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FORTY-FIVE

NATALIE

The door swings open abruptly, revealing Geoffrey Rosenberg in a state that would make his fans gasp.

His red hair is a mess. There are dark circles under his eyes. He’s wearing a silk robe over his naked body clad only in boxers—thank god at least for those. The stale odor of booze coming from him is so strong that it makes me gag. I wonder if he keeps a secret stash of alcohol in his room.

His expression turns from irritation to approval. “Finally,” he blurts. “Come in.”

He walks away, making the door almost slam in my face, and I scramble with the tray in my hands to squeeze in.

He throws himself into a chair by the desk, legs spread wide, and motions with his curled finger. “Here.”

Again, I’m not sure that chicken soup is what Rosenberg wants right now because his eyes openly rove my body, making me tense in unease. When I approach, he snatches the bottle of coconut water from the tray and gulps half of it like he’s been dehydrated for days. A satisfied sigh leaves his mouth, then his face contorts into a capricious mask.

“What is this?” He studies the bottle with disgust. “Tastes like it’s already been in someone’s mouth.”

“Your favorite coconut water, sir,” I say as meekly as I can.

“Yeah, not today.”

He tosses it onto the desk and motions for me to set the tray down, then rubs his face with both hands.

“Natalia, is it?” he asks and slumps in the chair, legs wide, head cocked. His hairy chest is on full display, and as I steal a glance, I’m surprised to see that his chest hair is not red but light brown.

He studies me up and down with the same distaste he just gave his favorite coconut water. He’s definitely not the sober, composed version of Rosenberg.

“Russian background?” he muses.

Seriously?

I nod. Yeah, he’s definitely hungover. And he’s a piece of work.

His eyes meet mine, and for a second, I’m confused. I swear his eyes were green. Except now they are blue. I must be imagining things.

“I need you to do something,” he says and motions to the nightstand. “Bring me my wallet.”

“Yes, sir.”

Asshole , I think to myself but do what I’m told.

He pulls a hundred-dollar bill out of the wallet I bring him and offers it to me. “I need you to run to a store and grab me a bottle of Jack.”

I take the bill hesitantly, my brain reeling at how to go about this.

I told him the other day that I would do anything. Last night wasn’t pretty, but I have a feeling the Crypto King, who now looks like an average Joe after a several-day binge, is a lot more talkative when he’s lit. Plus, there’s one rule in this house that overrides all the rest—you do everything the boss tells you to do.

He notices my momentary hesitation. “No word to anyone, understood?” His gaze on me hardens. “No. One,” he mouths. “Be a good girl. Run.” He gives me a backward nod, dismissing me. “And make it quick.”

To be honest, I’d like to punch him. I’d like to say no, but this might be my only chance to slip the letter into his room. Also, if there’s even a remote chance to get to his phone, I’m curious about his social media, texts, and phone calls. And I think I have a perfect plan.