It probably wasn’t just professional courtesy that stopped him. I mean…he’s an athlete. A gorgeous, chiseled work of art. He’s famous and could probably have any woman he wanted. Why would he want some nerdy girl in thick glasses who can barely take a step without spilling something on herself or doing something weird?
I’m probably destined to be a spinster cat lady whose only hobby is reading long fantasy books—maybe knitting a throw blanket once in a while when I really want to spice things up a little. Note to self: Look into finding a "knitting cat lovers" group on Facebook to join.
At least there's my sweet little LuLu who loves me.
Of course, Parker had a totally different take on that night...
When she walked in, I busted out in big, stupid tears of regret. I told her what happened, the whole weird scene, and then admitted how much I genuinely liked the guy.
"He’s kind and sweet and quiet." I did my best to gulp back the tears but wasn’t very successful. "He’s not an arrogant prick like some of the sports stars we have to work with."
"Welp, I suggest you pull up your big girl panties, Talia my love, and go get him if you want him."
I hadn’t wanted to admit how very much I wanted him, not even to Parker, my best friend in the whole world. But she knew, because she always knows.
"Look, I can see how hard you’re fighting against this, and I get it," she said. "Believe me, I know what’s going on in that big brain of yours. You’re thinking what a cluster your last client fraternization ended up being. But the fucker was married with children and just wanted a side piece. And you were young and inexperienced, and you thought it was something more."
"Not helping." I groaned and flopped back onto my chaise with great dramatic flair.
"Hear me out though. I’m just saying you got caught up in something he never meant to move forward. It happens to many a good human, but I need to remind you not everyone is a prick like that last guy."
"He has a name…" I started to say.
"No, he really doesn’t," she replied, her lips doing the pursed, defiant thing they do when she’s done taking someone’s bullshit. "He doesn’t get to have a name because he’s a ghost. He’s nobody to you anymore. And this guy? Boris? He’s a real dude and he’s obviously into you but too much of a gentleman to push it very far. But you know? Maybe it’s meant to be?"
"He is a really good guy," I said, sniffling. "I looked him up. A lot."
I gave Parker a rueful, I-stalked-a-guy look and she laughed. "He’s also totally single, right?" she asked.
"Totally. Not a one-night-stand kind of guy, I’ve learned. Very honorable."
"And very hot," Parker said.
"That too," I replied.
I think Parker was right. Boris is a real man, and he’s kind, and he pushes all my buttons. And yes, he is my client, but maybe that doesn’t matter so much…
"No, dumbass," I say to myself. "Of course it matters."
It won’t be surprising to hear, that I’m not very experienced with men. I dated a few guys in college, had sex maybe twice and frankly never figured out what the fuss was all about. And even with Cameron the sex was just okay. It didn’t change my life or anything. I just enjoyed having someone who seemed to find me attractive. Lame. So very lame I know.
Now, as I try to get myself under some semblance of emotional control, I know that I just hadn’t yet found someone who could make my motor hum, so to speak. And Boris got me from zero to sixty without doing much of anything at all. It was just a little taste, but now I want more. Now I want to experience what Parker has always gushed over. Hot. Sensual. Fucking. I want that…and I think Boris would have given it to me. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I stand up and shake my arms out, trying to will my body to calm down. I head into the tiny bathroom to wash my face but just as I look up at myself in the mirror, I hear the little bell on my door jingle and the hairs on my arms stand straight up. I know it’s him. I don’t know how, but I just know it’s Boris. My heart picks up its racing pace all over again.
What if he says I was the one who stepped over the line? I mean, I was practically humping his leg. Suddenly, I’m just really, really embarrassed, and I want nothing more than to jump into a very deep hole and starve rather than go out and face his consternation.
I take a quick, sharp breath and blow it back out, mentally preparing myself to get fired by Boris and, likely, by Harold once he finds out I’ve lost another important client because I can’t control my hormones.
When I peek out, he’s standing awkwardly in the middle of my office, looking gorgeous in a plain, grey T-shirt and jeans. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his strong shoulders hunched. I step out into view and his eyes go wide.
"I wasn’t sure you were here, but the door was unlocked, so…"
My cheeks going hot, I take a deep breath in and hold it. I gesture to the chair and find my way to my own seat, legs wobbly as fuck. As soon as we both sit, I start talking. "I’m so ashamed of myself, Boris. You must be completely horrified by my behavior the other night. I just want to tell you—"
He puts up a hand and stops me. "No, Talia. It was me. I started it by kissing you. It is my fault. I am the one who is ashamed."
I bite my lip and look away. "Well, a few beers can make anyone look kissable, right?" I give a shrug and an awkward, nervous laugh.
"I don’t know why you say such things. I don’t drink often and certainly not to excess. I was sober. It was a choice, and I am sorry I crossed the line with you."
"Wait, you’re sorry?" I’m dumbfounded. "Why would you be sorry? You weren’t the one acting like an animal in heat."
I can see Boris’s lips quirk. He puts his hand to his mouth and fakes a cough to keep from laughing. "I think there is more to talk about when it comes to this thing between us, but I want to start by telling you I called my financial advisors in Russia and they should be transferring all of the information about my accounts to you by end of week."
"You…still want to have me manage your investments?" I’m sure the shock is written all over my face. "I thought you were here to fire me."
This time it’s Boris who looks shocked, his strong brows shooting up into his hairline. "Why would you think that? I need you."
"You…need me?"
"I need your help. I trust you. I very much want to continue working with you."
"Oh." I don’t really know how to feel right now but I force myself into a more professional posture, back straight, legs crossed, as I look at my computer just to avoid meeting his gaze. I don’t want him to see that I’m at war. Yes, I want his business, but I also want him. And hearing him say he needs me…I should be happy, but the disappointment is there, because it’s my financial mind he needs, and nothing more. But of course, Talia. He said lovely words about me being beautiful, but they weren’t really true. He wants my brain. Nothing surprising there. "I shouldn't have stepped over the line. I apologize. But yes, of course I’d love to continue to work for you."
Boris opens his mouth and then closes it again. His mouth is a razor, set tight. It takes him a minute to figure out what to say.
"Talia, I truly blame myself for this. I am so sorry that I made you feel I would not want to continue our professional relationship."
"No, it’s—I’m just—it’s me. I was the crazy one. I don’t want you to feel badly at all."
"I do, though. I actually came here with a secondary motive to ask you on a proper date, but I suppose, considering how this conversation is going…maybe I should not?"
This time, my mouth drops open. "What? You want to go on a date…with me?"
"I thought perhaps—"
"Wait. You cut things off the other night. You walked away. Now you want to ask me out? Isn’t that running a little hot and cold, Boris?"
He sits back in his seat. "I’m sorry. I did not mean to offend you."
I put a hand up. "No. I’m not offended, but I am confused. You bolted like you were the o
ne offended the other night and now—"
Boris stands quickly, nearly knocking over the chair. "Never mind. Let’s just keep it professional, then."
I grit my teeth. "Okay, whatever," I manage to say. "That’s fine. But sit back down. We have business to finish up."
Angry and hurt, I walk Boris through everything I need from his Russian investment managers and talk him through everything we need to do on this end to ensure a smooth transition. We already have accounts set up with his current wages, so I just need a small amount of paperwork to prepare for the transfer of overseas accounts. I read everything to him and make sure he understands before having him sign. Even though this thing between us is a total cluster—as Parker noted—I still want to ensure he doesn’t get or feel screwed again. He doesn’t deserve it.
Once we’re done, he stands and reaches out a hand for me to shake. It feels forced and formal and I hate it. But I take his offer reluctantly, and probably wearing an expression akin to what one might wear when he or she has smelled a dead fish. Still, when we touch, there’s a zing of energy that goes right to my core. It’s that easy and I know he feels it, too, because his eyes go wide and he pulls away quickly, clearing his throat and saying goodbye before making a hasty retreat.
In the end I decide not to dwell on it. Well, I dwell on it a little, kicking myself for not being nicer when he said he wanted to ask me on a date. He caught me off guard and I’m not proud of the way I responded. Well crap.
Still, I have work to do. A career to maintain. And I can at least report that I have not lost Boris’s business when I call Harold later.
"Hey, Talia, he says. "How’s Sin City this week?"
"Sinful," I say.
"Good to hear," he says. "More sin means more money will need investing."
"True. I do have good news on that front."
"The sinning or the investing?"
"The investing, duh," I say. "The Ice Dragon is moving all of his Russian puck money to us, to add in with the new accounts we set up for his Crush contract."
"Puck money." He chuckles. "Cute. I love it, and really good news, T. The whole shebang, huh?"
"Yep. We’ll see how it all shakes out. These guys were screwing him royally. I can get it under control, but I need to see what they send to me first. I’m sure they’ll try to fuck him over one more time before losing his business."
"Well, let me know if we need to call in the lawyers."
"Will do, chief."
"Congrats. He’s a big name to land. You’re killin’ it out there. Glad I sent you."
"It was a good move for both of us," I answer. "Hey, what do you know about Boris?"
"Why? He creeping you out?"
"No, not at all. He seems really decent, but I know sometimes we can’t judge by the wrapper."
"Scott tells me he’s a good dude," Harold says. "Quiet. Not a big partier. Not a womanizer. Kind of boring by pro athlete standards. His words."
"And as a player? He worth the hype?"
"Haven’t you watched his highlights?"
"Some," I say, not wanting to admit that it’s the still photos of him shirtless that seem to garner my attention lately. And my skin burns just thinking how hot and strong and…yes, sexy, touching him had been.
"He’s courteous, a good sportsman. Strong player, super consistent. He scores like crazy. With Evan on the wing…damn. The Crush is definitely favored to take the Cup this season."
"And the Russian connection?"
"Some shady ties, but that’s kind of par for the course, to mix my sports metaphors. All those guys who played Russian puck are tied to some dark characters, either directly or indirectly. It's Russia, you know? Boris somewhat less than most, though."
"Okay," I say. "Thanks. He seems great. Just wanted to confirm. I’ll let you know when the transfers are all in place."
We hang up and I put my head down and force myself to get some work done. Still, I find myself edgy and cranky by five, so I knock off earlier than usual with plans to get a giant, messy sandwich made of all the meats and then take it home so I can feed my feelings in private.
I wander down the street to a little deli that has fast become one of my favorites, heading straight to the counter to order a Rueben with extra meat. I pay and stand to the side, waiting for my food, as a familiar-looking guy wanders in, sunglasses on even though he’s inside.
He stares at the board for a long time before placing his order. When he steps near me, he lifts his sunglasses and stares at me with piercing blue eyes, lots of tats peeking out of his collar and shirt sleeves. He looks young. Blond and fit, it occurs to me that I’ve seen this guy at the arena.
"Do I know you?" he asks.
"No, but you play for the Crush, right?"
He nods and extends a hand. "Tyler."
"Talia." I shake his hand.
He considers me for a second then it dawns on him. He laughs softly. "I know those glasses. You’re the hot librarian who was looking for Boring Boris that one day. And the one he was drooling over at the club the other night."
"He wasn’t drooling. Come on."
He shrugs and makes a face that says otherwise. "He was being a class-B creeper, looking at you from afar for the longest time. Took no interest in any of the many tasty treats I tried to feed him through the night."
"That sounds…sexist." I can't help cringing.
"It sounds like a compliment, lady. He was all about you and only you, even though I know he didn’t leave with you. Poor sap-bastard probably fell asleep with his cock in his hand and a sexy nerd on his mind."
I’ve been around a lot of crude men, men who think they can say and do whatever they want. This guy ranks up there, though I suppose he thinks he’s just being funny. And I’m not very good at hiding my true feelings.
"Well, that’s not exactly true," I say. "He did walk me home. We live in the same building. But I’m his financial advisor. Nothing more."
"Well, I know the guy only had eyes for you. He absolutely made it clear he wasn’t into one-night-stands no matter how hard I tried to find him a hookup. He’s a terrible wingman. You should be his sex advisor, too. He needs a good doink or his game’s gonna suffer. Just sayin’…"
My sandwich comes up, and I'm almost feeling too queasy from my conversation with Tyler to take it, but the bag is already greasy, just the way I like it. No man comes between me and my meat sandwiches. I grab it and bolt, getting a distracted goodbye as Tyler’s phone rings.
I walk home, thinking about what Tyler said. Boris only had eyes for me? All night? And he’s definitely, totally not into one-night stands? I guess I probably knew that about him. He’s very upstanding that way. Maybe he pushed me away because he thought it wouldn’t be meaningful if we took it too far that night? Maybe he wanted more than just a hot, quick screw? Maybe his awkwardness today was because he genuinely wanted to take me on a date, to get to know me before we…
I blow a frustrated breath out as I reach my building. I’m such an idiot. I clearly have no business trying to be with anyone, because I cannot read social cues. This has always been my problem. I’m not fixated on my looks or on whether or not someone finds me pretty or whatever. I’m smart and I am who I am. I can’t change it. But I do think I miss signs sometimes. Once, Cameron told me I was beautiful after a meeting, and I thought it was a broad compliment because I’d just told him his investments did well for the quarter. It was much later he finally came right out and said, "I’m hitting on you, are you not getting it?"
I was not getting it. And now I wish I’d never gotten it. But whatever. Water under the bridge and all that. But Boris? Boris isn’t water under the bridge. Not for me. I need to fix this with him. He’s worth it to at least try.
I think about all the crude things Tyler said and I’m still shaking my head as I step off the elevator on my floor, ready for my pajamas, and my cat, and a book, and this greasy sandwich that's going to taste so amazing… Oh my God. Fuck.
But
none of those things happen because my door is open a quarter of an inch. I push it open tentatively, finding the inside completely ransacked. My many books are strewn all over the floor, askew in ways that make my little bibliophile’s heart hurt. My kitchen drawers have been emptied. My chaise is flipped upside down.
My heart is beating so hard in my chest. All I can do is stare at the mess. “Who would do this? Who in the hell would do this?” I sob. And then, “Where’s LuLu?”
Twenty-One
Boris
ICE DRAGON IS NOT YOURS
I’m sitting on my couch watching baseball highlights on ESPN when there’s a loud, frantic banging on my door. I get up and head to the door, swinging it open to find a teary, hyperventilating Talia there. She’s got her work bag on her shoulder and a greasy sandwich bag in one hand.
"Talia, what—"
"My apartment’s been ransacked. Everything is everywhere." Her words are a steady, breathless stream. "I’m afraid to go in by myself and I didn’t see LuLu and—"
Her chin shakes as her face screws into a mixture of fear and anger and worry. I reach out and pull her into a hug as she sobs into my shirt. When she pulls away, I hold her face in my hands. "Let’s go down and check it out together."
I grab my keys and throw on some sandals, following her out into the hallway.
A few minutes later, we’re peering into the mess of her apartment. Books and papers are strewn all over. Everything that was sweet with Talia the other night has been upended and destroyed. What the hell?
"LuLu?" she says, her voice cracking. "LuLu? Baby kitty?"
When the cat doesn’t appear, Talia sinks to the floor, breaking into sobs. I do the best thing I can think of, starting to pick up books, placing them back on the shelves. I know she’s probably got a system but for now, I think it’s just important to get things cleaned up and feeling more normal. Talia just cries silently from her place by the door—that is, until a small meow sounds from the rear of the apartment. Talia jumps up, scrambling toward the sound. A moment later, I can hear her telling the cat how worried she was.
Puck Money: A Hockey Love Story Page 12
