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“Mr. Morozov, Luka’s father, did not partake in traditional American desserts and wouldn’t allow me to bake it. Naturally, it became his favorite,” Ilena says. Her accent always deepens when she talks about the Morozov line.
“Luka never talks about his father,” I reply. I want to ask why, to press Ilena for information and insight into Luka, but I refrain.
“Vladimir Morozov was horrible man and even worse father. How Luka is a good pakhan is miracle.” Ilena turns away, continuing her baking task, and I get up grabbing my book to head up to the terrace. I don’t know the man Luka’s father was. He sounds like a terrible man, but Luka is not, and I wonder if he knows that.
I wave to the guard, who is on the day shift, and make my way over to a chair, my hand floating over the greenery as I go. I toss the book down, staring at it, before I take out my phone. I honestly have no idea if Luka’s number is even here. I’ve never had reason to talk to him on the phone. Scrolling through the contacts, Nik’s information is in here with a kissing emoji next to it. I chuckle and roll my eyes, continuing down until I see it. His name.
Happy Birthday
Who told you that?
My heart leaps when I see his response.
A coconut cake.
I’m going to fire Ilena.
A small laugh bubbles out of me and a warm, tingling sensation flickers from head to toe. I want to ask if he is okay, if he misses New York, or if it’s possible he misses me, but I set the phone down. I don’t know how to navigate this with Luka—whateverthisis.
I’m not sure how this ends.
* * *
The cold cityair bites at my cheeks as I walk to the office, two guards tailing behind me like puppy dogs. I picked the worst outfit for the weather today. Plaid high-waisted ankle pants cover my legs with a tucked-in ribbed cream sweater. I darted out of the penthouse without my matching blazer, allowing the crisp weather to pour down my top. My nude pumps, while comfortable, leave my ankles exposed to the chill. I’m seriously contemplating heading home to change during lunch.
Natallia is already at her desk, typing furiously on the computer.
“Good morning!” she singsongs without glancing up.
“Gosh, it’s cold!” I was hoping we’d have more fall before winter decided to show up.
“I know. Oh, hey, this is for you.” She practically tosses an envelope at me, and I open it to see a black card with my name on it.
“What is this?”
Natallia looks up at me and purses her lips. “Umm. Luka told me to tell you it’s a company card.”
“Right,” I deadpan.
I already found a black card in my savings jar for school and had to put it back in his office. I hate the thought of Luka seeing my pathetic jar; it’s probably ridiculous to someone with more money than most of New York. I take the envelope and march to Luka’s office.
“It’s locked,” Natallia says before I try to open the door.
That’s okay, no problem.
I toss the envelope on the ground, and using my foot, I slide it under the door. Natallia’s face smirks at me before she is wrapped up in her work again. Satisfied, I head to my mini-work desk.
Natallia has given me some legal documents to format and a few letters to draft. They are all for the art Luka is importing for a new Smithsonian exhibit. The acquisitions department wanted Luka to facilitate obtaining loan pieces from another museum in Europe.
I’ve managed to get a few hours of work in, when my phone rings.
It’s Derek.
Huh.
I’ll let it go to voicemail. I haven’t talked to him for a while, ever since I called him to thank him for checking up on me. I set the phone down and move on with another task when my phone rings again—this time I answer it.
“Hello?”
