"Where have you been?"
I pause at the threshold of my apartment, disoriented by the sight of the twins on my couch, three boxes of pizza piled high on the cushion between them.
TJ stares pointedly at a slice of pepperoni while Gabby glares daggers at me.
I drop my heels and dress at the door, too exhausted to give a damn about wrinkles and rainwater. "With Nicholai," I answer, ambling into the kitchen. After the grandeur of Nicholai's penthouse, my apartment feels...shabby.
But I know that's just the bad mood talking. I love this place. I love this place and I love my life and I love my friends. Even if one of them is pissed off at me for no good reason.
"Again?" Gabby asks, discarding a paper plate on the coffee table. She folds her arms, jaw set.
"Gabs," TJ warns. And then he shoves half a slice of pizza into his mouth. Probably so he won't have to involve himself further.
I grab a plate from the sink and scrub at it furiously. "Do you have a problem with that?"
I ask. I could try to diffuse the situation; I know enough about Gabby and her moods to know that I'm about to be up to my eyeballs in shit. But I'm tired. Physically and emotionally.
I'll have to try the be the bigger person thing tomorrow. Or maybe after a good, long nap.
Gabby scoffs. "That depends. Are you wearing his clothes?"
"Gabby," TJ says, exasperated. "Wait. Are you wearing his clothes?"
"My dress was soaked." I throw the plate, half-washed, back into the sink and grip the counter's edge. "So he let me borrow his shit. Satisfied?"
I glance over my shoulder in time to catch TJ shrugging, as if the logic tracks. Good-natured, as always. But Gabby's frown darkens. "Look," she starts. "I'm sorry, but you haven't been around all that much—"
"I'm trying to get my life together."
"I know that," she says, taking a deep breath. TJ sinks further into the couch. "But getting your life together shouldn't include some sketchy-ass—"
"I don't have many choices here." My temper spikes, threatening to burst free.
Gabby stands, throwing up her hands. "Yes, you do. God, Amara. You always do this. You always take these unnecessary risks, and it blows up in your face. Every. Time. And then what? TJ and I have to bail you out—"
"Don't drag me into this," TJ protests, glaring up at his twin.
"—and you do it all over again," Gabby finishes, her face flushed and eyes bright. The sight of her reminds me of Nicholai, of the way he looked in the kitchen, his question lingering in the air between us. Will you stay?
Gabby closes her eyes. "But not this time. If you're going to keep doing this to yourself, if you're going to keep making these...these terrible decisions, with no thought for the people who actually care about you..." She shakes her head, curls bouncing. "I'm not going to be there at the end to help you pick up the pieces when it all goes to shit. We're not," she amends, shooting her brother a dark look.
"Fine," I say, just as TJ opens his mouth. "I don't need anyone picking up the pieces. I can take care of myself, thanks."
"Fine," she retorts. Tears gather in her eyes. The anger burning in my chest ices over at the sight and guilt takes its place.
"Come on." TJ reaches for his sister's hand. She bats him away. "Gabby. Amara—"
"I'm heading back out." I retreat to the stairs, ignoring the ache in my throat. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."
"Amara," TJ calls, desperate. And damn it if I don't almost turn back.
I slam the door on my way out.
# # #
I may or may not indulge in a bottle (or two) of wine later that night. A decision I instantly regret the next morning.
Head pounding, I stare at the ceiling, wrestling with an existential crisis.
"What am I doing?" I ask aloud. To myself. To the universe at large. To anyone who will listen. "I'm in debt up to my fucking eyeballs. I can barely make rent. I've got, like, twenty bucks in savings. And I have no idea what I'm doing with my life."
It sounds so much worse in the cold light of day, as if by speaking the words, the problem has somehow become larger, more tangible. An impossible mountain to climb.
"This is it." I sigh listlessly. "This is my life. I'm going to be a fucking bartender until I'm eighty and die alone." Maybe I should get a cat and really complete the ensemble.
My phone buzzes, interrupting potentially the world's most epic pity party. I feel around for it, but it's lost somewhere in the blanket I cocooned myself in last night. Growling, I kick off the covers and sit up, burying my hands in the duvet.
"There you are." I grab my phone and stare at the message on the screen.
Nicholai: My place. One hour.
I hesitate. Maybe I can call in sick. He'll see it for what it was—a pathetic excuse—but at least we won't have to rehash last night.
You have to face him eventually.
I let myself wallow in a sea of indecisiveness for another five minutes. "Coffee," I mutter, forcing myself out of bed. "Coffee will make this better."
And somehow, it does. By the time I catch the bus that will take me to Nicholai's apartment downtown, clutching my to-go cup in one hand and a bagel in the other, I'm feeling pretty damn good about myself. Okay, so maybe I crossed a line with my boss yesterday. But everyone makes mistakes.
My mistake just so happens to involve a wealthy Russian mogul.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand and try not to think about how the day might play out. Nicholai and I parted on...strange terms, to say the least. I wonder if he'll be angry at how we left things last night. I don't think so, but I don't know him all that well, really. He's still a stranger to me.
A very attractive stranger. But a stranger, no less.
Yeah. An attractive stranger who has a history of sleeping with his assistants, I remind myself. Maybe this isn't about me at all. He clearly has a type.
The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Ignoring it—it doesn't matter if he has a type—I step off the bus and into the shadow of Nicholai's high-rise apartment. There's a bellhop at the door, peering at me curiously as I step inside the building, no doubt looking quite out of place. I avoid eye contact with the receptionist at the front desk, aiming instead for the elevator bank.
The wait for the elevator is slow going. When it arrives, I'm forced into the back corner to make room for five others. One by one, they file out, the elevator gliding to a halt on the twelfth, twenty-third, and thirty-first floors. The last gentleman dips his chin in farewell, leaving me to make the final climb to the penthouse suite.
I suck in a deep breath as the numbers overhead climb. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. I fiddle with the strap of my purse. Business. This is just business.
The elevator doors open. Go ahead, they seem to say, mocking me. I harden my resolve and cross the foyer, curious despite the nerves. Curious, because something smells delicious.
"You and those damn heels." The voice is coming from somewhere in the kitchen. I grin at the harsh ring of it.
"Chef Dumont," I greet. She's standing at the same stretch of counter I perched against yesterday, when...well. Some thoughts are better left unfinished.
"Assistant." She's chopping something. An onion, I think. She makes it look methodical. Relaxing, even.
I throw my purse on the counter, eyes darting from corner to corner. Nicholai is nowhere in sight. "What are you doing here?"
"Cooking."
"Really? Because it looks like you're chopping an onion."
Her glance, when she looks at me, is one of approval. As if I just passed some sort of test.
I'm about to ask her what the onion is for when a different voice asks, "Are we harassing dear Felice?"
Nicholai appears from the depths of his bedroom, working with expert efficiency at the tie around his neck.
"Yes," I say, shameless. But I suppose there is some shame, because I can't quite meet his eye.
At least he's not angry. Or if he is, he's hiding it well.
Very well. He pauses at my side, close enough to touch. Quietly, he asks, "Is there anything you need before we leave?"
Chef Dumont brandishes the knife. "Out. Both of you. So I can do my job."
"Hostile," I mutter.
"The knife is our cue to leave, I think."
I down the rest of my coffee. "What's on today's schedule?"
"Item seven. Hermosa Beach."
"We're going to the beach?" I ask, staring pointedly at his suit.
Chef Dumont shoots us both a dark look. "Out."
Nicholai steers me out of the kitchen, hand hovering dangerously close to my lower back. He doesn't touch me. Not even an accidental caress. I can't decide if I'm grateful for that, or...disappointed.
You don't have a right to be disappointed. You're the one who left last night.
He calls the elevator. "Yes, we're going to the beach. Do you have something personal against beaches?"
I tap my heels against the floor, impatient. "We aren't exactly in beach attire, Nicholai."
"Patience," he says, surprising me with a grin. "Do you trust me?"
No. Yes.
I sigh. "Yes. I do." The truth of it stuns me. I do trust him, inexplicable as it is. And I know that's dangerous. Because he's a stranger, an attractive stranger, and aren't those the worst kind? They'll destroy you with a smile and they'll look dazzling while they do it.
We're staring at each other. And the longer we stare, the more the look in his eye begins to shift. Before I can discern what I see there, the elevator doors open and we break apart, leaving the moment behind us.