Page 130 of Sexting His Assistant

“So, there was someone.”

“No.”

He crosses his hands in front of his chest. “You’re a terrible liar, sister.”

I hate brothers. I hate them.

I hate mine especially because he can look at me for six seconds and know I’ve done something morally complicated.

But there’s something off about him.

The joke fades in my head before it fades from his face.

He’s moving too much. Not pacing exactly, but close. His hand keeps going to his phone, then away. He checks the lock after closing the door. Then the window. Then the street below through the side of the curtain.

Misha is overprotective on his best days, but this is different.

He’s jumpy.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He glances back. “Yes.”

“Don’t lie. You’re bad at it.”

He gives me a flat look. “You just told me you’re wearing a scarf for fashion.”

“Fine. We’re both artists of deception.”

He does not laugh. That worries me more.

He walks into my living room and drops his bag by the couch.

I look at it. Then at him.

Then at the bag again.

“Why do you have a bag?”

He rubs one hand over the back of his neck. “I need to stay here for a few days.”

I wait for the rest of the sentence.

It does not come.

“You need to what?”

“Crash here.”

“At my place?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“That is what I said.”

I look around my apartment, then back at him. “You have an apartment three times the size of this one.”