Page 7 of The Encore’s Crown

Bullseye.

Kiri

The elevator dings and Natalia steps inside without looking back. The whole point of that outfit is the not looking back. It says everything for her. The shorts, the stockings, the makeup, the little angle of her hip like she woke up this morning and chose psychological warfare. It’s not subtle, it’s not supposed to be. I’ve seen hot women before. That’s the thing. I’ve seen every possible category of hot woman. Model-hot, actress-hot, rich-girl-hot, dangerous backstage-pass hot. I’ve had women show up half-dressed in places that would get normal people arrested, and I’ve managed to maintain basic brain function.

So this should be fine.

This is fine.

Rithy raises an eyebrow at me.

“You good, bro?”

I force a breath through my nose and scrub a hand over my face. “I'm fine. Shut up.”

He grins, immediately thrilled, because apparently the bastard was born with a sixth sense for when I’m about to ruin my own life. We step into the elevator and the space instantly feels too small. That’s not because of her. It’s an elevator. Elevators are small, that’s the design. That’s how buildings work. I'm not about to blame how small elevators feel on Natalia Sawadzka. She stands to my right, close enough that her perfume hits me before the doors finish closing. Something fruity and warm. Peach, maybe. Vanilla underneath it. Sweet, but not childish. Expensive, probably. Strategic, definitely.

I stare at the floor numbers. Good plan. Great plan. I can survive numbers. Then she adjusts beside me, barely a movement, and the scent changes with her body heat. It comes up softer now, skin-warm, and my brain, because it's determined to betray me, supplies the thought that she smells like something I'd love to taste.

I've had a long flight. I'm tired, hungry and standing in an elevator with a woman I used to talk to at ridiculous hours like an idiot. She's decided to come down here dressed like one of my wet dreams just to fuck with me. That’s all this is. Basic biology. Definitely nothing worth rearranging my entire nervous system over. My eyes slip anyway, a quick glance, that’s all. Anyone would glance, human eyes move. They're built for movement and light and bare thighs in stockings. They process visual stimuli. That's their job. Her neck is right there, soft at the throat. Her lips are glossed in that sticky, shiny kind of gloss that looks like it would get everywhere and never come off. I can almost feel it, waxy and sweet, smeared against my… mouth. Definitely just my mouth.

Fuck’s sake.

I look back at the numbers so fast my neck almost cracks. Rithy breaks the silence first, loudly, because he has never once in his life chosen mercy when chaos was available.

“So. This is cozy.”

Natalia lifts an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Her voice is calm. Amused in a way that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing and is enjoying herself like a little demon in designer boots.

Rithy leans back against the railing, grinning. “Feels intimate.”

I say nothing. Saying things is how people get into trouble. Natalia adjusts her weight, casual as anything, and her hip brushes the back of my hand. It’s nothing. It's literally nothing. Fabric, maybe skin and the smallest amount of pressure. Not even enough to count as contact. So, obviously, my body reacts like I’ve been grabbed by the throat. I pull my hand away and lean back against the elevator wall with more force than necessary. The panel behind me gives a dull thud.

Smooth. Very cool.

Rithy’s eyebrows climb. “Damn. You look warm. Are you sweating?”

“I said, I'm fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Natalia smiles at the elevator doors, and I see it reflected there. That tiny curve of her mouth. Satisfied. It's god damn frustrating and also beautiful, unfortunately.

Not that it matters. Beautiful women are everywhere. Beauty isn't rare. Beauty is practically a logistical problem in my profession. You can trip over beauty in a hotel lobby. You can find beauty crying in a VIP bathroom at two in the morning because some actor didn’t text back. Beauty, on its own, doesn't do this. So it isn’t that.

It’s that she knows me. She knows where to press, that I’ll pretend not to notice. She knows I’m pretending right now, how much I hate giving people the satisfaction of watching me want something. She’s standing there like the whole elevator belongs to her, like she’s waiting to see how long it takes before I crack. I focus on the numbers. Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen. Elevators go down, numbers change and people survive.

Then Natalia exhales. Just a soft little breath, but it's too close to my ear and goes straight through my body like she did it with intent. Knowing her, she probably practiced breathing in the mirror this morning.

My jaw tightens. A memory comes at me before I can stop it. Our late-night voice notes. Her voice a whisper through my phone, teasing, groggy and sleepy, asking, You like listening to me talk? Well, what else do you want me to say, Kiri? I shove it down. No. No voice notes or midnight bullshit. No more thinking about her mouth close to the mic or about what I said back.

Rithy’s voice cuts in. “You look like you’re doing calculus.”

Natalia’s eyes flick to my reflection. “Maybe he is.”