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“Nyet.”
No. The word pushes up automatically, my vocal cords Pavlovian in their response to the sound of that name.
“Ana, he owns the most respected protection agency in the Southwest United States. I think having a company without old ties to Petrov Shipping will provide the fresh eyes you need.”
I take another drink, deeper this time, to steady my nerves. “I’ll find someone else.”
“You’re too busy to vet a new agency. Delegating this to one of your minions defeats the purpose. Besides, Bryce thinks there’s a benefit to keeping the extra security under wraps.”
“No. Just… no,” I croak past constricted lungs where the vodka has turned sour.
“C’mon, Ana. What happened was over a decade ago. You can’t let your pride get in the way of your safety.”
I stand to face the wall of windows. “Over my dead body,” I utter in English between gritted teeth.
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to avoid,” rumbles the deep voice that could only belong to one man. “Hello, Ana.”
It’s as if uttering his name is an unholy incantation. I turn to face my personal demon. Leaning against the door frame to my office is none other than Bryce MacElroy.
The man whose life I ruined thirteen years ago is here to ruin mine.
I’m running late.
Sunday dinner is a routine whereby my parents, Aunt Maeve, Uncle Matt, and I hang out at Grandpa’s house. Nothing fancy; just eating, watching TV, and catching up. There are nights I basically eat and run, but showing up is expected.
Tonight’s transgression will be deemed especially offensive because, as Mom reminded me, we’re expecting important guests. Three times I had to stop what I was doing to respond to her call. Is there any wonder why I’m late?
I would have loved to skip dinner altogether. With my full course load at the university and work hours, Sunday is the only day I’m free for the lab.
Everything is riding on the robotics tournament next week. After obsessing about this project for months, our team can’t lose in Nashville.
I shut down the thought of defeat faster than an SQL computer virus spreading in a senior citizens’ group chat.
“My sister, Ana, is joining us tonight.” Sergei Petrov greets me with a heavy pat on the back.
He’s the top defenseman for Columbus’s professional hockey team and my aunt’s boyfriend. I almost tell him that my mother has imparted the crucial information of the Petrov siblings’ attendance. Three. Times.
Unfortunately, that would be rude to the primary sponsor of our robotics team; OK, Sergei’s our only sponsor. The point is, I should do my part to make him feel welcome, since he’s a generous guy and Aunt Maeve has never looked happier. Does that mean he’s Uncle Sergei to me now? I shudder at the weirdness.
Not wanting him to misinterpret my reaction, I school my features into a pleasant smile. Before I can say anything, Grandpa’s cheery voice floats from the kitchen.
“Bryce is here?”
A greeting is at the tip of my lips when Anastasia Petrov follows behind him. It’s as if a Hollywood superstar accidentally strolled onto the wrong movie set. With her luminous skin and full lips and shiny hair, she’s a stunning sight in the land of the mundane. The living room’s ordinariness has never been more obvious.
My ability to speak dissolves, replaced by a dry mouth and sagging jaw.
She probably turns every head in any room she’s ever entered. I hate the thought of other men ogling and refuse to be one of them. In fact, I am determined not to ogle.
Her forward motion stalls suddenly.
My non-ogling must have turned into a scowl. Or maybe I look as foolish as I feel.
“What’s the angle of the tail relative to the body?” she asks breathlessly.
Is she talking to me?
“Huh?” is my confused remark. Great. I am as smooth as can be in front of a girl so damn pretty she could be computer generated.
