Chapter 12 Amara
AMARA
Ransome’s coffee is one hundred and fifty-nine degrees.
Not a degree more, not a degree less.
I know this because I check every morning. I pour it from the paper cup into the matte black mug I steam in the dishwasher so the temperature doesn’t drop. No paper cups, no thermoses—those are beneath him. Just hot, strong, perfect.
His schedule is waiting on his desk, centered to the millimeter. The blinds are drawn, the A/C set to frigid, everything exactly as it should be.
I turn and check my appearance in the dark reflection of the inner window. I’m in a mustard yellow dress with black buttons. The yellow makes my olive skin look sun-kissed and my dark hair pop, and the buttons keep things formal.
He won’t comment, of course. He never does. But sometimes, his jaw ticks, or his eyes flicker, or his silence sharpens just enough for me to know he’s noticed.
And sometimes, like yesterday, he materializes out of nowhere to crash my date and make me feel things that don’t have a name or a place in a proper office setting like this. Not that that stops me from feeling those things.
I glance at the wall clock. Ten seconds until the office floor outside shifts from a murmur to a performance. Nine seconds until the chain of “Good morning, Mr. Rozanov”s ripple down the hall like dominos. Eight seconds until the only sound is the clomp of his shoes on marble.
My palms are damp around the mug. My thighs press together beneath my desk. God help me, I’m nervous, like I’m about to face a firing squad—except this firing squad is six foot three, broad-shouldered, and the sexiest man I’ve ever met.
The dominos start to fall. The footsteps draw closer. The surface of the coffee trembles like the water cup in the Jeep from Jurassic Park.
And then he’s here.
“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov!” I squeak as soon as he darkens the doorway. “Your coffee, just like you like it.”
Ransome takes the mug. Turns his back to me. Take a sip. Walks to his desk, looks down at his schedule. Another sip.
Stares out the window. Another sip.
Some days, he likes to talk over the schedule as it sits in front of him on the desk.
It’s almost like he’s making sure I know what’s on it, like a pop quiz.
For that reason, I mentally memorize every hour of his day so I can answer any question he comes up with on the spot.
No flinching, no second guessing, no mistakes.
But other times, he is quiet. And that’s my cue to leave. Today is one of those days.
“Let me know if you need anything else, Mr. Rozanov.”
I turn to walk out but just before I reach the door, he stops me.
“Amara.”
I freeze. He never calls me by my first name. I turn slowly. “Yes, sir?”
“Sit.”
I sit.
Meanwhile, my heart is pounding again, loud enough I can hear it in my ears. My mouth is dry. My brain is racing like a train towards a broken bridge.
Shit, shit, shit.
Ransome moves the schedule to the side, indicating that whatever this is, it has nothing to do with lunch preferences or his meeting with his father or his dry cleaning.
I hold my breath as he steeples his hands, his stony eyes locked on me.
I don’t move. I don’t even blink. Hell, I’m not entirely sure I’m breathing as the seconds pass like years while I wait for him to say something.
“Do you go on a lot of dates, Amara?”
There it is again, my name coming from his mouth like a foreign word. A forbidden word. A word that both excites and terrifies me because it can’t be without a catch.
“Er, no. Well, yes. But not often. I mean, sometimes. Rarely, really.”
Jesus. Dig the grave a little deeper, why don’t you?
“I see.” He pauses. “The city, as I’m sure a smart girl like you knows, isn’t always safe.”
“Of course. I grew up—” I stop, not really wanting to admit where I grew up. The other side of the tracks, basically. “I understand. Sir.”
“And there are a lot of creeps out there. Men looking to take advantage of beautiful, young women like you.”
Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.
“Do you go out a lot, Amara?” he presses on.
Beautiful. Amara. Beautiful. Amara.
“Only when my friend Electra asks me to. She’s the one who sets me up on the dates, sir.”
“She has poor taste in men,” he says flatly.
I kind of laugh at that. “Yeah, she’s not very good at vetting men on the internet.”
Ransome doesn’t find it funny. His frown deepens and I close my mouth.
“I advise you to stop allowing this Electra to choose the men you go out with.”
I tilt my head to the side slightly. “Sir?”
“Do you have an emergency contact, Amara?”
“I have a… a sister…” I string the answer out like I’m not sure if it’s the right one. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he actually is worried about me.
“I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you,” he says. There is no lilt in his tone. No emotion implying one thing or another. But the words themselves are more than I ever expected from Ransome Rozanov. More than I’d ever hoped for.
Maybe… maybe he cares. Actually cares.
Maybe…he is even interested. Who crashes a date and demands you don’t let other men touch you if they aren’t jealous? And jealousy is a default of interest, right?
Oh. My. God.
So it WAS my name he said when I was watching him get himself off in his office.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My lips tug into a grin and I stand up, straightening my dress. “Thank you, sir. And also, I’m sorry, sir. You don’t need to worry about—”
“I’m not.” Then he picks up his schedule off the desk and holds it out to me. “Also, I need you to make an adjustment. I’ll be leaving work early today. I have a date.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll edit that right away. What kind of date? Apex business? Dinner with your father? Drinks with Maverick and—”
“A date. With a woman.”
“A… woman…?” I stutter the words out and Ransome’s eyes flicker in annoyance.
“Jenica Chadovich. Daughter of Dmitry Chadovich, CEO of Chadovich Investors. Or have you forgotten every important name in my life?”
“No, sir. Of course not, sir. Right away, sir.”
It isn’t until I am back in my own office, door closed, that I let out the rage I am feeling. I crumple up the schedule and chuck it across the room. Not that it does much damage. It’s a ball of paper, after all.
“A ball of paper that I have to add Jenica Chadovich’s name to. What kind of name is that anyways?” I mutter, pulling my phone up. I know the name only through hearing him talk, though she isn’t usually part of meetings.
And they’ve certainly never been on a date. At least not a scheduled one.
I pull my phone out and type the name in. She pops up almost immediately.
And my stomach drops.
Tall, skinny, blonde. She looks like a model. She also looks like she hates her life. I run it through my head a hundred times. Maybe it’s a family thing. Maybe they’re just friends.
But he specifically said date.
Ransome made a point of telling me he’s going on a date. And after telling ME that I shouldn’t be going on dates, no less.
Where does he get off telling me what to do when he is out there—?
“Wait.”
It suddenly hits me.
“He’s trying to make me jealous.”
It’s so obvious. Telling me I shouldn’t be going on dates only to turn around and plan one with someone else AND make sure I know about it?
Ransome Rozanov wants me to be jealous, too.
He doesn’t say anything to me when he leaves early. Doesn’t look in my direction, either, as he sweeps past and storms out. Everyone else in the office heaves an exhale of relief when he’s gone.
But I have something else making me anxious.
The burner phone in his office. I bite my lip wondering if he still has it. If he knows that I can track him. I pace the floor, my finger hovering over the button that will give me those answers.
This is dumb. He probably doesn’t even have it on him. Maybe it’s not even his. Or—
My thumb touches the button and I look down.
It’s active.
And it’s on the move.
“Shit,” I whisper, watching as the location moves through the city. I look at the location on my phone. Then my car keys. Then I make up my mind, grab my things, and hurry home to change.
Two can play this game.
I know how this must look.
Me, dressing up in my nicest, sexiest black dress, red lipstick and smokey eye, hair curled over one eye so my face isn’t visible from certain angles, driving across the city to spy on my boss while he’s on a date with some rich bimbo.
But here’s the thing: Ransome basically threatened me not to go out on dates. As if being my boss at work makes him the boss of my personal life, too.
Well, I have news for him: If he can crash my date, I can crash his.
I pull up to the building and for a moment, I wonder if the address is right. It’s a brick warehouse and from the looks of it, it’s abandoned. Across the street are a few restaurants, a bar that is literally called BAR, and a laundromat. Doesn’t exactly scream Ransome Rozanov.
I get out and inspect the building, but just when I’m about to give up hope, I spy a stairwell leading to a below-the-street entrance.
Bingo.
I make my way down the stairs and find the large, black door unlocked. Inside is a dark blue hallway lined with small lights leading to another door. I stop at the inner entrance, take a deep breath, then reach for the knob.
But it’s locked.
That can’t be right.
Suddenly, a pit opens up in my stomach as my gut tells me that none of this feels quite right.
I look back down at my phone. The burner’s location is still on and it’s here. Right here. Right… behind me.
I turn around and see a familiar silhouette standing in the doorway I just came through.
“Ransome!” I let out. “I was just—”
“Following me.”
“I—” I look down at my phone and smile then look back up at him. “No, I just—”
“It wasn’t a question, Amara.”
Ransome closes the space between us in three large strides. They’re the same strides he takes when he storms into work, Monday to Friday, over and over and over.
But this Ransome is not that Ransome. This Ransome is someone I’ve never met. It’s the Ransome I can’t find anything on the internet about. The Ransome that has cocktails with people like Anton Rozanov and Dmitry Rozanov and writes cryptic messages in notebooks he keeps locked in his office.
“You have been following me, Amara.”
“Okay. Yes. Kind of. I figured out your location and I followed you here. But you did the same—”
“I’m not talking about tonight. You’ve been following me, spying on me, for months.” His dark voice sends ice through my veins. “And I am going to find out why.”