Chapter 5
Vanessa
There is a specific kind of silence that exists in a library, a reverent, dusty quiet that smells like old paper and suppressed sneezes.
The silence in Roman Volkov’s basement was different. It was heavy. It was pressurized. It was the silence of a bomb counting down, but the timer was broken, so you never knew if you had ten seconds or ten years before the explosion.
"You are staring," Roman said.
He didn't look up from the textbook. He was sitting on the floor, his back leaning against the black leather sofa, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt that was struggling to contain his shoulders.
"I am observing," I corrected, spinning my pen between my fingers. I was perched on the coffee table, looking down at him. "It’s part of the brand audit. I need to assess your micro-expressions."
"I do not have micro-expressions," Roman muttered, turning a page with aggressive precision. "I have a face. It performs functions."
"See, that right there?" I pointed the pen at him. "That’s the problem. You talk like a software update. 'It performs functions.' Consumers don't want functions, Roman. They want feelings."
He finally looked up. His eyes were that startling, impossible blue. Over the last four days, I had become uncomfortably familiar with every shade of that blue.
Navy meant he was annoyed.
Sky blue meant he was focused.
And the dark, almost black color? That meant I was in trouble.
Right now, they were a wary indigo.
"I feel things," he defended, sounding offended. "I feel hunger. I feel fatigue. I feel irritation when you click your pen."
I clicked the pen again. Twice. Just to see his jaw twitch.
It twitched. Satisfying.
"Those are biological responses," I said. "We need to find your passion. The thing that makes you human. Why do you play hockey? Is it for the glory? For the love of the game? To escape the crushing weight of existential dread?"
Roman stared at me for a long beat. "Because I am good at it. And because hitting people is legal."
I sighed, letting my head fall back. "Okay, we’ll work on the copy. 'I play for the brotherhood' tests better with focus groups. Write that down."
He grunted, but he picked up his pen and wrote it down.
It had been four days since The Deal. Four days of this strange, domestic dance. By day, I dragged him through the murky waters of Marketing 301. By night, we existed in this basement like two planets orbiting the same sun, terrified of gravity.
We were "roommates." We were "study partners."
But beneath the surface, everything was electric.
I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking. I felt his gaze like a physical touch when I walked out of the bathroom in my towel. He had started leaving the good coffee out for me in the mornings. I had started organizing his protein bars by flavor.
It was cozy. And it was terrifying.
Because I wasn't just attracted to him. I was starting to like him.
I liked that he was serious. I liked that he didn't laugh at my jokes unless they were actually funny. I liked that he treated my fashion design major with the same respect he treated his playbook.
"Okay," I said, hopping off the coffee table. "School's out. Close the book."
Roman looked at the clock on the wall. "We have twenty minutes left in the scheduled block."
"I'm calling an audible," I said. "Time to pay up, Volkov. It’s fitting time."
Roman went still.
This was the part of the deal we hadn't really gotten to yet. I had done some sketches while he read, but I hadn't touched him. I hadn't measured him.
I had been putting it off. Because the idea of putting my hands on him—professionally, of course—made my palms sweat.
"Now?" he asked. His voice was guarded.
"Yes, now," I said, trying to sound brisk and professional. I walked over to my work corner—a desk I’d commandeered and covered in fabric swatches—and grabbed my yellow measuring tape. "I need your specs for the muslin prototype. If I cut the fabric wrong, I waste fifty dollars a yard. So, up."
Roman closed the book slowly. He placed it on the floor. He stood up.
He unfolded like a transformer. He just kept going up. Even in his socks, he loomed over me.
"What do you need me to do?" he asked.
"Stand there," I pointed to the center of the rug. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Arms out."
He moved to the spot. He stood like a soldier at attention. Stiff. rigid.
"Relax," I commanded, walking toward him, snapping the tape measure taut between my hands. "You look like you're about to be executed."
"I feel like I am about to be executed," he muttered.
"Don't be a baby. It’s just tape."
I stepped into his space.
The air changed instantly. The smell of him—clean soap, cedar, and that underlying heat of a man who burned high calories—filled my nose.
"Okay," I said, my voice sounding a little breathless. "Arms up."
He lifted his arms to the side, forming a T.
I stepped closer. I had to get close. I had to wrap the tape around his chest.
I moved in front of him. I was so short compared to him that my face was level with his chest. I could see the weave of his t-shirt. I could see the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing.
"I need to measure your chest," I said. "Under the arms."
I reached around him. My arms weren't long enough to do it without pressing my body against his.
I hesitated.
"Do it," he rumbled above me. The sound vibrated in his chest, right against my cheek.
I stepped in. My breasts brushed against his stomach. I felt his muscles seize, turning into rock.
I wrapped the tape around his back, transferring it from hand to hand. I pulled it snug across the widest part of his chest.
"Forty-eight inches," I murmured, reading the number. "Jesus, Roman. Are you part bison?"
"Genetics," he said tightly.
I wrote the number down on my notepad on the table, then turned back.
"Waist," I said.
I knelt down in front of him.
He flinched. Just a tiny motion, his hips jerking back.
I looked up. His face was a mask of stone, but his jaw was clenched so hard a muscle was jumping in his cheek. He was staring at the wall, refusing to look down at me.
"Relax," I whispered.
I circled his waist with the tape. It was narrow. Tapered. The V-shape of his torso was ridiculous.
"Thirty-four," I noted.
I stood up. " hips."
I moved the tape lower, around the curve of his glutes. I tried to be clinical. I tried to think of him as a mannequin. A very large, warm, breathing mannequin.
"Forty-two," I said. "Hockey ass."
"It generates power," he said through gritted teeth.
"It generates a problem for fitting trousers," I corrected. "I'm going to have to add darts."
I stepped back, looking at my list. Chest. Waist. Hips. Neck.
"Okay," I said. "Last one."
I looked at his legs.
"Inseam," I said.
The room went deadly silent. The hum of the refrigerator in the corner seemed to scream.
The inseam. The measurement from the crotch to the floor. The measurement that required me to put my hand... there.
Roman looked at me. His eyes were dark.
"You can estimate," he said.
"I cannot estimate," I said, channeling my inner Professor Vance. "If the rise is too short, the pants will split when you sit. If it's too long, you'll look like a toddler. Precision is key."
"Vanessa," he warned.
"Roman," I challenged. "It's just anatomy. We're adults. Spread your legs a little wider."
He glared at me. But he moved his feet an inch apart.
I knelt down again.
My heart was hammering so hard I felt dizzy. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea.
I took the end of the tape measure—the metal tab—and placed it against the inside of his ankle.
"Okay," I whispered. "Here we go."
I ran the tape up the inside of his calf. Up past the knee.
My hand brushed against the soft grey fabric of his sweatpants. I could feel the heat of his skin underneath. His leg was solid muscle, hard as iron.
I moved higher. To the thigh.
His breathing hitched. It was a sharp intake of air.
I paused. My hand was mid-thigh.
"Keep going," he choked out.
I moved my hand higher. Up the massive quadricep. Into the danger zone.
I had to get the tape right up to the top. To the junction.
My knuckles brushed against the bulge in his sweatpants.
It wasn't soft.
Roman groaned. It was a low, guttural sound, like a warning growl from a predator.
I froze. My hand was resting intimately high on his inner thigh. The tape measure was forgotten.
"Roman?" I whispered.
He looked down. His eyes were black. The pupils were blown wide, swallowing the blue. He looked savage. He looked hungry.
"Move your hand," he said. His voice was a wreck. Gravel and glass.
I didn't move.
A reckless, insane impulse seized me. The Brat. She woke up and stretched.
I wanted to see him lose that control. I wanted to break the robot.
"Why?" I asked innocently. "I haven't got the number yet."
I pressed my knuckles slightly inward. Just a fraction of an inch.
Roman hissed.
"Vanessa," he warned. "Do not play games you cannot win."
"Who says I'm playing?" I looked up at him through my lashes. "I'm just working. Unless... is this a problem for you? Being measured?"
I saw his hand twitch at his side. He wanted to grab me. I could see the struggle. The restraint was a physical thing, a cable pulled to its snapping point.
"You are a brat," he growled.
"And you," I said, letting my fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his pants, "are hard."
That did it.
The cable snapped.
Roman moved so fast I didn't even process it.
One second I was kneeling on the floor. The next, strong hands gripped me under the arms and hauled me up like I weighed nothing.
"Hey!" I gasped.
He didn't speak. He turned and slammed me back against the wall.
It wasn't painful, but it was forceful. The impact knocked the air out of my lungs.
He pinned me there with his body. He was everywhere. His chest against my chest, his hips grinding into mine, his hands caged on either side of my head.
"You want to measure?" he snarled, his face inches from mine. "Let's measure."