3. KAVI

3

KAVI

The security guard is kicking me out before I make it to Lokhov's room.

Probably because I'm in a two-piece pajama set textured like a rug and wearing a backpack while everyone else glides around in formal wear. My outfit is sad cashmere (if you squint) and struggles to cover my size sixteen body. I'm pear-shaped, so my boobs are petite, but my bum and thighs strain to bust out.

Heads turn as I drag my feet, slowing the guard down. A woman in a stunning cocktail dress whispers disapproval to the coiffed man beside her.

Before we make it to the door, a curly-haired Asian man stops us. His name tag says he's the manager.

"What's going on?" he asks the guard.

"This homeless woman was trying to sneak upstairs!"

I gasp. "I'm not homeless. I'm Kavi Basra!"

I'd meant to share my name as a last stand, kind of like a This is Sparta declaration before I'm thrown out, but the manager jerks as if he's been slapped. "Kavleen Basra?"

Confusion and dread battle it out in my suddenly knotted stomach. I whisper, "I prefer Kavi."

I'm not famous. My dad is the head coach of the Seattle Blades, and my fiancé is their captain, but no one has ever given my personal name any attention. I exist in the background of their success, never beside it and certainly not in front of it.

The manager's hands jerk. "Mr. Lokhov informed us you were coming, but I didn't think you were—" He clears his throat. "We apologize profusely for any offense, please let us make up for our mistake."

Before I can ask questions, I'm given a complimentary bottle of expensive champagne. I store it in my backpack, only because it's padded with enough tissue paper so the bottle won't scratch the camera in there. After that, I'm escorted to a private elevator because Dmitri Lokhov is staying in a penthouse that isn't accessible otherwise.

As the elevator climbs higher and higher, I'm gulping at my reflection in the mirrored glass. I'm wild-eyed, my hair is askew, and this outfit shows way more curves than I thought it did despite the dishrag material.

And then, before I know it, I'm standing in front of his door.

Right as I'm about to angrily knock, it swings open.

Dmitri Lokhov has really grown up, is my first thought as he lets me inside.

The last time I saw him this close-up was prom.

Back then he was devastatingly handsome, but in an outcast, loner kind of way. Also there was a touch of softness in the contours of his body to lull you into some slight sense of security.

A strange feeling hitches in my chest as I stare at him now.

All that softness is gone.

In front of me is a man with no hint of boyishness left. If it weren't for his eyes, I wouldn't think he was the same teenager who relentlessly ignored me in high school.

They are the same startling shade as ever. Not brown or black, but both and also gold when the light catches them at a certain angle.

This sounds way too posh, but poets could drawl soliloquies comparing that golden sight with the bottom rim of a full whiskey glass, set under the wonder of an unclouded sun.

Not me, though.

In my head, Lokhov's eyes are dark, evil, and tar-like. And he's tall and menacing, with his darker hair, darker brows, and a chiseled jaw sporting the darkest of stubble. Thick muscled arms are covered in tattoos so densely packed I'd have to stick my nose against his skin to figure out the inked shapes.

His eyes flick to my mouth, linger, and then pull back up.

That little gesture does… something to me. Awareness trickles through my body like a soft, puzzling, drizzle. I suck in a shallow breath, confused. There's a stumble of a pulse.

Quickly I bite my lip, needing pain to remind myself why I'm here. Anger and righteousness refire, and I forcibly stoke those feelings higher. My backpack goes down on the ground. Like an athlete warming up—which I am nowhere close to being—I roll my shoulders.

My feet move as I circle him slowly.

We're in an absurdly spacious penthouse that could include an Olympic-sized swimming pool if it so desired. Skimming my gaze around, I count three separate living spaces with their own couches. The kitchen has an onyx island that could fit multiples of me on the midnight marble. Looking past the furniture, there is a city skyline spreading out a decadent view of twinkling lights reflecting off the water. Stepping out onto the balcony, I bet you could walk a whole, long circle around the penthouse and see the stars from any angle. It looks like it wraps around the whole unit.

That's not why I'm here.

Coming back to face him again, I put my meanest sneer on. "I'm about to punch you, Lokhov?—"

The diagonal scar notching the fullness of his upper lip twitches.

"—because you nearly cost my fiancé his career."