Page 106 of Ivory Ashes

Probably not.

But it will almost certainly get me what I want, what I need: a reason to stay far the fuck away from Viviana Giordano.

38

VIVIANA

I stare at the flowers on the corner of my desk for ten minutes before I can’t stand the sight of them anymore. Especially the card.

I can’t see you soon enough. All my love.

I search every inch of the vase and bouquet without finding a name. Apparently, Mikhail’s secret admirer wants to remain a secret.

Fine.

But she can remain a secret on his fucking desk.

The bouquet is heavy, so I have to carry it with two hands, but I still hold it away from my body. If I touch as little of the vase as possible, maybe the hollow ache in my gut will disappear. Maybe jealousy won’t seep into my pores and destroy me from the inside out.

My hands are full, making knocking an impossibility, so I kick Mikhail’s office door open.

“Delivery,” I grumble. I plop the vase on the corner of his desk. It wobbles for a second before settling. “These came for you.”

Mikhail doesn’t even look up. He’s typing away on his computer, far too busy with work to worry about trivial things like extraordinarily large bouquets of red roses. “Who are they from?”

That is the million-dollar question.

“You would know better than I would.”

“Read the card,” he demands.

“I’ve seen you read books to Dante. Contrary to popular belief, I know you’re capable.”

That earns me an arched brow. “I can do a lot of things that I pay you to do for me, Viviana.” He circles a hand lazily in the air. “Go on. Read it.”

I don’t even reach for the card. I don’t need to. I have the message memorized.

“‘I can’t see you soon enough. All my love.’”

“Was there a name?” he inquires innocently.

Some woman just sent him all of her love and he doesn’t even blink. How often does this happen to him? How many women out there would kill to be in my position?

“No name,” I grit out. “Is that all?”

Mikhail finally looks away from his computer. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. His jacket is draped across the back of his chair and the cuffs of his shirt are rolled around his forearms—an HR-worthy offense on its own, if you ask me. Indecent exposure.

His eyes stroke over my face—and lower. There’s heat in his gaze. I saw it this morning, too, when I woke up with his erection pressed between my thighs. I tried not to touch him as I slid out of bed to take a shower, but when I looked back, Mikhail was looking at me exactly like he is now.

“Do you like it?”

I blink, momentarily stunned at the way he’s reading my mind. Then his eyes flick to the bouquet.

“Flowers are flowers,” I drawl. “They’ll be dead in a few days.”

“We’ll all be dead eventually.” Mikhail stands up, pacing slowly around his desk. He circles around me, his breath hot on my neck. “That doesn’t mean we can’t find some enjoyment in the time we have.”

“Do you need anything else?” I blurt. “I have a lot of work to do.”

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