17. Cady
Cady
The roses arrive at seven forty-three in the morning.
The buzzer sounds, and the doorman's voice comes through the intercom.
"Miss Gallagher. There's a delivery. Several, actually. I’m… well… there are quite a lot of them, Miss."
Twenty dozen red roses arrive in four trips, filling my entryway, kitchen counter, dining table, and a concerning portion of my living room floor.
Then, the well-thought-out card.
You and I make sense. Say yes. — M
I set it down very carefully on the kitchen counter, pour the rest of my coffee down the sink before I throw it across the living room, and stand in the middle of my rose-invaded penthouse, thinking about all the ways I could respond to this and which one would land me in the least amount of trouble.
You and I make sense.
Not I want to spend my life with you.
Not I can't imagine anyone else.
Not even the bare minimum effort of Will you marry me, structured like a question.
It's a deal dressed up in two hundred and forty roses that I hate, from a man who has never asked what kind of flowers I like because it never occurred to him that I might have a preference.
I look at the roses for a long moment.
Then I go get dressed.
Misha must be having a psychotic break.
There’s no way the former playboy would ever want to settle down.
He’s lost his mind.
—
My father's newest contribution to my life arrives outside my door at eight sharp, which tells me he was expecting this reaction and prepared accordingly.
Two bodyguards.
Both enormous. Both wearing the blank expression of men who've been told their job is to watch me.
I look at them for a moment.
They look back.
"Names," I grind out through my teeth as I glower at them.
The taller one, his jaw like stone and his neck wider than my thigh, mumbles, "Sullivan."
The shorter one, who’s no less imposing, says, "Flynn."
Sullivan and Flynn.
I look them over once, doing a rapid analysis of whether I can lose them and how long it would take, then decide I can’t.
Not today, anyway.
"Right." I roll my eyes. "Keep up."
I think of them, privately, as Boulder and Smaller Boulder. Bould and SB for efficiency. Sullivan moves with the kind of confidence that assumes the room will adjust around him, while Flynn looks like he was told to be intimidating and took the assignment very seriously.
They flank me on the way to my car, but there’s already one waiting for me. A blacked-out SUV, courtesy of my father, and I feel my temper rise another notch.
No call.
No text.
No warning.
I instruct the driver where to take me and squeeze between Boulder and SB, fuming like a bomb about to go off.
In the elevator of Misha’s building, I ignore them.
I have a mess to fix and a bunch of damage to control to do here. I’ve thought of all the reasons to tell Misha why this is the worst idea ever.
What I haven’t figured out is why he agreed to it.
I'm fully expecting him when the door swings open, but the universe is refusing to give me the straightforward resolution I'm looking for.
Artem leans against the doorframe. Dark gray shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and an unhurried demeanor that makes me want to throw something at him.
He looks at me.
Then takes in Bould and SB with a slow, flat shift of his eyes from one to the other.
Bould and SB step back as I stare.
"You've got to be joking," I mutter when Artem steps aside.
I step inside before either of my new shadows can follow. I close the door behind me and turn around.
He's looking at me the way he always looks at me. Like I'm a problem he finds mildly entertaining.
His gaze moves not-so-subtly over me once, from the top of my head to my heels and back up again, taking in my pink floral dress.
"Makarov," I say.
“Lisichka.” He moves toward the kitchen. "Misha's not here."
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know.”
"I need to speak with him. It’s urgent.”
"He's not here," Artem repeats.
That’s a red flag.
If Misha is out, he’s out with someone, and he hasn’t been home since last night.
“How long will he be?”
Instead of answering, Artem moves to the counter and pours a cup of coffee.
I know he’s not used to women showing up at his door, mildly furious and flanked by two bodyguards.
But his calm makes me even more uneasy.
I look around the kitchen, at the clean lines of it and the absence of anything personal or warm.
Functional.
Cold.
"He sent roses," I say, because I can't help it. I’m about to burst about this alleged engagement.
Artem picks up his coffee. "I know."
"Twenty dozen."
"I know."
"I hate roses."
He looks at me over the rim of his cup. "Congratulations.”
“You can’t mean that.”
"I don't."
"Then why say it?”
"Seemed like the thing to say." He sets down his cup.
I suppress the scoff that wants to break free from my lips. "I came here to speak with Misha."
"About the engagement."
"About something personal."
"The engagement."
"That's my business."
He tilts his head. "Is it your shopping addiction? You're about to be a Makarov."
“I bet you love that.”
Something ticks inside his jaw; that’s the first sign that he’s not a fan. “I’m not loving that he sent two hundred and forty roses and a commitment you’re about to shove up his ass.”
His eyes stay on mine. “So, what’s the game plan? You’re not impressed.”
“Do I look impressed?”
“Needed a shopping spree, too, Lisichka?”
“No.”
He pushes his lips out as if he’s being thoughtful about the situation. “So, you’re not saying yes?”
"I didn't say anything. I came here."
"To say no."
"To speak with Misha."
"To say no." I want to scream. "You don't know what I'm going to say, but I love keeping you on edge.”
“That’d be adorable, if you were capable.” He unfolds his arms. "You're going to walk in here, and you're going to look at my brother with that face you make when you're performing something you don't feel, and you're going to try to end it without telling him why."
"I don't have a face."
"You have several," he responds. "That's one of them."
I take a step back and reach into my jacket pocket, closing my fingers around the handle of the small blade I've carried since I was nineteen.
I pull it out, not because I really think I’ll need to use it. Just to make a point, the flat of the blade resting against my palm.
Artem looks at it.
Then he looks at me.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth moves.
"Is that all for me?"
"It's a precaution."
"Against what? I'm not armed."
"You don't need to be."
Something in his eyes shifts at that.
He looks down at the knife again and then back up at my face with an expression that says he finds this whole situation amusing.
“Lisichka…” The name in his mouth carries a wave of goosebumps along my skin. "That knife is four inches long. I've had papercuts more threatening."
"It's three and a half inches, and it'll do the job."
"Of what, specifically?”
"Of reminding you that I have options."
"You always have options. That's what I keep trying to tell you."
He's close now.
Too close.
The counter is solid against my back, but my knife hand isn't shaking.
"You should step back." I’m proud that my voice doesn’t crack.
"You should put the knife away."
"Simultaneously, then."
"I don't negotiate."
"Neither do I."
Neither of us moves.
The kitchen is quiet, and I'm aware of everything.
The way his eyes drop briefly to my mouth.
The fact that I am genuinely, measurably attracted to someone I have every reason in the world to be smarter than this about.
He leans in, not aggressively, just a steady advance that gives me every opportunity to stop him. He’s banking on the fact that I won't.
His hand comes to rest on the counter beside mine.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of it.
"Artem," I warn.
“Yes?”
His eyes drop to my mouth again, and this time they stay there.
“What’s it gonna take?”
I remain very still. "Excuse me?"
"You picked Misha to get close to us. It should've been me."
“You’ve said that.”
“At least I know what I’m getting myself into.
Misha doesn't know what you're doing. Doesn't know what you're looking for.
Doesn't know to watch the way your eyes move when someone drops a name you're interested in.
" The lower it gets, the more careful I need to be.
"I know all of it. I've known since the first night.”
"Then you know I'm not interested in this.”
"Your mouth says a lot of things. And a lot of lies.”
“Your mouth spews a lot of bullshit.”
“My mouth was almost between your legs in your office the other day. So, you'll forgive me if I'm not taking yours at its word."
The heat that moves through me is unreasonable, and I refuse to acknowledge it.
"That was a mistake," I deadpan.
"Which part?”
"All of it."
"You didn't think so at the time."
"I corrected the error."
“Was that what the kick in the balls was for? I thought about you for the rest of the day."
"I thought about you, too," I reply as sweetly as I can. "Mostly about whether you'd heal correctly."
“So, you’ve thought about my dick?”
He takes the last step, and there's no more distance left between us.
There's just Artem, close enough that I have to tip my chin up to hold his gaze, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that if either of us moved, we'd be doing something that I can't take back and he'd never let me forget.
"You're supposed to be getting engaged to my brother," he says as if he needs to keep reminding himself. "You came to my apartment to tell my brother you won't marry him. In my space. Interesting choice."
“I’ve never said that.”
“No, but that relationship was never going to last. We both are aware of that.”
"You should be careful about deciding what I want."
"You should be careful about standing this close to me if you don't want me to decide anything."
His other hand comes to rest on the counter on my other side.
I'm not trapped.
I could walk out from under this if I wanted to. He's not holding or grabbing me, not doing anything except existing at close range.
I don't move, and he knows I'm not going to.
I watch him lean in as I remain frozen.
His gaze drops to my lips and stays there, and there's nothing ambiguous about it.
The knife remains forgotten in my hand.
"Wrong brother," he murmurs, close enough now that I feel the words. “Call it ego, Lisichka, but we both know who could make you come harder. Let me take that decision out of your hands.”
His mouth barely brushes my lips when the front door opens with, "Babe!"
Misha's voice fills the entryway, followed by the sound of keys hitting the console table, and I straighten so fast that I nearly catch Artem's jaw with my forehead.
He pulls back smoothly, and by the time Misha appears in the kitchen doorway, we're standing a perfectly normal distance apart, and I'm holding a knife and trying to remember what my face is supposed to look like.
Misha stops.
Looks at me.
Looks at the knife.
Looks at Artem.
"Did I interrupt something?" He sounds genuinely delighted by the possibility.
"No," I say.
"She came to see you,” Artem says at the same time.
Misha's eyes move between us, and then he smiles—easy, warm, and oblivious—and crosses the kitchen to kiss my cheek like this is a normal Tuesday and his brother and I were just chatting.
"You got my flowers," he beams. “Did you like them? Were you surprised?”
I look at him.
Then I look at Artem, who is watching me with steady, unreadable eyes.
"We need to talk," I tell Misha. “About—”
"We do," he agrees happily. "I was thinking June."
I don’t put the knife away.
I’m debating whether I could get away with offing both of them and solving all of my problems.