Page 41 of Wicked Proposal
14
MIA
The rest of the weekend goes on in a peaceful haze.
Eli is over the moon about his new shoes. He wears them around the house all Saturday, then falls asleep in them. On Sunday, I have to bribe them off his feet with Fruit Loops.
It’s the best weekend I’ve had all year.
When I have to go into work for my night shift, I tuck in Eli and kiss him goodnight. “Be good with Uncle Reese. I’ll pick you up in time for school, okay?”
“Promise?” Eli pleads. His tiny hand clings on to my sleeve, as if afraid I won’t show up. That I’ll leave him on his own again.
It makes guilt pierce me even harder.
“I promise,” I whisper.
I mean it.
Never again.
Things are gonna be different from now on.
At work, Kallie is surprisingly understanding when I give her the whole insane rundown. “Oh, you poor thing,” she says when I finished my story. “I can’t believe I was mad at you!”
“To be fair, you had every reason.”
“No, I didn’t! You got caught in ashooting,Mimi. That’s a get-out-of-jail-free card if I ever saw any.” She hugs me tightly, almost squeezing me to death. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Positive,” I croak. “Can I please have my lungs again?”
“Nope. All mine now.”
Afterwards, Kallie tries to grill me about the mysterious billionaire-slash-bad boy who hired me to be arm candy for ten thousand smackaroos.
But I’m not ready to get into all that yet—especially not the Brad part—and so she reluctantly lets me off with another bone-crushing hug and a rain check for tea and yap.
The shift is, of course, grueling.
By the time I’ve dropped Eli at preschool on Monday morning, I’m beat. All I want is to curl up into bed and shut off my brain for a couple of hours. Forget about my wild Friday night and sleep like the dead.
Unfortunately, it seems the universe has other plans.
“Ms. Winters. We need to talk.”
When I see him on my doorstep, all dark suit and husky voice, my first thought is:Oh, no. He’s back.
And then:Oh, no. He’s hot.
I slap myself mentally. The fact that he’s here cannot be good news—atall.
I don’t care how good he looks in those tailored slacks and that barely-buttoned shirt: Yulian Lozhkin is trouble.
With a capital fucking T.
“Mr. Lozhkin.” I steel myself. “What a surprise.”
The corner of his mouth curls. “Not that much of a surprise, it seems. You’ve done your research.”
