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22

TASH

I pull my favorite cashmere sweater tighter around me, curled up on my couch with a glass of red wine and the latest acquisition reports spread across my coffee table. The words blur together as my mind drifts back to this morning. He just checked his phone and practically shoved me out the door like yesterday’s news.

My phone buzzes again with his fifth text in two hours. I don’t even glance at it. He can stew in his own arrogance for all I care.

A sharp knock at my door makes me jump, wine sloshing dangerously close to the reports. My heart rate spikes because I know that precise, commanding knock.

“Go away, Dmitri,” I call out, proud that my voice doesn’t waver.

“Open the door, kulkolka .” His voice carries through the wood, that infuriating calm tone that makes me want to throw something.

“I’m busy.” I turn up the volume on my jazz playlist, hoping he’ll take the hint.

Another knock, more insistent. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” I march to the door, anger propelling me forward. “What happened to ‘I’ll call you later’ before rushing me out this morning?”

“Open the door, and I’ll explain.”

“No.” I press my palm against the cool wood. “You don’t get to treat me like an inconvenience and then demand my attention whenever it suits you. I’m done playing your games.”

A pause. “Natasha.” The way he says my name is low, almost gentle, making my stomach flip. But I steel myself against it.

“Good night, Dmitri.” I turn away from the door, determined to ignore whatever he says next.

I freeze at the sound of the locks turning. That arrogant bastard is picking the lock to my apartment. The door swings open, and Dmitri steps inside casually holding a lockpick.

“Get out!” I snatch the nearest object—a decorative vase—and brandish it. “I swear to God, I’ll call the police.”

“And tell them what?” He shuts the door behind him. “That the board member you’ve been sleeping with used a key to enter your apartment?”

“That’s breaking and entering, you entitled prick.” I lift the vase higher. “Get out before I make that call.”

“You should change your locks.” He takes a step closer, eyes locked on mine. “They are embarrassingly easy to pick. It’s dangerous.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Worried about my safety now?” I back up until my legs hit the couch. “After treating me like some disposable toy this morning?”

“Put down the vase , kulkolka.”

“Don’t call me that. And don’t tell me what to do in my home that you just broke into.”

His jaw tightens. “I was merely testing your security. Really, for someone so wealthy I’d expect a far more superior security system.”

“Stop changing the subject! You can’t just barge here because you decided you want to talk now.” I grip the vase tighter. “What part of ‘go away’ wasn’t clear enough for you?”

His shoulders drop, and for the first time since I’ve known him, Dmitri looks... uncertain.

“My brothers needed me. An emergency with one of our investments required immediate attention.” He runs a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up in a way that makes my heart skip. “I wanted to explain this morning, but everything happened quickly.”

“You could have said something. Anything.” I lower the vase but keep my distance. “Instead of checking your phone and practically shoving me out the door.”

“I know.” He takes another step closer, and I hate how my body responds to his proximity. “I had plans for us this weekend. The kind that involved not leaving my bed except for absolute necessities.”

My cheeks flush at the implication. “And you couldn’t spare thirty seconds to tell me that?”

“I’m not...” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not used to this, Natasha. To want someone’s company beyond the physical. To actually care what someone thinks when I have to leave.” His ice-blue eyes meet mine. “To being so wrapped up in someone that I can barely focus on work because I keep thinking about how they take their coffee or scrunch their nose when they’re reading.”

I set the vase down, my anger wavering. “You notice how I scrunch my nose?”

“I notice everything about you.” His voice drops lower. “And it terrifies me how much I want to keep noticing more.”

“So you pushed me away.”

“I panicked.” He closes the distance between us. “I’m sorry. I don’t... I don’t apologize often, but I am sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. Here stands Dmitri Ivanov, who can silence a room with a look. He admits he panicked because of how much he cares for me.

I set the vase down on the coffee table. “Dmitri...”

Before I finish my thought, I close the distance between us and press my lips to his. The kiss is different this time—not the usual calculated passion, but something honest. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer as if he can’t bear any space between us.

“I want you,” he breathes against my mouth. “Not just like this. Not just for tonight.”

My heart pounds against my ribs as his fingers thread through my hair. “What are you saying?”

“This isn’t casual for me anymore.” His glacier-blue eyes lock onto mine, stripped of their usual guard. “I meant what I said before—you’re mine, Natasha. Only mine.”

I trace my fingers along his jaw. “And what exactly does being yours mean?”

“It means I want all of you.” He kisses me again, deep and possessive. “Your morning coffee scowls, your passionate arguments about art preservation, your fierce loyalty to Sofia.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “Everything that makes you uniquely, infuriatingly you.”

“Even when I threaten you with vases?”

A rare, genuine smile crosses his face. “Especially then. Your fire draws me in like a moth to flame.”

I kiss him again, softer this time. “I’m still mad at you for this morning.”

“I know.” His hands slide down to my waist. “Let me make it up to you.”

“What exactly did you have in mind?” I trail my fingers down his silk tie, expecting something elaborate and over-the-top since it’s Dmitri.

“How about we order some takeout and watch a movie?”

I blink, certain I must have misheard him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Takeout. Movie. Here.” His lips quirk up at my obvious shock. “Unless you’d prefer a five-course meal at Le Bernardin?”

“No, it’s just...” I study his face, looking for the catch. “You don’t strike me as a takeout and movie guy. I figured your idea of making it up to me would involve flying me to Paris for dinner or buying out an entire restaurant.”

“I can do that if you prefer.” His thumb traces circles on my hip. “But I thought perhaps we could try something... normal. Unless the great Natasha Blackwood is too sophisticated for Chinese food and Netflix?”

“You know how to use Netflix?” I can’t help teasing him.

He gives me a look that’s half-amused, half-exasperated. “I’m a businessman, not a caveman. I do know how modern technology works.”

“Could have fooled me with those fountain pens you insist on using.” I tap his chest. “But okay, Mr. Ivanov. Surprise me with your takeout expertise. What are we ordering?”

“There’s an excellent Szechuan not far from here. Their dan dan noodles are surprisingly authentic.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You eat dan dan noodles? From a takeout place?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Honestly? Yes. I pictured you surviving solely on caviar and the souls of your business rivals.”

His laugh catches me off guard because it’s deep and genuine, nothing like his usual controlled chuckle. “You have a vivid imagination, kulkolka .”

“That actually sounds perfect.” I settle onto my couch as Dmitri places the order for food on his phone.

“What do you want to eat?” he asks, sitting beside me.

I snatch Dmitri’s phone from his hands, ignoring his raised eyebrow. “Let me see that menu.”

“By all means, help yourself to my personal property.” His dry tone makes me grin as I scroll through the options.

“Ooh, they have soup dumplings. And Mapo tofu. And—oh my God, those crispy green beans with garlic.” I tap items rapid-fire, adding them to the cart. “We need the dan dan noodles you mentioned, obviously. And these pork buns. And definitely the kung pao chicken.”

“That’s enough food for six people,” Dmitri points out, peering over my shoulder.

“I like options.” I add scallion pancakes to the order. “Plus, leftovers are the best part of Chinese takeout.”

He laughs—that real laugh again, not his boardroom chuckle. “You’re seriously going to eat all that?”

“Watch me.” After adding egg rolls and hot and sour soup, I hand his phone back. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, thanks to someone rushing me out this morning.”

“Point taken.” He accepts his phone, eyebrows rising at the total. “Though this seems like a revenge plot via dim sum.”

“Scared I’ll break your black card?” I tease.

“Never.” He confirms the order. “I just hope you’re prepared to follow through. I expect to see you attempt every dish.”

“Challenge accepted, Ivanov.”

He looks so out of place yet feels right here in my space. Our eye contact lingers, and I’m sure I’m about to combust if we don’t stop staring at each other. Clearing my throat, I grab the remote for the TV.“So, what kind of movies do you watch? Let me guess, documentaries about hostile takeovers?”

Dmitri loosens his tie, shifting, and his thigh brushes mine. “I’ll watch anything that’s well-made.”

“Really? The great Dmitri Ivanov doesn’t have a preferred genre?” I reach for the remote, scrolling through Netflix’s offerings.

“Quality is quality, regardless of genre.” He drapes his arm across the back of the couch, his fingers absently playing with a strand of my hair. “Though I suspect you have something specific in mind.”

“I do love a good thriller.” I bite my lip, considering our options. “Something that keeps you guessing until the end. The kind that makes you question everything you thought you knew.”

“Fitting.” His lips quirk up. “Given your penchant for questioning everything I say and do.”

“Someone has to keep you on your toes.” I scroll through the thriller section, hyperaware of his fingers still toying with my hair. “How about ‘The Game’? Michael Douglas, corporate executive, a mysterious game that turns his life upside down...”

“Trying to tell me something?” His voice carries that hint of amusement I’m starting to recognize.

“I just want to see how a control freak like you reacts to watching someone else lose control.”

“Is that so?” His hand slides from my hair to the nape of my neck, making my heart race. “And here I thought you’d seen plenty of me losing control already.”

I smirk at his comment. “That’s... different. This is about psychological manipulation, paranoia, questioning reality...”

“All things I’m intimately familiar with in my line of work.” He pulls me closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Start the movie, kulkolka .”

I press play on the remote, but Michael Douglas’s voice fades into background noise as Dmitri’s fingers continue their maddening path along my neck. The familiar opening scene blurs before my eyes—I’ve seen this movie at least three times before. Still, I couldn’t tell you a single plot point if my life depended on it.

A knock at the door makes me jump. Right. Food.

I try to stand, but Dmitri’s hand on my thigh stops me. “Stay.”

“I can answer my own door, you know.”

“I’m aware.” He rises in one fluid motion, straightening his already perfect shirt. “But you won’t.”

I sink back into the couch, watching him stride to my door with that confident grace that makes my stomach flip. He pulls out his wallet, handling the delivery exchange with practiced efficiency.

The scent of Szechuan spices fills my apartment as he carries the bags to my kitchen. I hear drawers opening and closing—he’s actually looking for utensils in my kitchen like this is the most natural thing in the world.

He returns with an armful of takeout containers and my mismatched collection of chopsticks. “Your kitchen organization leaves much to be desired.”

“Sorry that my utensil drawer doesn’t meet your exacting standards.” I watch him arrange the containers across my coffee table. “Though I notice you found everything just fine.”

“I’m very good at finding what I want.” He sets out the last container and hands me a pair of chopsticks, the fancy lacquered ones Sofia brought me from Japan. Of course he’d pick those.

The spread before us looks like enough to feed a small army. Steam rises from the soup dumplings, and the dan dan noodles glisten with chili oil. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud.

I try to focus on the movie, but my attention keeps drifting to Dmitri’s elegant hands wielding chopsticks with perfect precision. He makes eating takeout look like a fine dining experience.

The dan dan noodles are exactly as good as he promised. I steal glances at him between bites, fascinated by this softer version of the man I usually see commanding boardrooms. His jacket and tie are gone now, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, and there’s something incredibly intimate about watching him reach for another dumpling.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking away from the screen.

“I’ve never seen you eat like this before.” I twirl noodles around my chopsticks. “It’s... different.”

He picks up a piece of kung pao chicken. “Different good or different concerning?”

“Just different.” I pause. “Human.”

Now he does look at me, one eyebrow raised. “As opposed to?”

“The perfectly controlled automaton who terrorizes my board meetings.”

His lips quirk up. “I don’t terrorize. I direct.”

“Tell that to Mr. Patterson’s stress-induced acid reflux.”

Dmitri smirks at that, reaching for the Mapo tofu. “Perhaps he should develop a stronger constitution.”

I shake my head, unable to suppress my smile. The movie continues playing but I’m lost in watching Dmitri’s profile in the soft light from my TV. His usual sharp edges seem softer here in my space, surrounded by takeout containers and the gentle glow of evening.

He catches me staring again and, this time, holds my gaze. Something warm and possessive is in his cobalt blue eyes, making my breath catch.

“Eat,” he says softly. “Before it gets cold.”

I obey, but the food could be cardboard for all I taste. All I can focus on is his presence beside me, the heat of his thigh against mine, and the way his fingers brush mine when we reach for the same container.