Page 56 of Tell Me What you Think

"You think?"

Olga glances at the window and wonders whether opening it and jumping would be less overwhelming than what she's feeling right now. Her entire body is vibrating, her lips are tingling, and she feels a flutter in her stomach that is moving dangerously lower.

"I don't think — I mean, I'm sure. I don't want you to forget."

"Good." Marina checks her watch with a composure Olga wishes she could borrow. "Does tomorrow work for you — dinner, to celebrate your apartment and talk about a few things?"

All Olga wants to do is smile, and maybe scream with pure joy. She's going to have dinner with Marina, and it won't be for work or because Marina feels obligated to help her with anything — she's asking because she wants to, inviting her because she wants to celebrate something that's kept Olga up at night for weeks. She also wants to talk about a few things, though she hasn't said what, and Olga has a feeling she knows, but decides not to think too hard about it so she doesn't forget to breathe.

"I'd love that," she answers after a shaky exhale.

"Perfect. Think about where you want to go and let me know tomorrow. I'm heading home — I need a shower and to pass out on the couch."

"Okay. I'll let you know tomorrow. Get some rest, Marina."

"You too."

Olga knows she won't sleep a wink — she'll spend the night tossing and turning with that ridiculous smile on her face, thinking about the kiss Marina gave her — because this time it wasn't her, and Marina isn't clumsy, and she doesn't do things without meaning to — and she'll also think about that brief brush of fingers when her boss walked past her desk and reached out to touch her hand, letting her fingertips trail across the back of Olga's hand and leave her skin burning in their wake.

Chapter 23

Marina has her arms crossed over her chest—or rather, she's hugging herself while she waits for the elevator to finish rising, drumming her fingers against her coat. Today is Friday, the day of her dinner with Olga, if she hasn't changed her mind, because Marina hasn't stopped turning over yesterday's events all night long, replaying every detail of what happened.

She kissed Olga, and she doesn't regret it—not even because exhaustion had stopped her from thinking clearly. It wasn't a mistake. She had started burning with the urge to taste her mouth again while her assistant looked at her with eyes bright with emotion, and so she did it—she leaned in and felt the soft warmth of her lips again. But what unsettles Marina is what came after: the dinner invitation. She can't tell now whether Olga accepted because she wanted to, or whether she felt too overwhelmed to say no.

That's what has her on edge, what makes her feel uncertain. Did she go too far? Did she put Olga in an uncomfortable position? Was there an abuse of power? Marina lets out a sharp breath as the doors open and walks down the hall at her usual pace, but with her body as tense as if someone had driven a steel rod up her spine.

When she turns toward her office, Olga looks up from her desk and her cheeks flush immediately, and that sends a sudden jolt straight between Marina's legs.

"Good morning, Olga," she says, intending to keep walking.

"Good morning." Her assistant swallows and clears her throat. "I already know where I want to have dinner."

Marina stops dead, right beside the desk, and when she turns, she wets her lips without thinking.

"Mmm, okay," she says in a tone that isn't trying to be seductive, but is, in a way that lights Olga up like a torch. "Tell me."

"Well, if it's okay with you—" Her assistant hesitates, uncertain, and Marina wonders why she never noticed before how impossibly charming she is. "I've been thinking…"

"What have you been thinking?" the vice president prompts.

Olga clears her throat again.

"My place," she finally says. "I'd like to cook for you."

Marina opens her mouth and can't get a single word out.

"Only if you're okay with it. I want to thank you for everything you've done for me, for being there and all of that—" Olga fans herself with her hand, flustered. "And I'd like to make something that isn't carbonara. But if you think it's inappropriate, I can—"

"Olga." Marina leans toward her and rests a hand on the desk. "Breathe, or I'm going to have to give you CPR right here in the middle of the office."

The blood drains from Olga's face and rushes somewhere else entirely, and a slightly hoarse laugh escapes her.

"Your place works for me," Marina says, trying to hold back the curve of her lips—but she can't manage it. The corner of her mouth pulls left, and Olga lets out something close to a gasp.

"Yeah?"

"Of course. What time?"