Because even if Victor isn’t malicious, he is too controlled—too strategic. Too cold.
A man you get caught up in without realizing you’ve walked into a blizzard.
I should say no. I should walk away, pitch my show to Vanessa Chu, start fresh somewhere that doesn't involve fake marriages and viral memes and glacial blue-gray eyes that make me forget why I built walls in the first place.
But Vanessa's offer is also just that—an offer. Not a guarantee. And according to my mom and her incessant calls, my father has needs—medical ones—that require more every day.
So, maybe my sister Amelia is right. Maybe this is an opportunity.
“I’d like to have some conditions," I say.
"I'd expect nothing less." His chin lifts. “Name them.”
“I’d like us to keep this professional at work. No special treatment. No one thinks I’m getting special preferences because I'm sleeping with the CEO."
The blue starburst in his icy eyes glows at the mention of this last condition. “I have no intention on sleeping with you, Miss Beaumont. You’re my employee.”
"I know that. I'm saying—You know what I mean."
"Understood. What else?"
"If at any point this starts affecting my actual career—my reputation, my credibility—can we please just end it? Like, immediately."
“Fair. What else?”
"And, if we can, I’d like us to keep this…arrangement between us. And Rachel, of course.” I swallow. “For both of our sakes.”
“I see nothing wrong with those requests. Granted, Miss Beaumont.”
I sigh, my shoulders finally loosening, and the two of us stand there in the cool October evening breeze, the city twinkling beneath us, the smell of Babushka's cooking wafting through the cracked door as Victor takes a step closer.
Suddenly, the balcony feels too small for both of us, the air too thin.
He’s so tall that I have to tilt my head to look at him, my gaze sweeping over the five o’clock shadow on his his razor-edged jaw.
He extends his hand. “So…partners?"
I look at my boss’s hand, at his handsome face, at the way the city lights reflect in his glacier-gray eyes and make him look almost human instead of a living ice sculpture.
This is a terrible idea.This is possibly the worst idea I've ever had, and I once tried to make crème brûlée while drunk at 2 AM and nearly burned down my apartment.
But it's also a chance. A real one.
I take his hand. "Partners."
We shake on it, and I try to ignore the way my skin tingles where he's touching me.
“We should go back inside,” I say. “Before your grandmother assumes we’re out here consummating something.”
Victor’s mouth curves—barely. “It’s possible she already has.”
We head back into the kitchen to find Babushka has set the table for three, and Rasputin is sitting in the middle of it, cape spread around him like he's holding court.
"Rasputin, nyet!" Babushka shoos him off the table. "Bad cat! Very dramatic, this one."
The cat leaps down with a yowl, knocking into Victor, who stumbles backward into me. I grab the counter for balance, which makes me bump into a tray of something that starts to slide toward the edge.
Victor catches it just in time, but not before Rasputin—apparently feeling chaos is his calling—launches himself at the window curtain, which tears free from its rod and falls directly onto the stove.
