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“I work here,” I reply. “I’m a cleaner.”
“You’re a painter who works as a cleaner,” he says.
That sends a tingle through me. I almost want to saythank you.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I mutter.
Dimitri waves a hand, which seems like an odd response.
“And I’m sorry for being here.”
He waves another hand with another smirk. A weird and annoying shiver courses through me and settles in my core. “How long have you been using this space?”
I shrug. “A couple of months. I hide my work in the ceiling.”
“Why not do it at home?”
I grind my teeth together, folding my arms. His eyes flit down toward mychest? Pushing the thought away, I remind myselfthat, even if he did look at me—and I bet I was wrong anyway—it wouldn’t matter.
“I just prefer it here,” I say.
He pushes away from the wall and walks toward me until he’s towering over me. Honestly, I like how I have to crane my head to look up at him. I like how the soft yellow light highlights the dust fluttering in the air, creating a sparkling backdrop. I like the silver in his hair catching the sunlight.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, his voice growing husky.
I shake my head. “No?—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says sternly. “You wouldn’t be here if everything was okay at home. What’s happening?”
I stare at him in disbelief. Part of me wants to yell,Why do you care?But he’s my boss, technically, even if he’s about twenty links up the chain of command. As much as cleaning a large office complex has never been my dream job, I still need it.
“It’s loud,” I tell him. “It’s distracting. There’s this couple next door…” I bite down, trying not to think about it. “They fight. It gets bad. Then they make up and fight again. I called the cops on the husband once because he hurt her. She lied and said I was making it up, but I saw it. The argument spilled out into the hallway and…”
I stop, realizing I’m unloading on a total stranger. Maybe that’s one problem with spending so much time alone or with podcasts. When I finally get a chance to speak, I can’t stop.
“You shouldn’t have to live like that.” He moves even closer. I can smell his huskiness, his manliness. Is he wearing cologne, oris that just him? My lips tingle, almost like I’m getting ready for a kiss. “What’s your name?”
“Dahlia,” I tell him. “Or… or Lia.”
Offering the shortened version of my name almost makes me cry. It’s so pathetic, but it makes me think of Mom calling meLiaand that nobody calls me that anymore.
“Lia,” he repeats.
Forcing away the sadness, I weakly smile. “What’s your name?”
He laughs, somehow making that a manly sound, too.
“What if I’m serious, sir?”
He holds out his hand. “Dimitri Sokolov.”
Part of me knows taking his hand is a bad idea. I’ve fought off any of these silly thoughts by convincing myself they’re not there. Yet when I touch his hand, I feel a spark shoot up my arm. My chest feels lighter for a moment as we shake.
He moves even closer and leans down so that we’re almost eye-to-eye. I can faintly feel his warm breath on my face. “Keep painting. I want to see the final product.”
Then he turns and quickly moves toward the door. The sudden change almost causes me to yell,Wait!Again, I force that instinct down, along with countless other things. At least he didn’t tell me I had to leave.
As I return to my work, I think about what he said. He wants to see it when it’s done. I don’t usually paint for an audience. He probably only said it because he’s trying to be nice. He might not even remember asking me for it, but maybe it will help him grieve.
