Sexting the Pakhan (Forbidden Silver Foxes #23)

1. Zoya

ZOYA

I’m halfway down the fiction aisle with a cart full of returns when I see him.

Every Thursday, like clockwork.

It’s almost funny at this point, how predictable he is.

The library gets quieter around five thirty, after the after-work crowd tapers off and before the students settle in for the evening, and that’s when he appears.

Always then. Always alone. Always looking like he stepped out of some other life and wandered into mine by accident.

I stop pushing the cart for half a second, which is half a second too long, because one of the wheels catches and the whole thing jerks sideways with an embarrassing squeak.

Great.

I tighten my hands on the handle and keep moving like nothing happened, even though my heart is suddenly beating in my throat.

He’s just inside the front doors, shrugging out of his dark coat with that calm, unhurried precision he seems to do everything with.

He’s tall enough to stand out in any room, but that isn’t the first thing people notice about him.

It’s the stillness. The way he never fidgets, never rushes, never looks uncertain.

Like the world rearranges itself around him.

Ruslan Karelin.

I know his name because I’ve checked out his books for months now.

I know his library card number by sight.

I know he reads history, philosophy, biographies, and occasionally books that are so obscure I have to pretend I’m not impressed when I scan them.

I know he speaks very little, returns everything on time, and smells faintly like cold air and something dark and expensive that lingers long after he walks away.

I know all of that, and none of it is useful. Because none of it changes the fact that every Thursday he walks in here and I turn into a complete idiot.

“Don’t stare,” I mutter to myself.

Naturally, I stare.

I tell myself it’s harmless. Everybody has a crush. Mine just happens to be on a man in his forties who looks like he could ruin someone’s life without raising his voice. Not that I think about that in any inappropriate level of detail. Not often, anyway.

I steer my cart into the next aisle and start shelving books with the kind of concentration usually reserved for bomb disposal. Alphabetical order. Spine straight. Move on. If I keep my head down and my hands busy, maybe I can stop being aware of the fact that he’s somewhere in the building.

I reach for a hardcover, misjudge the angle, and send it slipping straight to the carpet.

I close my eyes for one second. Perfect.

When I bend to pick it up, I see polished black shoes stop at the end of the aisle.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Still crouched there like my dignity has never existed, I look up slowly.

It’s him.

Ruslan stands there with one hand resting lightly against the shelf, watching me. His expression doesn’t change much, but that’s normal for him. I’ve seen him smile exactly once in seven months, and I’m still not fully convinced I didn’t hallucinate it.

Up close, he’s even worse for my nervous system. Hard face, calm eyes, dark hair brushed back from his forehead, silver at the temples that somehow makes him look even better. There’s something very controlled about him. Like every part of him has been trained never to reveal more than he intends.

Meanwhile, I’m on my knees on industrial carpet clutching a copy of Rebecca like I’ve been caught doing something shameful.

“Sorry,” I blurt.

His brow shifts just slightly. “For what?”

His voice does something deeply unfair to me every time I hear it. Low, smooth, impossible to ignore.

“For being in your way,” I say, standing too fast.

“You aren’t.”

Two words. That’s all. Calm, simple, not flirtatious in the slightest.

My face still gets hot.

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and force myself to stand like a normal person instead of someone about to burst into flames. “I was just reshelving.”

His gaze shifts to the overloaded cart beside me. “I can see that.”

There’s something there, maybe amusement, maybe not. With him it’s hard to tell. He doesn’t give much away.

“Did you need something from this section?” I ask.

“Possibly.”

I don’t know why I say it. Maybe nerves. Maybe sleep deprivation. Maybe I’ve finally lost my mind after too many months of silently crushing on him from behind the circulation desk.

“That’s very decisive.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I want to throw myself into the return bin. I feel it instantly, that horrible internal jolt of oh my God, why would you say that.

But then his mouth shifts. Not a full smile, but close enough that I catch it.

“Is decisiveness important to you?” he asks.

I stare at him.

This is already more conversation than we usually have. Usually, he hands me his library card, I scan his books, and I spend the next twenty minutes trying not to relive the interaction in humiliating detail.

“I think it helps in some situations,” I say.

“Such as?”

“Asking someone out.”

Silence.

My soul leaves my body.

I actually hear myself laugh, bright and awful. “Not that I’m doing that. Obviously. I mean in general. Hypothetically. For people who ask other people out.”

He watches me for a moment, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I never can.

“Hypothetically,” he says.

“Yes.”

“That would require courage.”

I fold my hands together so he won’t see me fidget. “Some people have that.”

“And some don’t?”

I let out a little breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Some people alphabetize books for a living and avoid eye contact under pressure.”

His gaze stays on my face. “You seem to be making eye contact now.”

I should be dead. There is no other reasonable conclusion.

I make myself hold his gaze, mostly because looking away now would be worse. “Then I’m clearly growing as a person.”

That almost-smile appears again, brief and restrained and somehow more devastating than if he’d actually laughed.

He steps a little closer, reaching past me toward the upper shelf.

His sleeve brushes the air near my shoulder, not quite touching, but close enough that I feel it anyway. My whole body goes sharply aware.

He pulls out a book and glances at the title. “Would you recommend this?”

I look.

A History of Siege Warfare. Of course that’s what he picked.

“Honestly?”

“I’d prefer it.”

“No,” I say. “It’s dense. Unless you enjoy reading six hundred pages that make you feel like you’re being lectured to by a very smug historian.”

He looks at the book, then back at me. “You say that confidently.”

“You returned The Romanovs in four days last week,” I say before I can stop myself. “So I assume you read quickly.”

The moment the words are out, I realize what I’ve admitted.

That I remember what he borrows. That I notice.

His eyes rest on mine for a second longer than before. “You remember what I borrowed.”

Not a question.

I scramble for something normal to say. “I work here.”

It’s a pathetic answer. We both know it. I remember what lots of people borrow, but not like this. Not down to the titles, the dates, the patterns. Not in a way that makes me spend entirely too much time wondering what kind of man reads military history and poetry with equal focus.

Still, after a beat, he nods like he’ll accept it. “Then what would you recommend?”

“For history?”

“For me.”

My fingers tighten around the book in my hand.

I don’t know if he means anything by that.

Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this is just how regular people talk and I’ve become so hopelessly invested in him that every sentence sounds loaded.

But the way he says it makes the whole aisle feel too small all of a sudden. Like the space between us has changed.

I turn to the shelf because I need a second to think.

“If you want something less dry,” I say, scanning spines, “Barbara Tuchman is good. Antony Beevor, depending on the period. Or…” I trail off when my hand lands on a familiar title. “This.” I pull it free and turn back to him.

He looks down at the cover. The Name of the Rose.

There’s a pause, and then that low sound again, almost a laugh. “A murder mystery in a monastery.”

“It’s about books too,” I say, suddenly defensive.

“And this made you think of me?”

I can feel the heat climbing my neck all over again.

“I mean, not you specifically,” I say. “Just your… borrowing profile.”

He takes the book from my hand. His fingers brush mine, just for a second, but that second lands everywhere.

“Borrowing profile,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

He glances at the cover once more, then back at me. “Then I’ll trust your judgment.”

That should not sound intimate.

It absolutely does.

“I can check it out for you whenever you’re ready,” I manage.

“Of course.”

He turns to leave, and I’m just starting to convince myself I might survive this interaction when he stops at the end of the aisle. He doesn’t turn back fully. Just enough that I can see his profile.

“Hypothetically, Miss Hart,” he says, “if someone were considering asking another person out, I doubt eye contact would be an obstacle.”

Then he walks away.

I stand there in the middle of the aisle holding absolutely nothing, staring after him like an idiot.

Miss Hart. It’s not intimate. It can’t be. My name is on my badge. He knows it because everyone here knows it. That’s all.

That is absolutely all.

“Okay,” a voice says behind me, “what the hell was that?”

I spin around so fast I almost lose my balance.

Karina is standing a few feet away with a stack of returns against her hip and an expression of such intense delight that I immediately want to deny everything before she even speaks.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I say.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Zoya. I just watched you flirt.”

“I did not flirt.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I recommended a book.”

“You recommended a book like you were one breath away from climbing that man.”

I choke on nothing. “Karina!”

“What? I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being insane.”

She falls into step beside me as I grab the cart and start pushing it toward the next aisle. My hands still don’t feel steady. My entire body still feels a little too awake.

Karina leans close. “He was flirting back.”

“He was not.”

“He knew your name.”

“I wear a name tag.”

“He asked what you would choose for him.”

“That is literally my job.”

Karina gives me a look that says she thinks I’m beyond help. She is, unfortunately, probably right.

I focus on shelving books. Hardcover. Paperback. Author M to N. Anything to avoid looking toward the history section, where I know he is now, probably flipping calmly through the book I gave him while I slowly dissolve into uselessness.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I say.

“Why?”

I slide a novel onto the shelf with more force than necessary. “Because men like him don’t ask out women like me.” The words come out flatter than I mean them to.

Karina goes quiet for a second. “Zoya.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. I know what I look like.”

That isn’t really the whole truth. It isn’t that I hate the way I look. I don’t. Not most days. I like my face well enough. I like my hair on good days. I even like my body sometimes, in private, when no one is around to remind me what women are apparently supposed to look like.

But life teaches you things. It teaches you which girls get noticed first. I learned a long time ago that I’m not usually one of them.

Crushes are safe because they ask for nothing.

Karina nudges the side of my cart with hers. “That’s bullshit, by the way.”

I give her a look. “Compelling argument.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

She studies me for a second, and then her whole expression changes. Too bright. Too energetic. Too familiar. That look means trouble.

“Tonight,” she says, “we’re fixing this.”

I stop shelving. “Fixing what?”

“Your confidence.”

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s not fake. It’s practical.”

“It sounds like a cult.”

Karina grins. “Meet me after work.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

She keeps smiling. I hate that smile.

I glance, against my better judgment, toward the gap between the shelves. I can just make out Ruslan in the next section over, tall and dark and self-contained, one hand on the open book, completely unaware that he has ruined my ability to behave like a normal person for months.

Or maybe not completely unaware.

That thought hits me hard enough to make my stomach flip.

Hypothetically, Miss Hart.

No. No, absolutely not. I am not doing this to myself.

I look back at Karina. “Why do you look evil?”

“Because,” she says cheerfully, “I just had the best idea of my life.”