Page 6

My hand hovers over the doorknob, wondering if I’m crossing a line. I shouldn’t be here without asking her first, should I? But the memory from that morning in the market still lingers on my mind—it was the first time I saw such a spark in Natalia’s eyes, such brightness in her smile, such jump in her step.

She was truly happy. And when I had this room converted into her own workspace, her face lit up like a million-watt bulb.

How I long to see her that way again—in her element, excited for what’s to come. And to make her happy, this is the only way I know how.

All I need is one sneak peek without being caught. I need to head in, take a quick look around, assess what it is that might still be missing, and stock up her workshop.

I’m willing to do anything to see her smile. To see that joy directed at me.

"You're being pathetic, Zolotov," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. But it doesn't stop me from turning the knob, easing the door open with practiced stealth.

The sight that greets me steals my breath away. I thought I’d be alone, but clearly, I was wrong. Natalia stands before a mannequin, her brow furrowed in concentration as her hands dance over the shimmering fabric. She's in her element, lost in a world of color and texture.

I lean against the doorframe, mesmerized. Her fingers move with grace, pinning and adjusting with confident precision. The tip of her tongue peeks out between her lips as she works, and I'm struck by an overwhelming urge to taste it.

Beautiful, I think to myself, unable to tear my gaze away from her focused movements. It's like watching an artist paint a masterpiece.

Natalia steps back, tilting her head as she surveys her work. A loose strand of dark blonde hair falls across her face, and I ache to brush it aside, to feel the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips.

She reaches for a sketchpad, scribbling furiously, and I find myself leaning forward, desperate for a glimpse of her creative process. It's utterly captivating.

Natalia remains oblivious to my presence. Her curvy figure sways slightly as she works, and I find myself mesmerized by the gentle rhythm.

I'm torn between two equally powerful desires. Part of me—the obsessive part that craves her attention—wants to announce myself, to have those eyes turn to me. But another part, the one that's learning to be thoughtful, wants to preserve this moment of pure creativity.

Should I say something? I wonder silently, my hand clenching and unclenching at my side. Or just keep watching?

The war within me rages on as Natalia continues to work, blissfully unaware of my internal struggle. I lean against the door frame, forgetting the world as I watch her, and the door creaks.

Oh shit.

Suddenly, Natalia's head snaps up, her eyes locking onto mine. I freeze, caught in the act of my silent observation.

"Denis!" she exclaims, her brows knitting together in annoyance. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"

I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. "I didn't want to disturb your work," I offer, a weak excuse at best.

Natalia rolls her eyes. "Oh, so you decided lurking was the better option?" She places a hand on her hip, the gesture emphasizing her curves. "Next time, knock. Or I might mistake you for an intruder and attack you with my scissors."

I can't help but chuckle at the mental image. "Noted," I say, my voice softening as I step closer to her workstation. "Speaking of your work, what are you creating here?"

My eyes drift to the half-draped mannequin, genuine curiosity rising within me. Natalia's gaze follows mine, and I notice a flicker of hesitation cross her face. She bites her lower lip, a gesture I've come to recognize as a sign of her inner conflict.

"It's… just a project I'm working on," she says vaguely, her hands fidgeting with a piece of fabric. I can sense her reluctance to share, and it stings more than I care to admit.

"It looks interesting," I press gently, hoping to coax her out of her shell. "I'd love to hear more about it if you're willing to share."

Natalia hesitates for a moment, her eyes searching my face.

“Very elegant,” I add.

Then, like a switch flipped, her entire demeanor shifts. Her eyes light up, and a smile spreads across her face, transforming her features.

"Well," she begins, her voice taking on an excited lilt, "it's a cocktail dress inspired by the Art Deco movement." Her hands start to move animatedly as she speaks, gesturing to different parts of the garment. "See this bodice? I'm using a geometric pattern that echoes the iconic designs of the 1920s."

I find myself drawn in by her enthusiasm, my eyes following her every movement. She reaches for a sketch nearby, holding it up for me to see. I walk closer until I’m standing right in front of her.

She looks up at me, her eyes fluttering to focus. Her long lashes brush against her lower lids, and they have to be the most beautiful eyes in the world.

She clears her throat, drawing my attention.

"And here," she continues, her finger tracing a line on the paper, "I'm planning to add beadwork that mimics the sunburst motif common in Art Deco architecture. It'll catch the light beautifully when the wearer moves."

Her passion is infectious, and I feel a smile tugging at my own lips. This side of Natalia, so vibrant and alive, ignites something within me. My chest tightens with an overwhelming urge to protect and nurture this spark I see in her.

"It sounds incredible," I say, genuinely impressed. "You have a real talent, Natalia."

She blushes at the compliment, her cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. "Thank you," she says softly, before launching into more details about her design choices. The whole time, I’m painfully aware of how close we stand. At one point, she raises her hand to the paper, accidentally brushing against mine, and a shiver goes down my spine.

As Natalia continues to explain her process, I find my gaze drawn to her lips. They're soft and full, moving animatedly as she speaks, and I'm suddenly consumed by the urge to taste them. I force myself to look away, but my eyes keep drifting back, tracing the curve of her mouth, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips between sentences.

"And then I thought about incorporating a—" Natalia pauses mid-sentence, her words trailing off. I realize I've been staring, and our eyes lock. The air between us suddenly feels charged, electric.

I clear my throat, trying to break the tension. "You were saying?" My voice comes out lower than I intended, rough with an emotion I'm not ready to name.

Natalia blinks, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. "I… um…" She shakes her head slightly as if trying to clear it. "Sorry, I lost my train of thought."

The room feels smaller now, the space between us shrinking. I can see the rise and fall of her chest, slightly quicker than before. Her eyes, those warm chocolate pools, are wide and searching. Does she feel this, too? This pull, this magnetic force drawing us together?

"It's okay," I murmur, taking a small step closer. "Take your time."

Natalia's breath hitches, and I watch as her gaze flicks down to my lips before meeting my eyes again. The tension is palpable now, thick and heady. I want to reach out and touch her, to run my fingers through her dark blonde waves, to pull her soft, curvy body against mine.

But I hold back, waiting, watching. The ball is in her court now.

Just as Natalia parts her lips and lets out a tiny exhale, the shrill ring of my phone cuts through the air like a knife. I curse under my breath, frustration surging through me. Of all the times for an interruption…

I reluctantly tear my gaze away from Natalia, fishing the phone from my pocket. The caller ID makes me grimace. It's the second-in-command to my lead associate. This isn't a call I can ignore, no matter how much I want to.

"I'm sorry," I tell Natalia, genuine regret coloring my voice. "I have to take this."

She nods, a mix of relief and disappointment flickering across her face. "Of course," she says softly, taking a step back.

I answer the call, turning slightly away from Natalia but unable to fully tear my attention from her. "Zolotov," I bark into the phone, stepping away.

"Boss, we've got a situation at the docks," his gruff voice comes through. "The Colombians are trying to short us on the shipment."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache forming. "Tell Yuri to hold them there. I'm on my way." I end the call, taking one last look at Natalia. All I see is concern in her eyes.

"Be careful," she says softly, a hint of worry in her voice that both warms and unsettles me.

I nod, allowing myself one last lingering look at her. "I will," I assure her, before making my way out of the room.