows floods the far end of this corner office, with dark finishes everywhere else—navy walls, and a sitting area immediately off to the side.
Past that sits a dark walnut desk, the man behind it is presumably Tom Shepherd. He stands as I walk toward him, saying, “Ms. Volkova, welcome. Please, have a seat.” He gestures to one of the two mid-century modern walnut chairs with leather seats that face his desk. The one that’s empty.
The man in the other chair hasn’t moved since the door opened.
He sits there like a hulking beast, his tall and muscular frame barely fitting in the seat.
I can tell by the tense lines of his thick neck that there’s raw power beneath an otherwise calm exterior.
As I come up behind him, I feel like I’m approaching an animal who could turn and overpower me with no effort at all.
Despite my own stature, I feel uncommonly vulnerable as I step up behind that empty chair.
I pull it out and as I prepare to take my seat, and glance down at the man in question right as he glances up at me.
Those eyes, the color of steel. That razor sharp jawline, apparent even under the facial hair.
Those cheekbones that run along the top edge of the neatly trimmed beard.
The permanent scowl. His dark hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it and the lines at the corner of his eyes are new, but I’d still recognize him anywhere.
“Sasha?” My voice is full of wonder, because I’m not sure how he is here after all this time. Fourteen years of no contact has that sense of wonder turning to anger in the pit of my stomach.
His deep voice is a husky growl, achingly familiar even as the man who sits in front of me is so different from the one who left me years ago. “Hello, Petra.”