Chapter Three
Mila
A week in, and I still don’t understand how I’m employed.
Not just employed—still employed.
Every morning I wake up half-expecting the universe to finally catch up with me. A spilled drink. A wrong email. A fall that takes out a senior executive. Something…anything that proves I was right not to get comfortable.
But somehow…nothing happens.
Well, nothing catastrophic.
I knocked over a pen holder on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I misplaced a file for ten whole minutes before finding it exactly where it was supposed to be.
On Thursday, I almost tripped over the edge of the rug in the executive lobby and an hour later, the rug was gone.
Just gone without an announcement or explanation.
People from the maintenance department just showed up, rolled it away, and pretended it never existed.
The day after the coffee incident with Mr. Popov, I went to get his coffee and discovered that the ceramic mugs have been replaced with single-use cups. With lids.
Lids.
I remember staring at them for a full thirty seconds, my stomach twisting with something strange and warm.
I know that all of this is Mr. Popov’s doing.
But why?
Unlike everyone else I’ve worked with, he never looks at me like I’m one mistake away from disaster. If anything, he’s…attentive. He notices problems before I even realize they exist, fixes them quietly without making me feel small.
I don’t know what to do with that. I try not to think much of it. Maybe…maybe he’s just a nice boss.
The job itself is easy enough. All I have to do is schedule emails, logistics and double-check everything like my life depends on it—the last part is just an extra but very necessary precaution on my end.
And for the first time in a long while, I don’t dread going to work.
I’ve even started writing again. Just a little. Notes, ideas, half-formed scenes on my laptop while I eat whatever snack I remembered to bring for lunch. It feels like breathing again.
Today, though, I’m running behind. Again.
I clutch my notepad and step up to Mr. Popov’s office door, inhaling once before knocking.
“Come in.”
I wonder if I’ll ever get used to the effect his voice has on me—the unexpected tremor that goes up my spine every time I hear that rich baritone.
I shake my head slightly, trying to dispel the fog in my brain, then I open the door and step inside.
He’s seated behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly mussed in a sexy, I-can’t-be-bothered kind of way.
He raises his eyes to mine and I feel my breath cease, a familiar rush of heat pooling between my legs.
It has to be illegal for a man to look this good.
I clear my throat. “I’m here to take your lunch order, sir.”
He looks up, nods once. “Go ahead.”
I swallow and flip open my notepad, pen poised. “The bistro has their usual specials, or you can—”
I’m suddenly interrupted by a loud, long, distorted growl that seems to emit from deep inside my stomach.
I flinch, my cheeks instantly flaming.
If the ground could open up at this moment, I would gladly bury myself and erase all records of me from the surface of the earth.
Mr. Popov raises his brows at me. “When was the last time you ate?”
The heat crawls down my neck. “I—uh. This morning didn’t exactly go as planned.”
He leans back slightly in his chair. “Explain.”
“My hair dryer sparked,” I say, because apparently my mouth has no filter when I’m embarrassed.
“Literally sparked. And then there was smoke, and I had to unplug everything. I might have spent a considerable amount of time uselessly trying to fix the thing. Anyway, I ended up having to run out of the house with my hair soaking through my shirt. There was no time for breakfast. Sir.”
He studies me for a moment. Then he stands.
My heart immediately starts doing a strange dance, butterflies bursting from an unexpected place in my belly.
He walks around the desk, stopping right in front of me. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne. Something exotic and deeply masculine.
“How often do you skip meals?” he asks quietly.
It takes a while for my brain to process the question. It seems to have stopped working entirely the moment he decided to invade my space.
“Um… Sometimes? I forget to eat breakfast most days but I get to eat dinner every day. Papaw—that’s my grandfather—makes sure of it.
I mean…I live with him,” I add with a nervous chuckle, then blush some more.
I know I should stop rambling but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—the intensity in his eyes—that sets my body and soul on fire.
“Do you cook?” he asks, his eyes not leaving mine.
“No, Papaw has a live-in chef,” I reply. “I’m not allowed in the kitchen,” I add, wincing. “It’s for everyone’s safety.”
That earns a brief huff of breath from him. Not quite a laugh.
“What would you like for lunch?”
“Uh?” I blink at him in shock, wondering if I heard him right. “Um…I have a protein bar in my—”
“Nonsense,” he interrupts quietly. And without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his desk phone. “Reception,” he says when the call connects. “Go next door. Get two of my usual lunch orders from the bistro. Immediately.”
He hangs up.
I blink. “Sir, that’s not necessary.”
“It is,” he says simply.
I swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is. My skin flames hot under the attention.
I’ve heard rumors about him. About how demanding he is. How precise and sometimes unforgiving he can be. He has never been any of those things with me.
He steps closer.
I instinctively step back—straight into a bookshelf.
Something wobbles.
“Oh!” I gasp, stumbling further against the bookshelf.
A flower vase tips but before it can fall, his hand shoots past my shoulder, catching it effortlessly. He replaces it on the shelf, his arm braced above my head, caging me in. His body is close enough that I can feel his warmth. His hardness.
I suddenly forget how to breathe properly.
He leans in slightly, voice low. “If you’re going to be my assistant,” he says, “you need to take better care of yourself, solnishka.”
I recognize the word from the little Russian Papaw tried to teach me—tried being the keyword. Solnishka is something about sunshine.
My heart trips at the realization. Did he just call me sunshine?
He’s so close…so close that he can actually kiss me. But that’s crazy. Right?
Men like Mr. Popov don’t go kissing girls like me.
He steps back, immediately confirming my thoughts. I stand there, my heart racing like a wild horse, notepad clutched to my chest, wondering what I’m supposed to do with all these foreign sensations coursing through my body.
A knock sounds at the door, effectively cutting through the daze in my head.
“Yes,” Mr. Popov calls, sounding so perfectly in control. As always.
The door opens and the front desk receptionist walks in, carrying a large paper bag and two bottles of water. She doesn’t look at either of us as she crosses the room. She sets everything neatly on the coffee table in front of the couch, and leaves just as quickly as she came in.
The moment the door shuts behind her, Mr. Popov turns to me and, without asking, reaches for my hand.
My breath catches.
“Come,” he says gently.
I don’t protest. I don’t think I even could. He guides me to the couch and motions for me to sit. My legs feel unsteady as I lower myself beside him. He takes the bag, sets it between us, and begins pulling out containers like this is the most normal thing in the world.
I sit there, hands folded in my lap, my heart thrumming wildly as I watch him serve the food.
He passes me a container and a bottle of water. “Eat.”
It’s not a command exactly…but it’s close enough that I obey immediately.
We eat in silence for a few moments. I try to calm my racing thoughts. Try to focus on the food instead of the fact that I’m sitting on my boss’s couch, close enough that our arms brush every time one of us moves.
“So,” he says finally, “you were raised by your grandfather.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “He’s been my guardian since I was little.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a businessman,” I reply carefully.
He glances at me, clearly sensing there’s more to it, but he doesn’t press. “He sounds protective.”
“He is,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Very.”
“What about your parents?”
My smile fades slightly. “They’re not around.”
His expression softens. “I see.”
I hesitate, then ask, “Do you have family?”
“A sister,” he says. “Natalya.” Something warm seeps into his voice when he says her name. “She runs a floral shop.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It is,” he agrees. “She’s stubborn. Strong. Too kind for her own good.”
From the way he talks about her, I can tell he loves his sister fiercely and is very protective of her. I like that about him.
His shoulder brushes mine and a chill passes through me. I can barely form a rational thought in my head. I take a bite of my sandwich. I can barely taste the thing but at least, it distracts me from the tension sizzling between us.
“You’ve got something—” he murmurs then reaches over and gently swipes his thumb over the corner of my lips.
I jolt from the suddenness of his move—and the intensity of his touch—causing my elbow to knock off his sandwich. The sandwich slides right from his hands and lands squarely in his lap.
“Oh no. Oh no, no, no—”
I jump up in a panic, dropping to my knees in front of him without thinking.
“I’m so sorry,” I babble, grabbing napkins and dabbing frantically. “I didn’t mean to, I swear—this keeps happening, I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”
It takes a second too long for my brain to catch up with my hands and when it does, I freeze, my eyes growing wild.
I am practically gripping onto his crotch.
Mortification crashes over me.
“I’m so sorry!” I squeak, scrambling back so fast I trip over the coffee table, tumbling right back to the ground.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the floor.
He pulls me against him, solid and warm, one arm firm around my waist. I cling to his shirt, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
“I didn’t mean to,” I stammer. “I swear I wasn’t—”
“Quiet, solnishka,” he says softly.
Then he kisses me.
I’ve never been kissed before.
Not really.
Nothing prepared me for this…this explosion of sensations all over—my skin, my nerves, my brain…
Tilting my head to the angle he wants, he deepens the kiss, his mouth moving over mine with searing possession, tasting me with slow, deep licks. I whimper, my hands tangling in his shirt. His answering groan vibrates through me, tightening my nipples and sending goose bumps racing across my skin.
I melt into him, my hands coming around his neck and sink into his hair. He nips my lower lip gently and a sob escapes me.
I fall into the kiss, swept away by the lush carnality of it. At that moment, the world outside his office ceases to exist. All I can think about is the feeling of his mouth on mine, the way his big hands gently caress my face and the way my heart feels like it might burst.
Then his phone rings, the sound jarring us back to reality. He pulls back immediately. His jaw is tight, his breathing controlled but his eyes…they’re brimming with a stormy intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
He checks the screen and answers.
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
He ends the call and looks at me, his expression softening briefly.
“I have a meeting,” he says quietly. He seems like he wants to say something else but then he nods slightly and steps away, heading toward the bathroom to clean up.
I stand there, dazed, my body still tingling in places that aren’t modest. I gather the lunch trash quickly, my thoughts a tangled mess, and retreat to my desk. As I sit down, I raise a shaky hand to my lips. They still feel warm, slightly swollen…from kissing my boss.
What the hell was that?