32. Natalia

32

NATALIA

My new plan is simple.

DO NOT THINK ABOUT ANDREY KUZNETSOV.

DO NOT FANTASIZE ABOUT ANDREY KUZNETSOV.

DO NOT WASTE TIME FEELING ANYTHING FOR ANDREY KUZNETSOV.

It's been three days since the disastrous office incident, and I haven't seen or heard anything from him. Which I've decided is a good thing.

What's not such a good thing: still having to show my face at work after climaxing on my boss's desk.

Abby cornered me by the copier this morning and demanded to know what really happened the other day. Did I actually fuck Andrey Kuznetsov on Byron's desk? Or was I fucking Byron when Andrey walked in on us?

Lola and Kate from accounting gave me super nasty stink eyes while I was eating my lunch. Even Marge, the sweet old receptionist who has always been nothing short of lovely to me, pretended to be busy both times I walked past her desk today.

The one saving grace in all this has been—shocker of all shockers—Byron.

He's the last person I would've expected to have my back, especially after what I let happen, but not only did he refrain from firing me, but he also refused to accept my resignation.

"No way, Nat," he said fiercely. "You're a good employee and I'm not going to lose you over something like this."

"But—"

He shook his head. "You're staying. And furthermore, I'm not taking this to the higher-ups, either. But just so you know, there is talk in the office. I'm only telling you because I want you to know it didn't come from me."

"Then how?—"

"Leslie caught a glimpse of what happened when she was walking to the restroom. You know what a gossip she is."

Forget our company—the whole building will know about it by the end of the week. "Why do you want me to stay?"

"Because you're a good employee," he insisted. "And because I don't want that asshole to win."

I didn't tell Byron that there was no hope of that; Andrey Kuznetsov always wins. The only thing we can do is ignore him.

Which is why I repeat my new three-step plan to myself as I get home from my extraordinarily long day.

Do not think about Andrey Kuznetsov.

Do not fantasize about Andrey Kuznetsov.

Do not ? —

I freeze in the doorway to the pool house, a tight knot forming in my belly.

Nestled in the alcove between the sitting room and the kitchen, right under the window, is a baby grand piano.

I approach it cautiously, like it might grow legs and run away if I spook it. When I'm close enough to be sure it isn't going to flee, I brush my fingers over the smooth, glistening surface. Tears jump to my eyes. When I touch the keys, a C-sharp rings out, clear and pure.

For a tenuous moment, I feel my father and mother in the room with me.

I hear my father's booming laugh.

I smell my mother's perfume.

And then it's gone. They're gone.

And I'm standing alone in a lonely pool house with a piano they never played.

Which is how I find myself thinking about Andrey, fantasizing about Andrey—and most definitely, feeling things for Andrey.

Some of them are angry and bitter. For making a mess of my work life. For making me think about my parents, miss them even more than usual.

Most of the feelings, however, aren't angry or bitter at all. That's the worst thing he could've done.

The floorboards creak and I whip around. It's like he could feel the shift in my thoughts, and decided to strike when I was at my weakest.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

"No." I'm still touching it, I realize. I peel my fingers away. My lips are trembling as I try to maintain composure. "I told you I didn't want any more gifts."

"I know you used to play with your parents."

I manage to put my finger on the constricting feeling in my chest: disappointment .

And this time, it has nothing to do with Andrey. I told only one person in this house that I used to play piano with my parents. And that person was definitely not him.

"Yes, I did. But since my parents are dead —" I hurl the word at him, even though it still hurts me just to say. "—there's no one left to play for."

His gaze flickers to the baby grand. "If you want me to remove it, I will."

I should let him. Burn it to ashes; see if I care.

But the moment he suggests removing the piano, I shift closer to it. Now that I've seen it, touched it and felt my parents in the room—I can't possibly let it go.

"Don't bother," I snap. "It's here now. Just leave it. But I want you to know that this is the last thing I will accept."

He inclines his head and leaves.

If I've pissed him off, he does a good job of hiding it.

I drop onto the piano seat and exhale. After a long time has passed, I place my hands on the silky keys and begin to play.

To my surprise, it comes easily. My fingers remember where to move, how much pressure to apply to make the music sing. I play through my complicated emotions, channeling all my frustration and resentment and uncertainty into the chords. I play until the sky turns dark and shadows creep into the pool house.

I'm still playing when my phone lights up with a text message from Mila.

MILA: Hey, whatcha up to? I thought we could order a pizza and watch a movie together

I answer without hesitation.

NATALIA: So you can report to Andrey afterwards? Thanks, but no thanks. Let's agree that you stick to your wing of the house and I'll stick to mine.

I send the text and put my phone face-down on the stool next to me. A few seconds later, it lights up with incoming messages.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I ignore them all and keep playing.