13. Ayana
CHAPTER 13
Ayana
D o you want to come upstairs to my apartment?
My question hung in the air. It snuffed out the remaining warmth from Vuk’s laugh, but it was too late to take it back.
“To dry off,” I added hastily. “You’re soaked, and it’ll take you at least another forty minutes to get home in this traffic.”
It seemed like a reasonable offer to me, but based on his frown, you would think I’d asked him to shoot a newborn kitten.
“You don’t have to.” I filled the heavy silence with more rambling. “I suppose your clothes have already dried, but it’s that stiff sort of dry, you know. From the rain. You might catch a cold or something.” Stop talking . Now . “But like I said, no pressure. It was just a suggestion if you, um, want to take it.”
Heat poured off my face.
I was already kicking myself for asking about his love life earlier, and I was only digging myself into a deeper hole with my incoherent pitch.
My intentions were innocent, but it sounded like I was desperate to get him upstairs to do something other than laundry.
A muscle twitched in Vuk’s jaw.
After another beat of interminable quiet, he pulled away from the curb and into the attached garage.
He was coming upstairs.
Anticipation sank beneath my skin as we parked and took the elevator to the twentieth floor. Vuk was the first man I’d invited to my apartment in months besides the maintenance guy. The platonic nature of his visit didn’t matter; my nerves rattled all the same.
We reached my apartment. I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”
I’d lived with roommates my first four years in the city until I saved up enough money for my current place: a cozy one-bedroom with fantastic views. It was close to the subway and filled with natural light, which were my two musts when I’d been apartment hunting.
The monthly rent was absurd, but it was worth it. Giant windows overlooked Manhattan, and one of them even came with a deep window seat for reading and daydreaming.
Bold splashes of colorful art adorned the walls. Natural-fiber rugs covered the pale wood floors while hanging plants added a touch of greenery to the space. A thick orange blanket I’d knitted on a sleepless night draped over the back of my couch.
The blanket wasn’t my best work, but it was the first knitting project I’d ever completed, and I was damn proud of it.
I glanced at Vuk as he stepped inside. His gaze swept around the airy space, and I tried to imagine it through his eyes. What did he see when he looked at that blanket or the collection of empty perfume bottles lining the living room shelf?
It was impossible to tell.
We took off our shoes, and I gave him a quick tour of the apartment. Living room, kitchen, the corner I’d set up for photos and virtual interviews. I purposely avoided the bedroom.
“The bathroom is over there.” I gestured down the hall. “I can throw your clothes in the dryer while you— oh .”
Vuk pulled his shirt over his head. I’ll keep my pants on. He didn’t look at me. Where’s the laundry room?
I swallowed past a dry throat and wordlessly opened the closet containing one of the most coveted items in Manhattan: an in-unit washer/dryer. No one had an actual room for laundry unless they were Markovic-level rich.
While Vuk tossed his shirt in the machine and selected the appropriate settings, I tried not to stare. I really did.
However, it was impossible not to indulge in an eyeful when he was standing less than a foot away. His back was turned, giving me ample cover to admire the sculpted architecture of his torso.
Muscle corded his arms and back, and his shoulders spanned the width of the doorway. His thighs were tree-trunk thick. When he finished with the dryer and pivoted toward the bathroom, I glimpsed a light dusting of hair that trailed over his chest and disappeared into his waistband.
A maddening rush of awareness zipped down my spine. How dare my hormones miss the memo that I wasn’t supposed to ogle my fiancé’s best man? And how dare he walk into my apartment and take up so much space that I could scarcely breathe? It was downright rude.
I forced myself to wait until the door closed behind him before I walked to the kitchen and busied myself making two cups of tea.
I’d seen men shirtless before. Hell, I’d seen Vuk shirtless before.
But never in such close proximity. Never here, in my apartment, steps away from where I?—
“Shit!” I cursed as the mug overflowed and tea scalded my hand. I took it as a sign that even the universe didn’t approve of my inappropriate thoughts.
By the time I finished cleaning up, Vuk had exited the bathroom. He joined me in the kitchen, his presence so domineering it instantly demanded attention.
“Here. I made you some tea.” I pushed a steaming mug across the marble island and resolved not to look anywhere below his chin. “It’s a special Ethiopian blend my mom made. It should warm you up while we wait for your shirt to dry.”
He stared at the drink, which came in a smiling gray kitten mug. I had a brief vision of him throwing the poor ceramic kitty against the wall, enraged by its cuteness, but he picked it up without comment. It looked absurdly delicate in his hand.
I bit my lip to hold back a laugh.
Vuk glanced around the kitchen. Your apartment doesn’t look the way I’d imagined it would.
“Do you spend a lot of time imagining my apartment?” I teased, echoing his earlier remark about me looking him up online.
Perhaps it was the lighting, but I could’ve sworn the faintest wash of pink tipped his ears. When I blinked, the color was gone.
I must’ve imagined it. Vuk Markovic didn’t blush. Ever.
Most models don’t collect animal mugs or allow so many colors into their decor.
Most models? How many models’ apartments had he been in?
The need to know itched beneath my skin, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking.
“First of all, that’s an overgeneralization. Second of all, not everyone bows at the altar of minimalism,” I said, pushing the image of him with Polina or Indira or Vlada out of my head.
I swept my eyes over emerald green cabinets, copper cookware, and white tiled walls. I’d painted the cabinets myself, and I’d have to paint them back when I moved out. It was worth it; I couldn’t stand their old sterile white color.
“When I first moved to New York, I shared a model apartment with other girls from the agency,” I said. “It was the blandest, most colorless place you could imagine. We didn’t know how long we’d last here, so it didn’t make sense to spend time and money decorating.” Both things had been in short supply back then. My current situation came with its own set of problems, but I would never miss those early days of cattle call castings and constant rejections. “When I finally got my own place, I wanted the exact opposite. So I filled it up with everything I loved, even if those things don’t match.”
I was of the firm belief that a home should feel like a home. Books should be read, couches should be sat on, kitchens should be used. A house wasn’t a museum; it was a tapestry of who we were and the lives we’d lived.
Yet you’ll have to move again soon. Vuk paused. Unless Jordan is moving in with you.
My smile dissolved. “No. He’s not.”
Jordan and I had agreed to move into his Upper East Side townhouse after we got married. I should’ve already started packing, given our new wedding date, but I hadn’t opened a single suitcase.
I wasn’t dreading it. I’d just been busy with Fashion Week. That was all.
“It’ll be great,” I said. “I’ll have so much more…space.” Stuffy, formal, antique-ridden space.
Jordan said I could redecorate to make myself feel more at home, but what was the point when I had to move out of that house in a few years too?
“How did you and Jordan become friends?” I steered the conversation toward safer waters. “I know you were roommates, but lots of college roommates don’t keep in touch this long after graduation.” I’d asked Jordan, but his answer about them “bonding after a while” had been too vague to satisfy me.
Vuk’s expression was so austere I couldn’t believe it belonged to the same person who’d laughed earlier. If I answer, that’ll be your third question.
I groaned. You’d think I was torturing a confession out of him instead of asking for basic background info.
Still, a deal was a deal.
I hesitated, debating whether that was worth using my third question. Perhaps I should ask him something deeper, like how he got his scars or why he chose not to speak, but that seemed too invasive. We didn’t know each other that well, and I didn’t want to force him to discuss something that would make him uncomfortable.
I could also ask what he meant by his note on the plane. It sat in my nightstand drawer, and I revisited it more often than I cared to admit.
I don’t hate you. But I wish I did.
His answers for what it meant could vary, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know any of them.
I nodded, giving him the silent go-ahead. I really was curious about his history with Jordan. They were as different as night and day, and their friendship surprised me more than anything else I’d learned about Vuk so far. Well, besides the bingo thing, which I wasn’t fully convinced he was being honest about.
We weren’t friends at the start. We were civil, but I was too quiet and he was too loud. We had…different interests. Then I got into trouble, and he saved my life.
I sucked in a breath. “He never told me that.”
Vuk shrugged.
“What happened?”
We’d passed the three-question mark. Given how private he was, I had no right to pry, and he had every right not to answer. But there was something about this moment—the rain falling outside, the cooling mugs of tea, the gentle hum of the dryer in the background—that created a sense of intimacy.
Or perhaps it was the sight of him in my kitchen, looking entirely at home amongst the alphabetized spices and gauzy curtains. He was too rough, too cold, too masculine—and yet, he fit perfectly.
An island of calm amidst a sea of uncertainty.
I got involved with the wrong crowd. I owed them money, and they weren’t the type of people you wanted to owe money to. When Jordan found out, he paid the full amount, no questions asked. Another shrug. The rest is history.
Considering Vuk’s usual reticence, he’d basically offered me a gold mine of information.
I tried to parse through it all.
Now I understood why Vuk was so loyal to Jordan despite their differences. He must feel indebted to him.
But what “wrong crowd” could Vuk have been involved with in college? A gang, the mafia, or some other criminal organization? Those were the most likely options. As scary as the IRS could be, they didn’t go around killing people who owed them money.
Vuk’s mouth curled at my prolonged silence. Ask me.
“Ask you what?”
Who I owed money to.
His eyes were chips of ice set in a face of stone.
It wasn’t hard to believe he’d been involved in questionable activities in his past, but it didn’t matter.
I shook my head. “No.”
Vuk’s eyes flared with surprise.
“If you want to tell me, you can,” I said. “But whatever happened, happened over a decade ago. It worked out in the end, and what’s past is past. It would be unfair of me to reopen old wounds unless you were comfortable discussing them.”
Those glacial eyes melted, giving me a glimpse of the man who’d laughed so beautifully and unexpectedly earlier. Compelling him to lower his guard was one of my greatest triumphs and not one I expected to repeat, but I missed the sincerity of that moment all the same.
If this is reverse psychology, it won’t work. I won’t tell you if you don’t ask.
I snorted, torn between laughter and exasperation. “I don’t expect you to—I meant what I said. But I appreciate how manipulative you think I am.” I threw that last part in for jest.
You’re a lot of things, Ayana. Manipulative isn’t one of them.
My amusement died as quickly as it’d bloomed.
It was strange, how clearly I heard his voice when he’d never uttered a word to me.
My hand curled on the counter. My engagement ring felt unbearably heavy, and I wanted nothing more than to yank it off. One moment of freedom. That was all I needed.
Vuk’s gaze dropped to the diamond. A noticeable chill swept through the air.
When his eyes returned to mine, the weight of the ring doubled.
I lived in front of cameras for a living. Everywhere I went, eyes followed. Watching, dissecting, judging. I molded myself into what other people wanted me to be because that was my job, and I was used to being the object of scrutiny.
But no crowd or camera made me feel the way Vuk did—like I was myself again. Like I was seen .
A loud beep dragged our eyes away from each other.
The dryer cycle was finished.
I dropped my hand and stepped back, my heart thrumming faster than it should’ve. “I can get?—”
I was interrupted by a knock on the front door. My brow furrowed. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I’d lived in the city long enough to be wary of unannounced visitors.
However, Vuk’s presence made me braver than I would’ve been otherwise, so I checked to see who was at the door while he fetched his shirt.
My stomach bottomed out when I peeked through the peephole.
Slicked-back hair. Tanned skin. A shiny Rolex on his wrist.
What the fuck? When did my agent start making house calls?
I debated leaving him in the hall and pretending I wasn’t home, but that would only put off the inevitable. It was better to rip off the Band-Aid and get this over with.
I steeled myself and opened the door. “Hank. What are you doing here?”
I didn’t have it in me to feign politeness. My home was my sanctuary, and I did not appreciate him ruining it.
For once, he didn’t insult me with fake platitudes about how he was checking in on me because he was so concerned about my well-being, but his unsmiling face sent a cold sensation crawling down my throat. “We need to talk.”