Page 26 of Charmingly Obsessed
The formidable elderly woman who practically strong-armed me into accepting her offer of a room is the one and only mastermind behind the ridiculously exclusive Businessmen’s Book Club “Literary Miracle.”
How she lures these high-powered, schedule-packed alpha males into discussing books is a mystery to most. Unless you’ve witnessed her in action. She’s less a literary critic and more a charming, terrifyingly insightful inquisitor.
The delicious irony? Mykola Frez, Mr. Cutthroat Finance himself, is the founder of “Literary Miracle,” the book club for people who usually only read quarterly reports and stock market analyses. Small world. Or maybe just a world that orbits, inevitably, around men like him.
I met Serafima by chance, eating my solitary lunch on a park bench near the office, nursing a cup ofryazhenkaand my bruised heart. Frez hadn’t been to the office in days. Weeks. It was after that day in the kitchen. I was convinced he was avoiding me.
First, I saw the flamboyant edge of a silk scarf – shocking pink and regal lilac.
Then, the glint of oversized, pearl-encrusted glasses that would dwarf a normal human head. Serafima Pylypivna was, and is, impossibly, gloriously tall.
“I’m not crying,” I’d muttered, defensive and cold, ignoring the scarf she held out to me – a silent offer to dry my tears.
“Then why are your eyes leaking, my dear?” Her commanding voice boomed.
She’d sat beside me with an exasperated sigh, and from that moment, a strange, unlikely friendship blossomed. She teased me relentlessly; I tried, mostly unsuccessfully, not to laugh. I became her favorite sparring partner, her entertainment. Everyone adored her. Or feared her. Often both.
“Clearly,” she’d announced loftily that first day, her gaze sweeping over me, “you were a dragon in a past life. And now? A golden rose, tragically trapped in a glass pot.”
This morning, she greets me at her apartment door looking like a chic, eccentric fortune teller: a vibrant Romani shawl draped over her shoulders, neon-pink fingerless gloves, and a pair of well-loved, shaggy Canadian Uggs.
Her ancient dachshund, Aza, wags her stump of a tail enthusiastically at my arrival, before promptly returning to glare with undisguised suspicion at Serafima’s boots.
“Good heavens, child, where are your things?” Serafima exclaims, hands on her hips. “Don’t you dare prevaricate. We agreed. You’re staying. For at least a year. I spent two weeks preparing that room! Aza required veterinary attention from the sheer volume of vacuuming!”
I bite back a smile. I know for a fact she hired a team of professional cleaners.
Frez arrives early. Of course, he does.
My heart doesn’t just leap; it sprouts wings and attempts a triple axel. I practically fly down the grand, slightly crumbling marble staircase, drawn by an invisible, irresistible force.
He’s leaning against his sleek, silent Spectre, a stark slash of modern technology against the building’s faded grandeur. His expression is… unreadable. More so than ever. Guarded. Remote.
For a terrifying, stomach-dropping second, I freeze. Did he change his mind? Regret last night?
Then the shadows in his eyes clear, replaced by something… steady. Resigned. He pushes away from the car, stepping towards me. Thank God. I wouldn’t have dared to move.
The moment he’s close enough for me to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his skin, that unique Frez blend of expensive cologne and raw male energy, a wave of fear, sharp and sudden, crashes over me.
It’s not fear of him. It’s fear of… this. This overwhelming, terrifying connection. Like a decision has been made, irrevocably, for both of us. Like we’re caught in a current too strong to fight. Like we willnevernot be tangled together, no matter how many miles or continents or lifetimes might try to separate us.
Never.The word echoes in my head. A promise. A threat.
“You’re really going to live here?” he asks, his voice strange, his gaze sweeping over the imposing but undeniably aged facade of Serafima’s building.
Is that… disapproval? Disdain? “What’s wrong with it?” I ask, a defensive edge creeping into my tone. “People live in normal apartments, Mykola. My oldkhrushchyovkawas ten times worse than this.” I didn’t expect architectural snobbery from him, of all people.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, dismissing the topic, dismissing my defensiveness. He leans in, fast, unexpected. And kisses me.
Hard. Deep. Possessive.
And then it’s not just a kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound, and his arms snake around my waist, lifting me clean off my feet.
I gasp, my arms instinctively locking around his strong neck, my body trembling, boneless against his. He’s making up for lost time. Eight long, torturous hours since his mouth was last on mine. Eight hours too many.
“We—we have to go,” I stammer, trying to inject some sanity into the intoxicating madness, trying to pull our runaway shuttle back to earth. “The meeting…”
“We don’t.” He nuzzles my ear, his lips pressing deep, sending shivers down my spine. “We have a whole hour. Unless… you’d rather continue this in the car? More private. Let’s go.”
