Page 8 of Taming Mika

I lean closer, my hands braced on the desk beside her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to give me easieraccess. And here I thought you didn’t like me.”

Her lips part, a sharp retort dying on her tongue as my words hang in the air. Her breath quickens, and for a moment, the charged silence between us promises something more.

Then, a knock shatters the moment.

“What?” I reply angrily.

Mika jerks upright, her eyes darting to the door as Marco steps inside.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he says evenly, “but Mr. Kapranov is on the line. It’s about your fiancée.”

5

MIKA

Afiancée? He must be joking.

Alfie turns his striking hazel gaze back to meet mine, an air of indifference surrounding him. He’s still inches from my face, near enough that he could kiss me without warning. A moment ago, I got the feeling that he might.

I’m not sure I would have stopped him if he’d tried, because whatever this energy is between us, it defies all logic. Rationally speaking, I don’t like him. I can’t stand vain, cocky men who flash their money to get what they want. It’s men like him that spoil the sport I love so much.

But when he’s this close, I find it hard to keep that fact in my mind. I can feel the shortage of oxygen we’re sharing. The warmth radiating from him seeps into my clothes, unleashing tingling goosebumps across my flesh. I haven’t felt like this about a man in far too long. As if— even when he’s too close, he doesn’t feel quite as close as I want him.

And two seconds ago, I was in danger of doing something stupid. Something reckless—like letting him kiss me.

But a freaking fiancée?

It takes my brain a few beats to translate the meaning behind that word. When it finally does, fury rips through me. I’ve spent the last few days trying to reevaluate Alfie from a different perspective—to account for the fact that he didn’t take advantage of the Carvers, to acknowledge that, as far as I know, he actually signed in writing that he would let me run the barn as I see fit.

But all that effort to try and understand him, all my good intentions of giving him a second chance, a fresh start, come crumbling down. As if it’s not bad enough that he’s hitting on me despite being my new boss—apparently, he’s doing so while he’s engaged to be married.

What the actual hell?

In my experience, rich assholes usually wait until they’re miserable in their marriage before their eyes start to wander. This puts my new boss in a whole new category of entitled.Not only is he arrogant. But he’s also a greedy, selfish, misogynistic pig.He can pretend to be charming all he wants, but it would seem I had him pegged from the start. I don’t know who Alfie Bonetti thinks he is, but he sure as hell won’t be coming near me again.

And I hope he can see every last thought written in my expression now.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he straightens to leave, but the movement is almost reluctant—the most hesitant thing he’s done since I met him.

When he puts space between us, I can finally think straight. “Please, use my office,” I insist, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I stand. “I’ll go.” I need to get the hell out of here before I blow a fuse.

I’m halfway across the room before he even has a chance to respond. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the deep baritone of his voice—low and commanding—but whatever he says doesn’t stick. I don’t stop to hear it, nor do I care if it was directed at me.

My focus narrows to the barn’s entrance as I stride past his hulking bodyguard. The man doesn’t move an inch, just a living wall of muscle shadowing the doorway. I don’t dare look back as I marchdown the aisle, my boots echoing against the concrete. I don’t know where I’m headed until I stop in front of Fate’s stall.

The young filly’s delicate head lifts, her wide, liquid-brown eyes meeting mine. Calm, watchful, steady. She doesn’t flinch under my scrutiny, though my chest heaves with barely contained frustration. The soft wisps of her freshly groomed red forelock rest neatly between her alert ears, and her quiet presence pulls at me, offering something I desperately need—an anchor.

I pop open the trunk outside her stall and pull out a curry comb and brush, clinging to the task like a lifeline. Sliding the door open, I let my anger stay behind, dropping it like a stone in the alley. The twelve-by-twelve space is a peaceful sanctuary, generously bedded with straw and heavy with the sweet scent of hay and horse.

“Hey, girl,” I murmur, holding out a hand as I approach her.

Fate stretches her neck, nostrils flaring as she sniffs me with gentle curiosity. Relief floods through me, chasing away some of the heat coursing under my skin. When she nudges my palm, I let out a slow breath and run my hand over her forehead, savoring the cool, silken feel of her coat.

She settles, and so do I. Circling her with the curry, I fall into the rhythmic task of grooming, brushing in slow, deliberate strokes. Dust, dander, and stray hairs lift from her coat as my thoughts churn.

Alfie.The man is anything but subtle. His intentions were clear, his gaze far too familiar, and the heat radiating off him had been impossible to ignore. I’ve spent years brushing off men like him. Men that think their money is a golden ticket, that all women will fall at their feet for the price of a dinner or a shiny trinket. I’ve always found it repulsive.So why didn’t I pull away when he stood so close?

I pause mid-stroke, my hand hovering over Fate’s gleaming red coat.

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