Chapter 2

"As little as fifteen minutes a day can make a world of difference," the podcast host says in my ear as I get on my hands and knees and drag the dust cloth across the baseboard I'm working on. "Ten days means one hundred and fifty minutes, which means, in a hundred days, you have done twenty-five hours of productive activity. Think how much French, for example, you could learn in twenty-five hours…"

My concentration jolts when somebody runs by me, clipping my foot. I look up to find a tech bro staring down at me in shock. "Sorry," he mumbles, then keeps running.

In fact, several people are running down the hallway.

"What's happening?" I ask nobody in general, taking out my earphones.

But just like usual, the cleaner is invisible to them.

Since most of the office seems to be running toward the breakroom, I leave my cleaning supplies tucked against the wall and follow them. Everybody crowds around the TV, where a local Vegas news channel has the giant headline across the bottom of the screen: Tech Mogul Found Dead… A photo of Konstantin Sokolov appears. He's always seemed dark to me somehow—maybe his lifeless eyes, despite his smile.

Lifeless. What's wrong with me?

"I wonder what happened," somebody mutters.

"I heard he was ill," a man whispers.

"What, and he dropped dead in his office? Not the hospital?"

"I had a friend who saw him coughing and?—"

Suddenly, everybody gets quiet and turns toward the breakroom door. I turn, too, finding Dimitri Sokolov standing at the entrance to the door. Dimitri is tall and wide, with short, cropped hair on the sides and longish on top. It's primarily dark brown, but there are a few threads of silver in it, matching the iciness in his eyes. He looks around the room. I'm not sure he sees me, but my heart flutters as I take in his thick arms, powerful chest, and intense stare.

I push those silly thoughts away, folding my arms and leaning against the wall.

"Has everybody finished their work for the day?" Dimitri says in a quiet, husky, somehow unnerving voice.

"Sorry, sir," everybody mumbles, making for the door.

I follow the flow of people, head down, hating how my cheeks heat up and my soul threatens to crack when I walk past Dimitri. It's been a problem since I started working here six months ago—wanting him and thinking of running my fingers through his hair, tracing the silver streaks.

Back to the baseboard I'm working on, I keep listening to the podcast. "Self-sufficiency is one of the most admirable things a person can strive for…"

That's it. I don't need a mom or dad. I don't need friends. I don't need anybody. That's what happens when your father takes off before you are born and your mother leaves you behind. You learn to be alone.

It's just me and my art—just one more day.

That's how I live if you had to give it a catchphrase—one more day.

The office is large enough for the six hundred employees who work here. It's not one building but three spread around a large courtyard. Half of the third, the smallest building, is currently being renovated.

I sit across the street, on the park bench, swiping the cracked screen on my phone. The news gives no more specifics about what happened to Mr. Konstantin. Putting my phone aside, I wait until the parking lot is almost empty, and then I walk over to the third building, around the side. Making sure nobody's watching me, I squeeze around the barrier, replace it, and then sneak along the wall until I come to the side door.

All the doors in this place will usually trigger an alarm after hours, but not this building, not while they're renovating. With all the workmen gone, I can go to the corner of the room, climb on a chair, lift the ceiling panel, and take down my art supplies.

I don't have an easel, just a few tubs of cheap paint, an old clipboard for mixing, and some old, ratty brushes that I clean with water from a bottle. It's better than nothing. Just fifteen minutes a day…

Putting on some music quietly, I start sketching. I don't usually like to think when I'm working. I want to empty my mind, let my hands move, and forget about everything. My past. My future. My prospects. Even with my fingers stinging from the cleaning chemicals—I could wear three pairs of gloves and still feel them—I focus on my work.

After a few minutes, I realize I'm sketching Konstantin Sokolov, but I've made his features even more severe, the lines in his face deeper. As I sketch, I know this will be a more interpretive piece, with dark shadows, maybe even some blood red.

"The likeness is impressive."

I drop my pencil and turn. Dimitri Sokolov leans against one of the unpainted walls, his icy eyes unreadable. His tone is difficult to place, too. Is he mad?

"I'm sorry, sir," I say, moving to fold the large piece of paper I'm working on in two. He's so tall he can see my table from this angle despite being several feet away.

"You don't have to stop," he says, staying at the wall. His chest bulges in the shirt like he will bust out of the buttons. His square, strong jawline gets tight. "I'm interested to see how you finish him."

"It's disrespectful," I mutter, my breath catching. "I really am sorry."

"Stop apologizing," he growls.

"I am sorry," I say, bending down to collect my supplies, pencil in hand like it's… what? Some kind of weapon? "But I don't think you need to speak to me in that tone, sir."

Arguing with him is better than admitting to the confusing feelings he sends flurrying through me. It's better than letting myself think about relying on somebody else.

He smirks. I think it's the first time I've ever seen Dimitri Sokolov smile, not that I've spent much time around him. He always looks determined when pacing across the office, always rushing to or from a meeting.

"Fair enough," he says. "So, do you work here, or are you a squatter?"

"I work here," I reply. "I'm a cleaner."

"You're a painter who works as a cleaner," he says.

That sends a tingle through me. I almost want to say thank you.

"I'm sorry about your dad," I mutter.

Dimitri waves a hand, which seems like an odd response.

"And I'm sorry for being here."

He waves another hand with another smirk. A weird and annoying shiver courses through me and settles in my core. "How long have you been using this space?"

I shrug. "A couple of months. I hide my work in the ceiling."

"Why not do it at home?"

I grind my teeth together, folding my arms. His eyes flit down toward my chest? Pushing the thought away, I remind myself that, even if he did look at me—and I bet I was wrong anyway—it wouldn't matter.

"I just prefer it here," I say.

He pushes away from the wall and walks toward me until he's towering over me. Honestly, I like how I have to crane my head to look up at him. I like how the soft yellow light highlights the dust fluttering in the air, creating a sparkling backdrop. I like the silver in his hair catching the sunlight.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, his voice growing husky.

I shake my head. "No?—"

"Don't lie to me," he says sternly. "You wouldn't be here if everything was okay at home. What's happening?"

I stare at him in disbelief. Part of me wants to yell, Why do you care? But he's my boss, technically, even if he's about twenty links up the chain of command. As much as cleaning a large office complex has never been my dream job, I still need it.

"It's loud," I tell him. "It's distracting. There's this couple next door…" I bite down, trying not to think about it. "They fight. It gets bad. Then they make up and fight again. I called the cops on the husband once because he hurt her. She lied and said I was making it up, but I saw it. The argument spilled out into the hallway and…"

I stop, realizing I'm unloading on a total stranger. Maybe that's one problem with spending so much time alone or with podcasts. When I finally get a chance to speak, I can't stop.

"You shouldn't have to live like that." He moves even closer. I can smell his huskiness, his manliness. Is he wearing cologne, or is that just him? My lips tingle, almost like I'm getting ready for a kiss. "What's your name?"

"Dahlia," I tell him. "Or… or Lia."

Offering the shortened version of my name almost makes me cry. It's so pathetic, but it makes me think of Mom calling me Lia and that nobody calls me that anymore.

"Lia," he repeats.

Forcing away the sadness, I weakly smile. "What's your name?"

He laughs, somehow making that a manly sound, too.

"What if I'm serious, sir?"

He holds out his hand. "Dimitri Sokolov."

Part of me knows taking his hand is a bad idea. I've fought off any of these silly thoughts by convincing myself they're not there. Yet when I touch his hand, I feel a spark shoot up my arm. My chest feels lighter for a moment as we shake.

He moves even closer and leans down so that we're almost eye-to-eye. I can faintly feel his warm breath on my face. "Keep painting. I want to see the final product."

Then he turns and quickly moves toward the door. The sudden change almost causes me to yell, Wait! Again, I force that instinct down, along with countless other things. At least he didn't tell me I had to leave.

As I return to my work, I think about what he said. He wants to see it when it's done. I don't usually paint for an audience. He probably only said it because he's trying to be nice. He might not even remember asking me for it, but maybe it will help him grieve.

Then I think about how he waved his hand when I gave my condolences. It was like he didn't even want to think about his dad. Maybe it's too painful? Yet if that's the case, why would he want to see the painting?