Chapter 19 Ransome
RANSOME
“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Rozanov?” Mary asks.
It is Mary, isn’t it? I don’t fucking know. I’ve been going through secretaries like toilet paper since Amara left. I think this is number five. Maybe six. I can’t say.
“Well, Mary, considering the fact that you were late to work—”
“I had a run in my tights. I didn’t think you’d want me showing up with a run in my tights.”
“If your tights are the problem, wear pants. And don’t be late,” I say as I wrap up things on my computer.
“Molly,” she says.
I close my lap top and look up at her. “Excuse me?” I ask.
“My name. It’s… it’s not Mary. It’s Molly.”
I stare at her.
She blinks, and I swear both eyes function separately from each other.
“The coffee was cold and the order was wrong,” I start. “The schedule was missing two of my meetings. And my dry-cleaning was—”
“Oh shoot! I knew I forgot something.”
“I think it’s safe to say I don’t need anything else from you, since you didn’t do any part of your job correctly.”
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I’ll be sure to do everything right next time,” she says eagerly.
But I just shove up from my chair and grab my things.
“No need. There won’t be a next time.”
“Are… are you firing me, Mr. Rozanov?” Mary—Molly, whatever—asks as her eyes follow me around the room.
“You’re no longer employed here, if that’s what you mean.”
I don’t have to look at her to know the drill. Her chin is quivering, her face is scrunching up, and she’s about to lose it in three, two, and—
“Ugh!” Molly cries out and runs out of my office in a sobbing mess.
I let out an exhausted sigh.
It’s not like the job is hard. Although I suppose working under me isn’t easy. I like things a certain way. And by that, I mean perfect. But it’s not impossible. If it were impossible, that would mean nobody could ever do it. And someone has done it—perfectly, no less.
As I get in my car, I pause. I don’t want to go home.
Well, I do. I guess I should say I don’t want to go to my father’s estate.
It has never felt like home to me. And it’s even less that now that Jenica is there.
I’m sure right now she’s laying around on the couch, watching some trashy TV, taking selfies and texting her friends.
Either that, or she’s drinking juiced celery and running her fifth mile on the treadmill.
I can’t help but wonder what Amara is doing. If she’s okay. If she needs anything.
I think about texting her but put my phone away. It’s my house. I don’t need to have a reason to go there.
When I unlock the door and walk in, Amara looks startled. She’s standing in the kitchen with the fridge door open, wearing leggings and a hoodie.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“It’s my house,” I say, trying to be funny. Her face tells me I’m not.
“But you don’t live here. You live—” she stops and goes back to looking in the fridge.
“I brought you dinner,” I say and slowly she turns to look at me.
“What did you bring?” she asks. Jesus. I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones or what, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s not happy with me.
I set the bag on the counter and pull out the containers. “A cobb salad with grilled chicken and—”
“A salad?” She cuts me off. “What are you trying to say, Ransome?”
I narrow my eyes. “What…”
“Do I need a salad?”
“You need to eat,” I say, opening it up.
“I need to eat salad?” she asks. “That’s code for you thinking I’m fat.”
I almost laugh. “It’s got bacon on it,” I tell her. “I also got you a cheddar and broccoli soup because I didn’t know what you’d be hungry for. Fresh fruit. And a cookie.”
She studies the food as I set it out. Then she grabs the cookie, unwraps it, and takes a bite, chewing it spitefully as she stares at me.
I run my hand through my hair. I don’t really know what I was expecting when I got here, but not this.
I look around the room and open the blinds. “You need light. Sunlight is good for you and the baby,” I say. “And it’s cold in here. Are you cold? Let me feel your hands.”
Before she can respond, I close the space between us and take the hand that’s not holding the cookie in mine.
It’s cold. Small. Soft.
And it sends an electric jolt through my body.
I’ve forgotten what it feels like to touch her.
Her chewing slows. She sets the cookie down, staring up at me. There’s the tiniest speck of chocolate in the corner of her mouth, and I want to kiss it off. To lick it off.
But obviously, I don’t. Instead I use my thumb, brushing from the middle of her lips across the corner and over her cheek.
Then I pull away.
“You should eat,” I tell her. “You need to stay nourished.”
“Of course,” she says softly. So very softly. I’ve heard her voice like that before. It’s the same sound she makes when I brush my fingertips across her nipples. Or when my hot breath touches her pussy just before I cover her with my mouth to devour her.
“Did you like the gifts I sent?” I ask, turning my back to her so I can adjust my dick in my pants, though at this point even tucking it in my belt won’t hide my hard-on.
“Yes,” she says around a spoonful of soup.
“Did everything fit?” I ask. “Maternity sizes are different. Confusing.”
“Everything was perfect,” she says before adding, “Thank you.”
Still, even though her tone has softened a little, something is off. And I don’t like it. I don’t like seeing her upset. I definitely don’t like her snapping at me for no reason.
But more than that, I don’t need more than one woman upset with me. It’s bad enough that I’m being ripped apart by every other obligation in my life.
“Look, I know this isn’t ideal. I’m sure you miss your siblings and—”
“Do you know?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You have a job. You’re needed by a lot of different people. Busy and important. Not just sitting around waiting for something to happen.”
I narrow my eyes, not really sure where she gets off. “Is the house not good enough for you?” I ask. “You could fit three of your Montana houses inside the main floor alone.”
Amara just giggles at that while rolling her eyes. “Size would be the only thing that matters to you.”
“Did I do something to upset you?” I ask. “Something to give you the right to talk to me like this? After everything I am doing for you? Look, I get that maybe you thought I’d be around more, but if you don’t remember, I have a life.”
“I’m aware,” she says.
“A busy, constantly demanding life. I understand that you’re lonely but—”
“Not that lonely,” she says, and I stop.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
But Amara just smiles, digging into her salad. “I had a visitor today,” she says casually as she pops a grape tomato into her mouth.
“A visitor? Someone came by the house?” I ask, my temper rising.
“In,” she says around chewing.
“They came in the house?”
She picks a piece of the bacon off her salad and pops it into her mouth. “Yes. Someone came to the door and I let them in.”
“Amara,” I growl her name and she looks up at me. “Who was it? Who did you invite over? Was it your friend? The one who is always skanking around the city? Electra?”
“No, it wasn’t Electra!” she snaps. “And I didn’t invite anyone over!”
“Then who was it?” I demand.
But Amara just stares at me. Somehow she’s gotten the impression that she has the right to be bratty with me right now. Her eyes lock hard on mine, and her lips tick in the hint of a smirk before it vanishes again.
“It was your wife.”