Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Anything wrong?”
Ignoring the gleam of knowing amusement in his eyes, I put my hands down right away, mumbling, “N-nothing.” He was totally laughing at me, the jerk. Frustration had me falling back on an old habit, and I kicked the door shut behind me unthinkingly.
Sergei’s eyes gleamed brighter.
Shit. My cheeks heated up as I realized I had practically thrown a tantrum in front of him.
“You’re sure everything’s fine?” His voice was oh-so-polite, but the way he was looking at me told me he was laughing at me.
I lifted my chin. “Totally fine.”
And it was.
I didn’t care what he thought of me anyway.
I didn’t!
As I tried to convince myself of this, I managed to smile brightly at Sergei, asking, “So...do you want, uh, anything to drink?”
“Coffee would be nice.”
I nearly gawked at him while blurting out, Really? I was a caffeine junkie myself, and depending on my mood, I’d have either tea or coffee even at night. That I actually had something like that in common with Sergei Grachyov made me feel so, so—-
Giddy.
The realization made me blink.
Giddy?
I wanted to kill myself over it. I was 29 years old, for heaven’s sake. I had no right to be giddy like a high school girl. Clearing my throat, I muttered warningly, “I only have instant.”
“That’s more than fine with me.”
“Oh. Okay.” Shit. I had hoped he’d prove himself a snob and turn my offer down.
I took a step forward, but he remained where he was, blocking my path. “Umm...excuse me?” When he still didn’t move, I looked up—-
SHIT.
That look was back in his eyes again.
That I-want-to-fuck-you look.
“I’m sure we can fit,” he murmured lazily.
Yes, we would...but only if I allowed our bodies to touch.
And he knew that.
“Why don’t you just move?” I demanded.
“Why don’t you just walk?” he countered easily.
Because!
Instead of answering him, I just glued my back to the wall and ignoring his raised eyebrow, I slowly walked sideways to inch past him, even holding my breath to make sure not a single part of our bodies would come into contact.
Sergei Grachyov burst into laughter.
Even as my cheeks reddened, I continued inching past him, telling myself I didn’t care that he was laughing at me.
If anything, the sound of his laughter, which was as sinful as it was mellifluous, was even more proof that I was right to play it safe. I was way, way, way over my head with this man, and the sooner I got rid of him, the better.
Dashing to my tiny box of a kitchen, I tried to ignore the way his near-black eyes followed my every move, tried to stop my heart from racing so fast, like speed was a matter of life and death.
You’re a sensible, reasonably intelligent 29-year-old lawyer, Fredericka Spears, I groaned silently to myself as I opened the cupboard and reached for the coffee and sugar canister. Just because Sergei Grachyov’s hot doesn’t give you an excuse to act like an idiot around him.
As I bent down to take out a carton of milk from the fridge, I heard him murmur, “Just one teaspoon of sugar for me, please.”
Straightening, I nodded without looking at him, muttering, “Gotcha.” But all the while I was thinking, Sergei Grachyov had a sweet tooth. It was yet another new discovery, and I was attacked by another silly bout of giddiness.
I bit my lip hard to keep myself from smiling like a fool at this unexpectedly cute side of the billionaire.
Stop obsessing over the guy, Fredericka Spears!
Preparing our coffee was done under a minute, and I turned around to face him, two mugs of steaming hot coffee in hand—-
Oh.
Sergei stood in the center of my living room, his profile painting an elegant picture in his three-piece suit. He seemed to be studying the framed artworks on my walls, and with his broad back turned towards me, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to stare at him.
His intimidating height made every square foot of my already-cramped home feel even more suffocating than usual, and with him topping six feet by several inches, I couldn’t help feeling like my apartment’s low ceiling could cave down on us any moment.
I stared at him hard, searching vainly for any sign of imperfection, but there was none. This man was...perfect. So why was he here?
As if sensing my silent scrutiny, he turned towards me, and my fingers tightened involuntarily around the mugs as I was treated to the full display of the billionaire’s powerfully muscular form. Despite the formality of his clothes, the air about him somehow felt both savage and worldly—-
What was this type of man doing in my apartment again, I asked myself with a gulp.
In the silent ride home, I had secretly looked Sergei Grachyov up on my phone, thinking that his name was familiar because I might have come across it in my line of work. I was thinking Russian Mafia connections or maybe someone involved in a major Ponzi scam, but instead he turned out to be something more intimidating and completely foreign.