Sexting His Assistant (Forbidden Silver Foxes #24)

2. Nina

NINA

I spend the rest of the afternoon pretending I’m not thinking about Luka Kazan.

By four, I’ve answered twelve emails, rescheduled one dinner, confirmed one private room, updated two briefing files, and reread the same line in a market report six times without absorbing a single word. Every time I look down, I see his face from earlier. Every time I look up, I hear his voice.

Too distracting.

I should resent that line more than I do.

Instead, it sits in the center of my chest like a lit match.

At four-thirteen, my phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen and see Daniil’s name.

He texted last week. I ignored him for three days, answered with one word, ignored him again, and apparently that was enough encouragement for him to keep trying.

He’s one of those men who mistakes persistence for charm and routine for depth.

He’s not offensive. He’s also not exciting.

He is perfectly groomed, painfully reasonable, and so boring I once forgot I was on a date with him while still sitting across from him.

Which, at the moment, makes him ideal.

Safe. Flat. Forgettable.

Nothing like Luka.

I unlock my phone and stare at Daniil’s last message.

Dinner sometime this week?

I should leave it unread.

Instead I type back, Why? Are you out of documentaries to recommend?

His reply comes almost immediately.

Cruel.

I type, Accurate.

He sends, So is that a yes?

I lean back in my chair and look through the glass wall toward Luka’s office.

His door is open. He’s standing with one hand in his pocket, speaking quietly to Grigori from legal. Dark suit. White shirt. No tie now. The top button open. Completely unfair for a man like him to exist in natural light.

As if he feels me looking, his head turns.

I drop my gaze to my phone. Coward.

Daniil sends another message.

I’m free tonight.

I stare at the words for a moment too long.

Tonight I’m very much not free. Tonight I’m apparently going with my boss to a restaurant so I can take notes during a meeting and then help manage whatever beautifully dressed complication he’s arranged for dessert.

My fingers move anyway.

Maybe later, I type.

Daniil sends a thumbs-up, which somehow makes him even more boring.

I slip the phone face down on my desk and force myself back into work.

At six-thirty, I leave the office and go home to change.

Home is a one-bedroom apartment ten minutes from Kazan Tower if traffic is kind and twenty-five if Los Angeles decides to punish everybody at once. I picked it because it’s close to work and because the doorman minds his business, which in my life counts as luxury.

The second I step inside, I kick off my heels and stand in the middle of the living room, staring at my closet like it’s personally betrayed me.

Wear something appropriate.

I hate that he said it like that. I hate even more that I understand exactly what he meant.

Not too soft. Not too severe. Not the black dress. Not anything that looks like I’m trying. Definitely nothing that looks like I gave up.

I shower quickly, dry my hair, then change twice before landing on a navy dress.

It annoys me that he was right about the black one. The navy is simpler. Sleeker. It fits without looking desperate. It makes my skin look warmer, my waist smaller, my mouth a little too soft if I stare at myself long enough.

I stop staring.

I’m fastening one earring when my phone lights up again.

Daniil.

I answer before I can think better of it.

What are you doing? he texts.

Working, I text back.

At this hour? he replies.

I smile despite myself and type, Some of us are tragically employed.

He sends back, Do they at least appreciate you?

I snort.

No, I type. They weaponize my competence.

That gets a laughing emoji from him, then, Fair. What would you rather be doing?

I glance at the clock.

In seven minutes, Luka will either text me that he’s downstairs or send someone to tell me he’s downstairs, which is even worse. I should put the phone away. I should focus. I should stop letting Daniil serve as a convenient sedative every time Luka gets under my skin.

Instead, I type, Not going to a work dinner I don’t want to attend.

Then there is a pause.

With a date? Daniil asks.

I look at the message.

And because I’m suddenly meaner than usual, mostly to myself, I type, Something like that.

My phone buzzes again before I can regret it.

Lucky guy, Daniil writes.

I laugh once, short and humorless.

If only he knew.

At exactly six-fifty-eight, there is a knock on my door.

Not the building buzzer. My actual door.

I frown and walk over, already annoyed, and pull it open without checking the peephole.

Luka’s standing there, and for a second, I just stare.

He’s not in a suit anymore. He’s in a black coat over a charcoal shirt, no tie, the collar open at the throat.

Dark trousers. Polished shoes. A watch that probably costs more than my car.

He looks colder like this. Less corporate.

More dangerous. More himself. The silver at his temples catches the hallway light, and something in my stomach drops hard enough to hurt.

Delicious is a stupid word.

Unfortunately, it is also the first one that comes to mind.

Luka’s gaze moves over me once. From my face to the dress to my legs and back up again.

Then it’s gone so fast I could almost pretend I imagined it. He looks away like he didn’t do it at all.

My grip tightens on the edge of the door.

Luka shifts his attention to my face and says, “You’re late.”

I blink. “I’m in my apartment.”

“You should have been downstairs.”

“I was not aware I worked for a chauffeur service.”

His gaze flicks past me into the apartment. “Were you planning to make me come in?”

My heart does one hard, ugly thud.

No, I think.

Yes, some weaker, more deranged part of me answers.

Instead I say, “You managed all by yourself.”

He watches me for a beat too long. “Get your things.”

I step back from the door and reach for my bag on the entry table. My phone lights up again in the process.

Daniil.

Luka sees the screen. He doesn’t say anything.

I slide the phone face down into my bag, lock the apartment, and turn to him. “You could have texted.”

“I did.”

I pull out my phone and check. There is, in fact, a message from him.

Downstairs. Two minutes.

Sent three minutes ago.

I look up. “That barely counts.”

“It was sufficient.”

“You just enjoy being difficult,” I say.

Luka starts walking toward the elevator. “And yet you continue to work for me.”

I fall into step beside him. “That sounds like something men say right before getting murdered by their staff.”

The corner of his mouth moves very slightly. “You’re overdressed for murder.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

He presses the button.

I stare straight ahead.

He stares straight ahead too, hands loose at his sides, expression unreadable, as if he didn’t just say that in a tone that could have opened locked doors.

The elevator arrives and we step inside together, the mirrored walls making the whole thing worse. Me in navy. Him in black. The distance between us close enough to notice, not close enough to comment on.

My phone buzzes again. Luka’s eyes flick downward.

I tell myself not to care.

But obviously, I absolutely care.

I pull the phone out and see Daniil’s message.

So, mystery date? Should I be jealous?

The laugh that escapes me is small and involuntary.

Beside me, Luka says, “Something funny?”

I don’t look up. “Not particularly.”

The elevator descends.

Luka says, “Then why are you smiling?”

I type back to Daniil: Don’t embarrass yourself.

Then I say, “Maybe my private life is finally becoming interesting.”

Luka goes very still beside me.

I hate how quickly I notice. A muscle jumps once in his jaw. His face does not change otherwise.

“Is that what this is?” he asks.

I finally look up at him. “What?”

“Interesting.” His voice is too calm.

I slip the phone back into my bag. “Compared to corporate briefings and your social calendar? Yes.”

The elevator doors open into the lobby.

Luka gestures for me to walk ahead. “After you.”

I step out first because refusing would be childish and because I can feel his gaze between my shoulder blades. The lobby staff all suddenly discover a keen interest in looking elsewhere. Sensible people.

Survival-minded people.

Outside, his car is waiting at the curb, sleek and black and quiet as a threat.

The driver opens the back door, but Luka says, “I’ll drive.”

The driver nods immediately and hands over the keys.

I pause by the car. “You drive?”

Luka gives me a look. “On occasion.”

“That feels unsafe for the public.”

“For the public, yes.”

He opens the passenger door for me.

I stare at him. He waits.

Finally, I get in.

The door shuts with a heavy, expensive sound, and a moment later he slides into the driver’s seat. The car smells like leather and his cologne and winter air.

I hate enclosed spaces with him. I hate them because I notice everything.

The shape of his hands on the wheel.

The faint shadow of evening at his jaw. The fact that he looks less like a businessman now and more like the kind of man mothers warn their daughters about in lowered voices.

My phone buzzes again. I look down before I can stop myself.

Daniil: So that’s a yes to jealousy.

I type back, In your dreams.

Beside me, Luka starts the engine.

He glances once at the screen in my hand, then back to the road.

“You’re popular tonight,” he says.

I smile at my phone because I know exactly how petty I’m being. “Apparently.”

“With whom?”

I lock the screen. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who hates personal conversation.”

“I hate unnecessary conversation.”

“And this feels necessary?”

“Yes,” Luka says.

I laugh softly and turn toward the window. City lights slide across the glass. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” he says. “I’m asking a simple question.”

“Then here is a simple answer,” I say. “An old mistake with good hair and no imagination.”

Luka’s quiet for a second.

Then he says, “And you’re encouraging him?”

I glance at him. “Do you object?”

His hands stay steady on the wheel. “Should I?”

There are a hundred ways to answer that, and every one of them feels dangerous. So I say the safest thing I can think of, which is not very safe at all.

“Why would you?”

Luka doesn’t answer.

The silence that follows is not comfortable. It’s not neutral. It stretches between us, taut and strange, filled with everything from the office that never got said properly and everything from the hallway outside my apartment that got noticed anyway.

I look down at my hands.

That one glance at the door should not have mattered.

Men look at women all the time. It means nothing.

It means even less with Luka, who’s used to beauty the way other people are used to weather.

He never dates someone who doesn’t look like they just stepped straight off the Victoria’s Secret runway.

Women who are nothing like me.

I’m not polished. I’m not effortless. I get annoyed too quickly, speak too much, and keep a secret diary of his dates because apparently the universe has a sick sense of humor.

The conversation in his office today was not flirting.

It was just tension and proximity and my imagination working overtime because he looked at me for too long and said one or two things in that low voice of his.

That’s all.

Deep down, I know the truth.

Luka Kazan might notice me. He might even enjoy pushing me.

But men like him don’t want women like me. Not really. Not in any way that matters.

Maybe that is why I unlock my phone again. Maybe that’s why I answer Daniil. Maybe I just need something ordinary to hold onto before I spend the evening watching Luka turn his attention on another woman and pretend it doesn’t scrape me hollow.

I type: Tell me something interesting, for once.

Daniil replies after a moment.

That’s unfair. I’m deeply interesting.

I smile despite myself.

Beside me, Luka says, “If he’s making you smile that much, perhaps he’s less boring than you think.”

I turn my head slowly.

He keeps his eyes on the road.

His voice gives nothing away.

“That almost sounds like approval,” I say.

“It almost is.”

I study his profile. “You disapprove of most things.”

“Most things deserve it.”

“And what do I deserve?” The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

Luka’s fingers tighten once around the steering wheel. Streetlight spills across his face and vanishes again.

For a second I think he’ll ignore me.

Then he says, very quietly, “You ask dangerous questions.”

I look away first. Again.

By the time the car pulls up outside Maison, my pulse is all wrong and Daniil has sent me two more messages I haven’t answered.

Luka kills the engine and hands the keys to the valet without speaking. Then he comes around the front of the car and opens my door.

I look up at him.

He offers his hand.

Not because he has to, but probably because he knows exactly what it’ll do to me.

I place my hand in his anyway.

His fingers close around mine, warm and firm and… brief.

When I step out, he lets go immediately.

Professional, polite, and controlled.

Just like always.

As if that look outside my apartment never happened.

As if the air in the car didn’t shift every time my phone lit up.

As if I’m just his secretary and this is just another evening, and he is not the kind of man who could ruin me with very little effort.

He looks down at me and says, “Try not to cause trouble tonight, Nina.”

I smooth my dress and lift my chin. “You first, Luka.”

His eyes darken for one fractional second.

Then he steps aside and says, “After you.”