Chapter 6 #2
"When I was younger, I wanted to be an architect," I said. "My mother was a fashion designer. She often took me to her studio. That's where I learned to appreciate the beauty of lines and space."
"And then?" she asked. "Why didn't you continue?"
"Because my father needed me to take over the family business." My tone went cold. "Architecture became a hobby, not a career."
She looked surprised but didn't push.
"What about you?" I asked. "Why architecture?"
She blinked.
"I didn't choose architecture. I chose Volkov Group, because the salary is well above Manhattan's average." She said it plainly.
Hearing that, I laughed involuntarily.
"What?" She frowned. "Are you laughing at me?"
"No. Your honesty is adorable."
But her reaction was bigger than I expected—her face flushed instantly, from cheeks to ears to neck. She lowered her head, fingers twisting my jacket collar unconsciously, lips moving like she wanted to speak but couldn't.
The shed went quiet for a few seconds. Just rain.
"So," I broke the silence, "what's your dream?"
She looked up, surprise in her eyes—probably didn't expect me to ask. But she answered.
"Pet fashion designer," she said. "Making clothes for cats and dogs. Sweaters, coats, dresses, raincoats, pajamas, even suits and bow ties."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Wow. Novel."
She glared at me, but the glare had no bite. Just made her look like a puffed-up kitten.
"I know it sounds childish, but it's a real industry with a huge market. New York has over half a million pet dogs, and sixty percent of owners buy them clothes. High-end market can hit two hundred dollars per piece, profit margins—"
"I didn't say childish," I cut her off.
She stopped, looked at me. Uncertainty in her eyes.
"So what do you think?" she asked quietly.
"I think..." I considered. "It suits you."
"What do you mean?"
I shrugged. "Because you seem like the type who'd be good with small animals."
She snorted a laugh.
Not loud, but clear against the rain. Crisp, like ice water hitting hot oil, full of undeniable life.
I watched her laugh, and that thing I'd kept pushing down surfaced again.
Not just desire—though that too.
Something more dangerous. Harder to name.
Her laughter faded. She looked up, caught me staring, expression shifting to something serious, tinged with nervousness.
"What?" she asked softly.
"Nothing," I said, but my voice was lower than usual.
The shed suddenly felt cramped.
Still the same size, still the same tools and tarps, but the air felt compressed, heavy, thick. Every breath carried the other person's presence.
She stood before me, maybe two steps away. Her hair still wet, red strands stuck to her cheeks, rain dripping from her chin onto my jacket—the one still draped over her shoulders, collar hanging loose at her collarbone.
Her lips were still wet with rain, glistening.
I looked away.
Then looked back involuntarily.
"Sergei," she said my name.
First time she'd used my first name.
My heartbeat accelerated in that moment.
"What?" My voice was calm, but I could hear what was cracking beneath that calm.
"You're too close," she said quietly.
I looked down.
When?
When had I closed the distance from two steps away?
The space between us now was less than a foot. I could see the droplets clinging to her lashes, see my reflection in her pupils, smell that shampoo scent—fainter after the rain, but closer.
"You're the one who got too close," I said.
She opened her mouth to argue, then realized she had indeed stepped forward without noticing—maybe when she talked about the animals, maybe when she laughed, maybe in some moment neither of us caught.
She looked up at me.
I looked down at her.
Rain roared in my ears.
Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something, but nothing came.
Her eyes were bright, green as a rain-washed forest, holding something I couldn't look away from.
I lifted my hand, fingertips touching her cheek.
Her skin was cool, but the moment my fingers made contact, she tilted her head slightly, pressing her face into my palm.
Like a cat. Testing whether she could trust someone she wasn't sure about yet.
"Ella," I said her name.
Her lashes fluttered.
"Yeah?"
I didn't answer.
I leaned down and kissed her.
Her lips were soft, cool with rain, tasting faintly sweet, like strawberries.
Suddenly, her hands gripped my shirt. A moan escaped through her teeth.
Fuck.
My control shattered in that instant.
I cupped the back of her neck, deepened the kiss, tongue prying her teeth apart, entering her mouth. She made a small sound, fingers clutching my shirt tight, body going soft like she was melting.
My other hand slid down, gripped her waist, and pressed her against the wall.
Her body against mine—soft, warm, trembling slightly. Her heartbeat racing like it would burst from her chest. Her nipples pressed through the wet dress against my chest. Her thighs squeezed lightly between mine.
Goddamn.
I wanted her.
Now.
Right here in this broken-down shed.
But not here. This place was too crude.
I released her, stepped back.
She leaned against the wall, breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes glazed.
"I—"
"Rain stopped," I said.
She turned toward the shed entrance.
The rain had indeed stopped.
The sun emerged from behind the clouds, gilding the wet construction site in gold. Water dripped from the metal roof edge, splashing tiny puddles on the ground.
The air smelled of rain and earth mixed together—fresh, like the whole world had been washed clean.
She stood there, back to me, shoulders slightly tense.
I watched her, didn't move.
"We should go," she said, voice hoarse.
"Yeah."
She walked out of the shed. Sunlight fell on her, making her wet auburn hair glow like flames.
I followed, hands in my pockets.
After the rain, puddles everywhere. She stepped through one, mud splashing her shoes, but she didn't notice.
The warmth lingering on my lips reminded me what had just happened.
Damn.
The car pulled up outside her apartment building.
We hadn't spoken the entire drive, but this silence was different from before. Earlier it had been awkward, tense, two people not knowing how to face each other.
Now the silence was soft.
Like dough that had been kneaded—not shaped yet, but no longer rough.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and started taking off my jacket to return it.
"Thank you," she said, not looking at me.
"Keep it," I said. "Return it next time."
She hesitated, then nodded, pushed the door open.
"Ella," I called.
She turned back.
"Good night. In advance," I said.
She paused, then smiled slowly.
That smile started in her eyes—those green orbs lighting up from within, radiating soft warmth.
Then the smile spread to her lips, corners lifting slightly, a bit shy, unable to hide her happiness.
She bit her lower lip, trying to hold it back, but couldn't. Finally, her whole face opened up, like a flower slowly blooming in morning light.
"Good night," she said.
Then closed the door, turned, and walked into the building.
I watched her disappear through the entrance, then sat in the car for a long time.
Manhattan's skyline lit up against the twilight.
I started the engine and merged into traffic.
Her smile filled my head.
Damn.