Page 83 of 10 Days to Ruin

Sasha shrugs. “Sure.”

We rise, toss our garbage, and fall into step on the winding path, our shadows stretching long and tangled ahead.

“This isn’t a date,” I announce to a passing poodle. “Just so you know. So everybody knows.”

Sasha hums. “If it were, I’d have bought you better shoes.”

I glance down at my scuffed ballet flats. “These are my daily drivers.”

“They’re falling apart.”

“So’s my will to live, but here we are.”

His laugh is low and surprised. The sound does something dangerous to my ribcage. I start resolutely counting to one thousand in my head so it doesn’t fill up with steam room thoughts instead.

We pass a busker playing Sinatra on a dented saxophone. Sasha tosses a hundred-dollar bill into his case without breaking stride.

“Showoff,” I mutter.

“I prefer ‘generous philanthropist.’”

“Funny. I’d default to ‘dangerous sociopath.’”

He stops abruptly, turning to face me. “And yet you’re not afraid of me.”

It’s not really a question. Nor is it wrong.

I lift my chin. “Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Why?”

The truth sits sharp on my tongue:Because I’ve seen you tender. Because Zoya said you carry lilies to your mother’s grave. Because when you laugh the way you just did a moment ago, I forget to hate you.

Obviously, me being the emotional coward that I am, I deflect. “Because you’re secretly a Disney prince—a real softie, with a cupcake for a heart. I bet you have a song about repressed emotions and everything.”

He steps closer. Our shoes nearly touch. “Is that what you fantasize about? Me serenading you with my feelings?”

My pulse thrums. “I don’t fantasize about you.”

Liar.

Dirty, rotten liar.

Liar liar pants on fire.

Didn’t he warn you not to fib in front of him?

His gaze drops to my mouth as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Pity. Wish I could say the same about you.”

Oh, for the love of God. Why did he have to go and say something like that? Now, all I want to do, all I’mdyingto do, is ask him to tell me exactly what he dreams of. Is it me? The office? The spa? The gala bathroom? Something else, something new, something better, something worse? Is it wholesome or depraved? Is he in charge or am I? Does it end with fireworks, or does it end with one of us whimpering,Please, don’t leave me like this. Don’t let me?—

A group of joggers swerve around us, breaking the spell. I whirl away, hug myself, and start my count back over from zero. “We should head back.”

“Why?”

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