Page 29

He looks at the mess of papers around me, then back at my face. “Get up,” he says. “I’m taking you home.”

The thought of that happening immediately sets my cheeks aflame. “That’s not necessary. I can take the subway.”

“The subway stopped running an hour ago.”

I glance at the clock on my computer. It’s 2:52 A.M. He’s right.

“Okay, well, I can call an Uber.”

“Or you can just get in my car.” He’s walking toward the elevator, certain that I’ll follow. Unfortunately, he’s correct. “Come.”

I gather my things with clumsy fingers. My bag, my coat. I leave the files and my notes in a neat stack on the desk. That’s Future Rae’s problem now.

The elevator ride is silent. Lukas stands on one side; I stand on the other. There’s an entire elevator car between us, but between some combination of how unbelievably big he is and how sleepyand edgy I feel right now, that space does not seem even close to sufficient to protect me.

It’s probably because of that stupid dream. The scene is still fresh in my head. His thumb in my mouth… His hand in my hair…Good girl,he called me…

I clench my thighs together and stare at the floor numbers counting down.

The parking garage is empty except for a gleaming black sedan that can only belong to one man. He strides to it and opens the passenger door for me. I slide in.

The interior smells like him, just as he did in my dream. Leather and sea salt and mint.

He gets in. The engine roars to life and we start to drive.

I have never been more aware of another human being in my entire life. His hands are enormous on the steering wheel and I can’t stop looking at them. The scarred knuckles, the blunt fingers, the silver rings catching light from passing street lamps. Those hands could doanything. Break anything. Hold anything down. Hold anyonedown.

I squeeze myself closer to the passenger door.

The city whisks by outside. New York at 3 A.M. is a different animal. Quieter, lonelier. When I dare to glance at him periodically, I see it reflected in those gray eyes.

It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. That doesn’t stop me from trying to imagine, though. What does a man like Lukas Lazarev see when he looks at a girl like me? Some helpless kid who can’t handle a late night? A dumpster fire who fell asleep ather desk like a college freshman during finals week? A mess? A slacker? A burnout? An easy lay?

Or maybe he doesn’t think about me at all. Could it be that I’m just another task on his list?Pick up the assistant. Drop her off. Move on to whatever dark business fills his nights.

I sneak another look at his profile, hoping for answers. There’s nothing to be found, though. There’s only the rough line of his jaw and the silver of his beard.

He’s not handsome in any conventional way. His features are too brutal for that. Too weathered. Too rough.

But there’s something about him that makes it hard to look away.

It’d be nice if one of us would say something. I could apologize for falling asleep on the job, I guess, though it seems only fair, considering he dragged me back in to work past midnight. Butsomekind of conversation would be good. Anything to fill this awful, suffocating silence. Better yet, anything to make me forget that awful, suffocatingdream.

“How are you finding the work?”

His voice breaks the silence so suddenly that I flinch.

“The work?” I parrot, eloquent as ever.

“The job. Life on the fiftieth floor.” He glances at me, then back to the road. “How are you finding it?”

I pick at a thread on my coat sleeve. Something about the nighttime and the hazy state of my consciousness makes me far more honest than I would normally be. “I don’t even know. I have no idea what I’m doing. I sat at my desk for eight hoursyesterday staring at a closed door. The snake plants are my only friends now. We’ve bonded over our shared confusion about why we’re there.”

He chuckles without smiling. “The adjustment period can be disorienting.”

“That’s one word for it,” I say, side-eyeing him suspiciously. “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Kafkaesque nightmare,’ but sure, let’s go with ‘disorienting.’”

This time, he does smile. It’s small, a nano-smile, but it transforms his face in a way I hadn’t expected.