Chapter 2
AMARA
I can’t stop repeating it in my head over and over again, all morning long.
Nice.
Nice.
Nice.
Jasmine. Rose. Patchouli. It’s nice.
Ransome Rozanov smelled me… and he liked it. It was the most suggestive thing to happen between us since the day he hired me. After the workday ended, I became determined to find a perfume with those notes.
If the faint scent of those flowers from Eliza’s body wash is enough to stop him in his tracks, I can only imagine what a real bottle of the stuff would do.
Something fancy, though. Something not from the bottom of a bin with a red sticker on it.
I beeline home after work, stopping only to pick up takeout from a local sushi place I love. I change into leggings and an oversized Chappell Roan t-shirt, then wipe off my makeup and tie my hair up into a messy knot.
After I am comfortable, I grab my laptop and my spicy tuna roll and cozy up on the couch. “Alright. Perfume with jasmine, rose and patchouli. Aaand… search.”
I pop a bite in my mouth and narrow my eyes, chewing pensively. What even is patchouli? It sounds like a candle you’d buy at an outdoorsy store. Something for warding off mosquitoes.
Whatever it is, Ransome liked it. And if he liked it, I’m wearing it.
The first thing to pop up on the screen is Sweet Seduction by Gucci. “La di da…” I hum, clicking on the link. Sure enough, it has all the notes in it I am looking for and then some. “Add to cart and… Sweet mother of Jesus.”
I nearly choke on my spicy tuna when I see the price.
But I still click to checkout. If nothing else, my sisters would tell me to do it.
Eliza gives me a lecture about self-care every time I Venmo them.
I tell her it’s nothing, that it’s like a quarter of my paycheck.
She says I’m lying and I change the subject.
I am lying. I give them almost everything I have. But as long as they’re living in that rundown house with our piece of shit dad, I’m going to give them what they need to be okay.
But just so Eliza would be proud of me, I also pay for same-day shipping. I’ll be able to wear it to work tomorrow.
And who knows? Maybe he’ll even look at me when the jasmine ropes his senses and stops him dead in his tracks.
“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov,” I say as usual.
One, two, three, four seconds go by before he is standing behind his desk, picking up his printed schedule. I tap my fingers on my thigh as I count the passing time in my head.
His eyes graze the page. His face is still and stony. No expression to show how he feels about any of it, from meetings to lunch plans to anything else.
Except…
They flicker back up. Middle of the page. He blinks. Sets the paper down. Picks up his coffee.
But his face stays the same. Whatever caught his attention will forever be a mystery because he won’t show it.
Ransome turns to look out the window behind his desk overlooking the city. He stares and I count off again, One, two, three, four…
Takes a sip. Exhales. One, two, three, four…
Then he turns back around. He heads for the door, coffee in hand. He’s wearing white today, which means no important business meetings—that would require black. And it also means no family lunches—for those, he typically wears blue or red.
White means a somewhat uneventful day. White is good.
He’s speaking already as he approaches my desk. “Amara, I won’t be going out to lunch today, so—”
“I’ve already preordered the pelmeni from Red Square Diner, sir. It will be here at noon.”
Ransome doesn’t say anything and his expression doesn’t change. He simply nods so slightly it’s nearly impossible to detect.
But I can see it. I can feel it. And I can practically hear him saying the words, Good girl. Not out loud, of course. But his posture says it. That’s enough for me.
“Anything else?” I ask as he gets closer. I’m hoping to slow him down. Hoping he smells the Sweet Seduction. Hoping it’s enough to make him react. Even if it’s in the slightest way, I’ll know, and that’s all I want. Just a tiny bit of it. A quarter smile, if I’m lucky.
Ransome stops walking.
And I stop breathing.
I swear I see him take in a breath of the perfume. A breath of me.
But he doesn’t turn his head like before.
“No,” he says. “That’ll be all.”
ELECTRA: Have you fucked your boss yet?
My best friend’s text pops up on my phone screen the moment I sit down for lunch.
When I ordered Ransome’s favorite Russian dish earlier, I DoorDashed a Cobb salad from the deli around the corner for myself.
Despite usually being allotted an hour for lunch every day, I never leave the office to eat.
With how often Ransome’s schedule changes, depending on the many responsibilities that come with running half the country’s energy industry, I like to work through my lunch break to make sure he has an updated itinerary if needed.
Today, things are relatively quiet. At least they were, until Electra slid into my DMs with her signature subtlety and graceful nuance.
AMARA: For the thousandth time. I have no plans to fuck my boss.
ELECTRA: But why not? He’s hot af. All that dommy energy needs an outlet.
That man is just screaming mommy issues.
Maybe he grew up in a house of toxic masculinity.
I’m sure he likes to unwind in the bedroom.
Let go a little. Blow off some steam. Maybe you should blow off his steam, you know what I’m saying?
She adds a tongue-out emoji, just in case she hadn’t beaten the dead horse quite dead enough yet.
AMARA: What Ransome does in his bedroom is none of my business.
I’m not lying through my teeth if I’m typing it instead of saying it, right?
ELECTRA: What about WHO he does in his bedroom? Do you ever think about that?
I don’t like to think about that. In fact, I make a point of never thinking about it. Not unless it’s a fantasy and I’m the one he’s taking his workday stress out on…
AMARA: Is there a real reason you’re texting me?
ELECTRA: Sadly, yes. I wanted to see if you are free for lunch this weekend. I miss you.
AMARA: I miss you too.
ELECTRA: Perfect. Deangelos at one on Saturday. I would say earlier but I have a date Friday night and I’m sure I’m going to be hungover af.
AMARA: Another date? Same guy as last time?
ELECTRA: Hell no! That guy ghosted. Which is fine. He was a bit of a weirdo anyways. I think he worked for pest control. Very passionate about termites.
I sigh, shaking my head and taking a sip of the iced latte I picked up when I got Ransome’s order on my way into the office today. It’s been a few hours since then, so it’s not as cold. But it’s still coffee and caramel and it’s still good.
AMARA: Okay, ew to Mr. Termites. Which app did you meet this new guy on?
ELECTRA: I didn’t! I met him at the bar when I was on the date with the last guy. He offered to buy me a drink when Bug Boy dipped.
AMARA: Classy.
ELECTRA: Always. I’ll see you Saturday. Try to fuck your boss before then so you have something to talk about too! LOL
I slide my phone to the other side of the desk and reach for my salad.
Electra has always been a little bit… wild.
That’s putting it very nicely. It’s one area where we are very, very different.
Yet somehow, as most best-friends-since-high-school stories go, we’ve stayed close even though our lives in no way align.
She was an only child with two parents that stayed together. Nice house. Good Christmases. I was… not so lucky.
It makes me wonder about Ransome’s upbringing.
I know a lot about him. Being his personal assistant, I see him from every angle.
I know who he enjoys meeting with and who makes him tense.
I know what parts of his job give him energy and which things make him reach for the liquor cabinet.
I know how he likes his eggs (over easy), what kind of detergent he prefers for his laundry (Persil Intense), the number for the clippers at the barber (four on top, one on the sides), and which Russian restaurants have the best pelmeni.
But I know nothing about his family, other than the fact that he often goes to the gym with his cousin Baron and that his friend Maverick is like blood. That, and he insists on pounding two fingers of whiskey on the way out the door whenever he is going to meet his father for lunch.
Does he have mommy issues, like Electra said?
Is his dad a toxic dick?
I don’t know. And anytime there is something about Ransome Rozanov I don’t know, an itch grows inside of me to find out.
An itch I can’t ignore.
An itch I can’t control.
I have twenty-four minutes left before my break is over. I take another bite of my salad and set the bowl aside. Then I open my laptop.
As I dig around Google and even social media, I type in everything I can think of.
Ransome Rozanov.
Anton Rozanov.
Baron.
Maverick.
A thousand headlines pop up, but they’re all Apex-related. Nothing personal. Nothing telling. Nothing interesting.
I sigh. If only I had a way of digging even deeper. If only I could see further inside his world… I know so much about him on the day-to-day but nothing about, well, him.
Surely he isn’t this robotic all the time. He must feel something about something. Or about someone…
My door suddenly flies open and slams against the wall. I jump back and my roller chair slides away from my desk. My salad lands with a splat on the floor in front of me.
“God fucking dammit,” Ransome spits out.
I can’t figure out where the words are aimed. At me? Did he see his name on my screen? I want to roll forward to hide it, but my salad is splayed out on the floor, lettuce carnage blocking the way.
“Yes, sir; I’m sorry sir; I—” I stutter because I don’t know what else to do. I am caught so off-guard that my face is on fire.
“I need you to cancel my four o’clock, Miss Parker.”
“Okay.” I nod vigorously. “Right away.”
I expect him to storm back out but instead, he paces the floor in front of my desk, spouting off in a torrent of furious Russian.
“Poochemu ya eto terplyu? Lenivyy starik. Trakhni moyu zhizn!”
I don’t know what he’s saying. I don’t speak Russian. I make a mental note to learn some. But until then, during one of the moments that he has his back to me, raking his hands through his hair in frustration, I jump forward and slam my laptop shut.
Then I bend down, the best I can in a pencil skirt, and attempt to scrape up my lunch off the floor.
“Miss Parker!” Ransome barks out.
I bolt upright again. “Yes, sir?”
He takes in an irritated breath and lets it back out. “Add to my schedule dinner with my father at five.”
“Of course, sir. High Ball?”
“Chophouse,” he mutters.
Shit. I’m not sure why he hates the Chophouse so much.
It’s one of the ritziest steakhouses in New York City.
I can’t even imagine setting foot in a place like that.
And his dad eats there like it’s Denny’s.
All I know is that, whenever Ransome has to meet his dad there, he comes back in a foul mood.
“Of course. Right away, sir.”
Ransome turns on his heels to walk back out but then, once again, stops and returns. “One more thing, Miss Parker.”
The way he says it makes my spine tingle. Not in a good way. Panic surges through me. Shit, did he see my laptop? Does he know I’ve been spying on him? Obsessing over him?
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t afford to lose this job. I can’t afford—
“When you pick up my dry-cleaning today…” He pauses.
Dry-cleaning! He’s asking about his dry-cleaning. Of course.
I lick my lips. “Yes?”
“Take it straight to my penthouse. I’ll text you the code.”
“Of course, Mr. Rozanov. Anything you need. Is there anything—”
“That’s all.”
With that, he walks back down the hall, leaving me frazzled with a Cobb salad all over my office floor.
But not even that can dampen my mood. Ransome wants me to go to his penthouse. He wants me to go inside a place where he eats and sleeps and showers and lives. A place that will surely give me more insight on who Ransome Rozanov is.
I can’t wait.