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Updated recap: I’m not gonna be dancing with any other men in the foreseeable future.
And Ruslan won’t be taking fake dates to his social events anymore.
That’s what I call a successful night.
I can’t help doing a little shoulder shimmy in the bathroom mirror. I thought I’d be a total mess when I rushed in, but apart from smudged lipstick and mild sex hair, I don’t look that bad. It takes a few minutes to apply a fresh coat of lipstick and comb out the knots in my hair with my fingers. Once that’s done, though, I look like the picture of class and elegance.
Ifyou can forget the fact that I’d indulged in some verypublic sex with my boss while his entire social circle listened on.
Which you can only believe if you believe Jessica Allens.
Which I’m hoping no one does.
Once I’ve made sure my dress is on properly and nothing is peeping out—going commando and thigh-high slits are not a great combo—I stare at my reflection in the dazzling water-ripple mirrors that take up half the bathroom wall.
I can’t miss the glow on my cheeks, the brightness in my eyes. It’s hard not to feel like you’re walking on air when the man you’ve been pining for basically claims you as his own.
The feminist in me puts up a half-hearted fight—but the romantic in me is giddy with joy.
Emma and Ruslan sitting in a tree…
I have to stop spending time with Caroline and Reagan. Those two are a bad influence.
I scowl at myself in the mirror with all the seriousness I can muster. I’m a grown ass woman and I need to conduct myself accordingly. To that end, I’m thankful I haven’t gone off birth control. Ruslan has been diligent about wearing condoms lately, but he’d definitely forgone the wrapper this time.
Not that I’m complaining.
A startling image pops into my head. One that includes me and Ruslan—and a baby that looks like a mix of both of us.
My ovaries promptly do a backflip.
I push the thought right back out of my head, because it doesn’t belong anywhere in this emotional zip code. I’m not even technicallydatinghim. Thinking about babies is, at best, laughably premature. At worst, it’s a complete fucking nightmare.
I take three deep breaths and head out of the bathroom with my head held high and my big girl pants on, metaphorically speaking.
“Well, well, well…”
I whirl around, taken aback by a nasal voice I’d hoped I’d never have to hear again. “Remmy,” I hiss.
The reporter ogles me with a wide grin that makes my whole body pucker up. “Missed me?”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He’s wearing a sad gray suit and a purple bow tie, both of which have seen much better days. His face has, too—I can still see fading marks where Ruslan did God knows what to him. He pushes himself off the wall and walks over to me with a blustery confidence that he certainly didn’t have last time we interacted.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m a reporter—and I’m here for a story.”
I shake my head. “There’s no story here.”
“Funny. That’s exactly what your boss said the last time we spoke. Right before he beat the shit out of me and drove me across the border in the trunk of his lackey’s car.”
That does explain the bruises.
“Seems like a pretty dumb move for you to be here at all then, don’t you think?”
He shrugs, pulling out a small recording device from his inner jacket pocket. “Sometimes, the risk is worth the reward. It could be for you, too.”
“If you think I’m gonna give you an interview, then you’re out of your—”
