Chapter 7 #2
"What's wrong with it?" I asked, eyes on the golden retriever.
"She's sick." He said, tone flat, but his brow furrowed slightly. "She threw up twice last night. The vet said it's gastritis. She needs rest. But she doesn't like being alone, so I brought her here."
I knelt down slowly and reached out my hand.
The golden retriever lifted her eyes to look at me, those amber eyes full of exhaustion and wariness.
"Hey," I said softly. "I won't hurt you."
She stared at me for a few seconds, then slowly moved her chin onto my knee.
My heart melted instantly.
"What's her name?" I asked, gently stroking her head.
"Misha," Sergei said.
"Misha," I repeated, trying to mimic his pronunciation—that syllable where the tongue tip lightly tapped the palate, soft as candy dissolving on the tongue. "Was that Russian you were speaking? Were you calling her?"
Something like surprise flickered in Sergei's expression, probably not expecting me to notice that detail. He paused for a second, then nodded.
"Yes. She was born in Russia. Lived there until I brought her over. I thought Russian might help her relax."
Oh.
I was a little surprised. I hadn't expected this mature, detached Russian man to have such a delicate side.
My gaze fell on him—crouched there, shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing a hint of intricate tattoo on his forearm. His fingers gently stroked the top of Misha's head, movements light, almost tender.
Was this man really the same cold CEO I'd seen in the conference room?
"Could you teach me?" The words were out before I realized what I'd said.
He looked up at me.
"Russian." I quickly explained. "Just the pronunciation of 'Misha,' and... other words. I want to call her more. Maybe it'll help her relax."
His gaze lingered on my face for two seconds. Something flashed in those gray eyes, then he stood and walked over to me.
"Watch my mouth."
My breath caught.
He was close. Close enough that I could see the shape of his lips—thin upper lip, slightly fuller lower lip, a clear line between them. His lips parted slightly, tongue touching his palate, then releasing gently.
"Миша."
The syllable slipped from his mouth, soft as a sigh.
My eyes stuck to his lips. I couldn't look away.
"Ми—ша." I followed, trying to copy the shape. My lips pursed forward, tongue tip pressed to the roof of my mouth, then released.
"Too hard." He said. "Миша, not 'Mee-sha.' Relax your tongue."
He said it again. Slower this time.
I stared at his lips, watching the position of his tongue, the curve of his mouth opening, then followed. "Миша."
He nodded. "Again."
"Миша."
"Better. Make the last syllable shorter."
"Миша."
My gaze moved up from his lips and crashed into his eyes.
Those gray pupils had darkened a shade.
My heart slammed once.
"Fast learner." He said, voice lower than before.
"I... I'm a fast learner in general." I looked away and crouched back down, reaching for Misha.
"Misha," I called her in my newly learned Russian, voice soft, with a tremor of uncertainty.
Misha's ears twitched.
She lifted her eyelids to look at me, then nuzzled her nose into my palm.
"Misha," I called again, more confident this time.
Her tail wagged once.
I couldn't help but smile, calling her name while stroking her head, from forehead to nape, over and over. Misha made a rumbling sound in her throat, more like a big cat than a dog.
"Can I hold her?" I looked up at Sergei.
He looked at me, gaze falling on Misha in my arms, then nodded.
I carefully lifted Misha's upper body into my arms, letting her lean against me. She was heavy, warm, heartbeat pulsing through her fur into my chest. Golden fur brushed my chin, ticklish.
"Misha," I called softly, fingers combing through the fur at her neck. "Good girl."
Misha buried her nose in the hollow of my neck and let out a long, comfortable sigh. Then she closed her eyes, her whole body relaxing, melting like toffee in my arms.
I held her, sitting on the floor, back against the sofa.
Sunlight poured through the windows, falling on Misha's golden fur, warm.
I looked down at her face—relaxed brow, mouth slightly open, belly rising and falling with each breath.
I realized I was smiling.
Like soft yarn brushing across my heart, fuzzy and light, making the corners of my mouth lift.
This was the first time in two weeks I'd truly relaxed.
I looked up and found Sergei still standing there, watching me.
His expression was complicated. Those gray eyes held a light I'd never seen before.
Meeting his gaze, my heart trembled involuntarily.
"What?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
"Nothing."
He looked away, walked to his desk, glanced at his phone, then put it back in his pocket.
He'd been looking at me for just two seconds and was about to say something when his phone rang.
He pulled it out, glanced at it, answered, and stepped away a few paces, speaking in low Russian. I couldn't understand, could only sense a certain brisk efficiency in that string of Russian, different from the man who'd just taught me pronunciation, like two people on different channels.
I looked back down at Misha.
She slept deeply, breathing steady, belly rising and falling, a hint of relaxed curve at the corner of her mouth.
"Misha," I called softly, using his pronunciation.
Her ear twitched, but she didn't wake.
I couldn't help calling again, just liking how that syllable felt sliding from my mouth, soft, carrying some indefinable warmth.
Sergei hung up and came back.
"I have something to handle," he said, then paused, like he was weighing something. "You watch her."
Before I could answer, he'd already grabbed his suit jacket from the chair and headed for the door.
"Wait—" I called after him. "How long?"
He turned at the door, glancing at me.
"Not long."
Door open, door closed.
The office went quiet again.
I looked down at Misha sprawled in my arms, then looked back at the closed door, and sighed.
"Okay," I said. "Just you and me."
I hugged her a little tighter and found a comfortable spot on the sofa. Misha adjusted her position, leaning all her weight against me, then sighed and closed her eyes.
I exhaled slowly, too.
Outside the windows was forty-second-floor Manhattan, Central Park's autumn colors like a spilled palette spreading out behind the glass—gold, orange-red, deep green, quietly burning in the afternoon sun.
I'd been to this office many times, always standing across from his desk, spine rigid, watching my words, trying not to blush under those gray eyes.
First time I'd ever sat here this relaxed.
Probably because my companion was a dog, not him.
"Misha," I called again, just couldn't help it.
She didn't open her eyes, just lazily swept her tail once.
I looked down at her sleeping face and suddenly remembered how he'd crouched there teaching me pronunciation—so close, telling me to watch his mouth, then that syllable sliding out, soft as a sigh.
My cheeks started burning.
Fuck.
Ella Collins, what are you doing?
You're sitting in your boss's office, holding his sick dog, and you're thinking about his lips?
I buried my face in Misha's fur, trying to use a dog's body heat to chase that image out of my head.
Didn't work.
Eyes closed, all I could see was him.
His voice, his lips, the subtle sensation when his fingers brushed my hand.
My thighs clenched involuntarily.
No.
Not here.
Not in his office, holding his dog, thinking these things.
I rubbed my face in Misha's fur, trying to scrub away the messy thoughts. Misha whimpered and shifted, resting her head in the crook of my arm.
"Sorry," I whispered to her. "I didn't mean to."
Misha's tail moved once.
I looked at her honest face and couldn't help smiling.
"Your dad's a strange man, isn't he?" I said softly. "He seems so fierce, but actually... actually..."
Actually what?
I didn't know.
I only knew he would crouch on the floor and coax a sick dog to eat in Russian.
I only knew he would teach an intern assistant to pronounce Russian words, standing close, watching her lips.
I only knew his gaze could go soft in certain moments, soft in a way that didn't match a CEO, didn't match a forty-year-old man who controlled an entire corporation.
Misha's breathing grew steadier, soft snoring sounds emerging.
My eyelids started getting heavy, too.
I hadn't slept well last night—no, I hadn't slept well for several nights. Since that Friday, I hadn't slept through a single night. My head full of chaos. Debt, work, and those gray eyes.
Sunlight poured through the windows, falling on me, warm.
Misha's body was warm too.
My consciousness started blurring.
Okay, I'll just rest for a second. Just a tiny second.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, the light outside had changed.
Warm, tinged with orange-red dusk color, slanting low through the windows, gilding the whole office with quiet twilight.
I was dazed for two seconds before realizing I'd fallen asleep.
Misha still lay across my lap, breathing steady, motionless.
Then I heard the sound of papers rustling.
I slowly turned my head.
Sergei sat at his desk.
I didn't know when he'd come back. His suit jacket was off again, draped over the chair, shirt cuffs unbuttoned and rolled to his forearms. He was reading a file, one hand holding a pen, the other pressing the page. Sunset light fell on his silver hair, coating it with a warm glow.
His expression was focused. Brow slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a line, occasionally writing something on the document, movements crisp and efficient.
I didn't know when he'd come back.
Or how long I'd slept.
My face went hot instantly.
As if sensing my gaze, he looked up and met my eyes.
"Awake?" he said, voice low, slightly hoarse.
My face burned hotter.
"I... I fell asleep?" I sat up, movement too abrupt, almost waking Misha. She whimpered and rolled over, then kept sleeping.
"For two hours." Sergei set down his pen, leaning back in his chair, watching me.
Two hours?
I looked at the sky outside—sure enough, dusk already.
"I'm sorry," I scrambled to stand, legs numb from sitting too long, nearly stumbling. "I didn't mean to, I didn't sleep well last night, and Misha was so warm, I just—"
"It's fine."
He cut me off, tone flat, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
Was he laughing at me?
My face burned hotter.
"I should go." I straightened my skirt, noticing it was covered in golden dog hair. "Um... the report, I'll come back tomorrow—"
"The report's here. Come back tomorrow morning."
"Okay."
"Collins."
I stopped.
"Yes?" I turned back, trying to keep my expression normal.
He leaned back in his chair, watching me, those gray eyes holding something I couldn't quite name.
"Misha will be here tomorrow, too," he said.
I took a deep breath.
"...I understand."
Then I pushed open the door and practically fled the office.
The hallway was quiet, sunset pouring through the windows, painting the whole corridor gold.
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
Heartbeat thundering in my ears.
The corners of my mouth were lifting. I couldn't press them down.
Fuck.
Ella Collins, you're done for.