Chapter 2 Episode 2

This dress deserved a better night out. Hell, I deserve a better night out. A better best friend, too, now that I’m compiling a list. For the moment, I’d settle for a better sprint time than the burly security guard on my tail. Thankfully, I’ve got an advantage. The security team following me at a brisk pace across the ballroom seem unwilling to break into a full run so as not to ruffle the invited guests. It gives me enough time to slice through the hall and make it to an elevator. God must finally be done playing mean tricks on me, because for the first time tonight, I get lucky—one set of doors opens just as I arrive. I plow into the elevators and start smashing the button that will take me down to the ground floor and to freedom. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, you bastard…” The doors slowly groan closed. Through the gap, I see the security golems rumbling towards me. “Close faster, goddammit!” I cry out. “You have one job!” The doors are almost closed… I’m on the verge of letting out my pent-up exhale—there’s only an inch left before I’m scot-free—when, suddenly, a huge hand shoots through the gap. I can only gape in horror as the doors reverse course and the owner of the hand steps in. The good news is that he’s not security. The bad news is that I’m pretty sure he’s much, much worse. “At ease, gentlemen,” he says to the onrushing horde of guards, who promptly freeze at attention like toy soldiers. “She’s with me.” Then the doors glide closed. He’s tall, dark, brooding—a dreamboat plagiarized from every single fantasy I’ve ever had. He's wearing a tuxedo, so he's probably a legit wedding guest, but the scowl on his face says he’s not enjoying himself any more than I am. “Going down?” His voice matches his appearance perfectly. Raspy and low like distant thunder. “It might help if you pressed the right button.” He reaches over and smoothly plucks my wrist to redirect my hand to the adjacent switch. His fingers are surprisingly gentle on my bare skin, though they burn like he’s on fire. “Oh.” My cheeks go red like they’re on fire. “Yeah. Thanks.” The doors seal smoothly like they were just waiting for this guy to grant them permission. “You’re just full of useful observations, aren’t you?” I mumble. I immediately regret it—he’s not the reason I’m in this mess to begin with, so he doesn’t deserve my misplaced anger and anxiety. But if he’s offended, he shows no sign of it. “Here.” I blink at his outstretched hand. He’s offering me a pristine white handkerchief. “Thanks,” I mumble again, face still flaming. I take it and dab the sweat from my forehead. “Friend of the bride?” he asks as I give it back to him. “Uh, sure? Something like that.” Deflect. For the love of all that is holy, change the subject now! “What, er… what about you?” The answer comes immediately. “Andrey Kuznetsov. Brother of the groom.” I’m saved from figuring out what the hell to say to that by another, much worse, problem. Because it seems God isn’t anywhere close to being done toying with me. The elevator grinds to a halt. I gasp, grabbing the rail of the elevator as it lurches to an abrupt, jarring stop. The shock makes me forget I’m not supposed to be making eye contact. I look up and his eyes snap onto mine. Those eyes are too ethereal to be human. The irises are a light silver, rimmed with charcoal gray. Or maybe they’re blue? There’s sort of a bluish, predawn hue, like… But I can’t quite decide what to call it before my attention is stolen by the rest of his face. The straight, proud nose. The sharp, hollow cheekbones. The diamond-carved jaw, sporting just the faintest brush of five o’clock shadow. Each feature is a standalone actor in its own right—but the ensemble… Muah. Chef’s kiss. Someone stole this man directly from my spank bank… And then trapped me in the elevator with him. “Oh my God.” I fall back on my initial strategy of attacking the foyer button like a manic woodpecker. “Oh my God, what’s happening? What’s⁠—” I freeze when his hand comes down on mine for the second time. “Once again, you’re missing the target.” He redirects me to the emergency bell in the bottom corner. I push it and it turns red. Then… “They’ll get to it.” He couldn’t sound less concerned. Meanwhile, I’m wondering what kind of fee the dress rental place is gonna charge for excessive sweat stains. But even that worry fades away, because I’m starting to get light-headed, too. And this time, it has nothing to do with him. “When?” I croak. “When will they get to it?” No! I want to scream. No, I’m not alright at all. My best friend is a lunatic and I should absolutely not be in this place and you are way too good-looking to be real and my throat feels like it’s closing up on me and are the lights getting dimmer or is it just me and is it getting hotter and hotter in here or is that just me…? I stumble back and my ass hits the wall and I scream before I can choke it back. “I-I-I… don’t do well in confined spaces,” I manage to stammer. “I do believe that is the technical term, yes.” I feel giddy and insane as I fan myself with one hand. “My Lord, it’s hot in here. Are you hot?” I can’t tell if he’s amused or completely disgusted by me. “You need to stay calm. Breathe.” “The whole thing about being claustrophobic is that you can’t breathe when you want to.” The emergency bell button suddenly flashes. There’s some static and then a voice comes through, high and reedy. “Apologies for the inconvenience, folks. We’re experiencing some technical difficulties. The elevators will be up and running in the next ten to fifteen minutes.” Great. I’m trapped in a steel box hovering several stories above ground with the brother of the groom whose wedding I was forced into crashing. Somewhere overhead, God is laughing his ass off. As far as decoys go, she’s a damn good one. Looks-wise, at least. She’s a siren with seductive green eyes and dark hair that falls in voluminous waves down the open back of her very sexy, emerald green dress. Of course, if we’re taking into account skills, I’m not sure she meets the standards of Nikolai Rostov’s usual go-to for f*****g with my operation. This girl has no skills to speak of. She’s clutching the walls of the elevator, nails digging into the brocaded padding as her chest rises and falls heavily. Either this is all part of the ruse—if in fact she is working for Nikolai—or she’s genuinely claustrophobic. “… ten to fifteen minutes,” she mutters on repeat. “Ten to fifteen minutes… Ten to fifteen…” I clear my throat loudly and she flinches, her eyes snapping to mine. No, she’s no decoy. Say what you want about Nikolai Rostov, but his ploys usually have a little more finesse. Although, considering the call I received from my number-two, Shura, minutes ago—the whole reason I’m even in this elevator with this skittish little lastochka—I might need to reconsider that opinion. Blyat’, this wedding has been a disaster so far. “H-how long do you think it’s been?” she asks tentatively. The flush on her cheeks has traveled down to her chest. “Thirty seconds, give or take.” A whoosh of terror escapes through her parted lips. For a moment, it sounds like she’s about to hack up a hairball. “Th-thirty seconds…” She turns her back on me and claws the wall padding a little tighter. “Oh, God, I’m not gonna make it.” The silk of her dress hugs her ass to perfection. If I squint, I can just make out the subtle line of her panties pressing through the fabric. “Counting down the minutes isn’t going to help.” “What will help?” she demands. “And don’t you dare tell me to stay calm. Don’t tell me to breathe, either.” I suppress a smile as she whirls back around. “Pretend we’re outside. Somewhere pleasant. A sunny, open-air café, maybe, and we’re waiting for the barista to call out our orders.” “Open air,” she echoes as her eyelashes flutter wildly. “Um, okay. I’m… I’m waiting for my order…” “Chocolate frappe with an extra shot of chocolate and whipped cream,” she blurts immediately. “And cherries. Lots of cherries.” She smiles self-consciously, revealing a faint dimple in her cheek. “It’s my comfort drink, okay? It’s what I order any time I’m sad or nervous or freaked out.” “You’re missing the point. It’s sunny and breezy and nice. You’re not freaking out. You’re perfectly calm.” “Right. Calm.” She gulps and her eyelids stop their frantic fluttering. For the first time since the elevator ground to a halt, she draws in something resembling a full breath. “My aunt had a cherry tree in the back of her house when I was growing up. We had cherry pies on Friday, cherry sundaes on Saturday, and plain ol’ cherries on Sundays, ‘just the way God intended them.’” She blushes. “That’s how my Aunt Annie would say it.” She’s clutching the little gold locket around her neck so hard that the chain is embedding itself in the skin of her neck.