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Ilya shot a look a me, his eyebrows raised.
All I could do was roll my eyes in return. Unfortunately for him, her hatred of Sasha extended to all things Russian — including perfectly nice strangers who didn’t do a damn thing to her.
The three of us rode the elevator up in silence, exchanging looks every now and again, like we were waiting to see who would speak first. Frankie glared at Ilya in the mirrored doors. Ilya continued to smile and even waved at her reflection at one point. Meanwhile I studied the metal ceiling, wondering if I could crawl out through that little square door and hurl myself down the elevator shaft.
On the tenth floor, Ilya waited for Frankie to storm out first. He matched my pace as we followed her down the hall, letting her get out of earshot before speaking. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I replied automatically.
“Isawyou,” he said pointedly. “Before you got into the car. You werenotfine.”
Fuck, of course he saw that. He saw everything, just like Sasha.
I sighed softly, reining in my annoyance and focusing on the fact Ilya actually seemed to care. “No, I am fine. Really. Thank you. It was just a…”
“Panic attack?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It happens sometimes. It’s been a rough couple of months but it’s getting better. Sort of.”
He nodded without any hint of judgment or pity on his face. “I’m down the hall if you ever need anything.”
“Thanks.” I gave him a small smile and hurried after Frankie. She was leaning next to the apartment door, her arms crossed and a scowl back on her face.
“What the fuck did he want?”
“Just going over our schedule for tomorrow,” I said, fumbling in my pocket for my keys before finally jabbing one into the lock.
“I can’t believe you have a bodyguard now. Do you have any idea how crazy that it? It’s like you’re a prisoner all over again.” She waltzed into the apartment and shrugged out of her jacket, tossing it over the barstool at the kitchen island.
“I am well aware,” I muttered, following behind her and hanging her coat on a hook on the wall.
“So where is he?”
“Who?”
“Sasha.” She managed to say his name without hissing, so I guess that was an improvement.
“Work. I guess.”
“So he gets to know where you are 24/7, but you have no clue where he is? Sounds fair.”
Rolling my eyes, I disappeared down the hall with the stupid black bag from the sex store. I stashed it under the bed, behind a shoebox. Hopefully Sasha would be gone on garbage day so I could sneak it out of the damn apartment before he ever saw it.
When I came back to the living room, Frankie’d made herself at home on the couch with a bag of dill pickle-flavored chips. I was tempted to tell her they were Sasha’s, but I didn’t feel like cleaning up the mess when she inevitably sent the bag sailing.
“Uh, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Trying to find something to watch,” she replied, clicking through the channels before settling on some cake decorating show.
“How long were you planning on staying?”
She shrugged, crunching on another chip.
“You know Sashaliveshere, right? Like, this ishisapartment andIam just a guest?”
“Yeah. So?” She took a sip of water and blinked at me.
I sighed and dropped onto the opposite corner of the couch. “Whatever. I’m not mediating between the two of you, just so you know.”
