“Your standards are concerning.”
“My standards are evolving.”
“Why the floor?”
“Because everything else is in boxes and the floor can’t disappoint me.”
“That’s not how surfaces work.”
“It is tonight. Your turn.”
I glance around my office, the glass and steel—the illusion of power, dominance—all the things I should have in spades. Things that have lately been slipping from my grasp.
“Truth,” I say slowly, “I haven’t slept well since Vegas.”
“Because of work?”
“Because of everything.”
She goes quiet at that, not pushing, not filling the space.
“Okay,” she says softly. “My turn again.”
“That’s not how?—”
“Special rules. Truth: I’m scared I’m making the wrong choice moving into your place.”
My grip tightens on my phone. “Lemme guess…Because you don’t trust me.”
“Because I don’t trust myself. And I don’t trust situations like this. Forced proximity. High stakes. Men who don’t say what they’re thinking.”
I lean forward slightly, voice lowering. “You assume I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“I assume you don’t say it.”
“And yet, you still called me.”
A beat passes.
“Yeah,” she admits. “I did.”
Silence stretches between us, thicker now—charged as my phone buzzes again—Alexei, relentless.
I push my cell away even farther.
“Victor?” she says softly.
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound like someone who swallowed an icicle.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
