Page 75 of Breaking Away

Pasting on a frozen smile, I pay the driver when we arrive and get escorted into a French châteaux type building. It’s a place where staff get miffed when you roll your own trolly loaded with overstuffed suitcases up the elevator. Private access again, of course.

It rises to the top floor.

There’s only one door at the end of the hallway that waits unlocked for me.

The penthouse.

The moment I step through the door, it’s immediately obvious this is one of the best views in the city. You get gray-blue mountains spreading their backs across the sky and the glittering ocean. We’re high up enough that the city below feels flush and naked. You see everything all at once, as if looking through the lens of a low-operating airplane hovering above, capturing it all. Not to say the penthouse itself isn’t staggering. I know little about furniture, but I’d gamble the appliances are all high-end… and Italian? The living and dining room is massive, with twenty-foot ceilings. I spot a wine locker. There’s also a fire pit on the terrace, perfect for people to sit around, although Lokhov doesn’t strike me as a social entertainer.

Taking it all in, I have to remind myself this isn’t mine. It’s not earned or because of anything I deserve. I can’t feel comfortable or safe, thinking it won’t be taken away at any second.Just hope this place gives you a second to breathe so you can plan what to do next.

I also decide Lokhov was right, not that I’ll ever repeat those words to him. His place is big enough that we won’t see each other if we don’t want to.

It’s also decorated with no soul.

“Everything is so white,” I say out loud to a couch I could probably stain just by staring too hard.

My voice echoes. There’s no answer.

Lokhov is not here. He’s traveling for an away game.

That shouldn’t mean it’s an invitation to snoop.

I should be respectful, I think to myself, as I open and close every drawer I can see.

This is completely unnecessary and not coming from a need to control and see everything as if afraid it will disappear likemyapartment did.

It’s rude to head into the bathroom to sniff towels (very clean), to see what products he uses (mostly unmarked soap), and read medicine labels (something for muscle flare-ups).

If I’m going through a hallway and opening doors, it’s to see what room is mine. Unfortunately, I hit it quickly as it’s one of the first doors to my right, butjustto make sure it’s the one, I root around the study with the mahogany desk, the home gym with loads of machines, and finally, on the other side of double-doors, his primary bedroom.

My feet stall as I gasp.

The bed.

Is. Huge.

Indulgent.

It could fit four people.

There are black sheets. Who has black sheets? They aren’t even gray or linty, but perfectly obsidian. There’s no mess anywhere. No clothes littered on the floor, loose charger wires, or empty water glasses. At the foot of the bed is a dark brown leather sitting bench, and beside that is an even darker armoire. It’s massive and closed, but presumably where he keeps most of his things.

Although, there’s also a side table by the bed. I inch closer to it and see. Reading glasses, thick-framed and black.

No. I refuse to picture it. He already has a chiseled jaw and an even more chiseled body. Pronounced shoulders. Narrow waist. Big hands. Then there’s those dark facial features easily described as grumpily sexy, but come on.

The man wears glasses in bed?

Naked. Tattooed. Glasses. Big dick. (Presumably, evidence would suggest.)

The visual is an obscenity. I’ve had enough.

Like I’m about to be murdered in a horror movie, I edge away from the scene of the crime, swearing to myself. Never again willI stand in this room, I vow. There’s no reason for me to be there. None at all.

Escaping to the kitchen, I gulp down a glass of water.

Focus, Kavi.

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