Katerina

"You've been awfully quiet these past two days, Katerina. What is the matter? Are you feeling sick?" Mom's worried voice pulls me out of my blank staring. She eyes me suspiciously, lips pursed. "Did something happen that night you went out to go see Fabiola?"

"What? No," I lie with a yawn, stretching. My temples ache. "I'm just...I'm fine."

I don't even know what's wrong with me. My whole world came crashing out after that fateful night. Unable to find a quick, effective solution for us, I have no idea but to give into Mom's plan to sell the studio. It breaks me that I'll have to say goodbye to it soon, but I make a vow withing me to do whatever I can to get the studio back after a year or two.

It's the only thing Dad left us with. We can't lose it like that.

"Well, if you say so. Cheer up. He'll be here any minute, and acting sullen might discourage him from purchasing."

"Yes, Mom."

I stand taller and smooth my palms over my hair, pulled back in an elegant bun today. Partly to look professional, and also because I didn't have the energy this morning to do anything more elaborate.

My aching joints has turned my guts into knots. But it's the sickening memory of what I witnessed two nights ago that churns my stomach the most.

Will it be on the news today? Should I have reported it to someone? Deep down, I'm sure it's dangerous to get involved. Still, the idea that someone died and their friends and family don't know what happened ... That doesn't sit well with me at all.

"Katerina, you're staring mindlessly again. Please, snap out of it." Mom shoves a roll of paper towels into my chest. "Go wipe down the front desk. I don't want Mr. Ivanovsky irritated with dust."

"We haven't been in here in months, Mom. Do you really think this person won't buy the store if someone comes in here and sees a little dust?" I chuckle. "If it was that easy, you could have informed me earlier, so I wouldn't bother cleaning it at all."

"Katerina! Behave yourself!" She's aghast, her hand touching her collarbone in her high-neck black dress. "If you're going to cause trouble, just go somewhere else."

"Relax Mom, you're acting like it's the Pope that's coming to buy from us. I'll be good." I'm not childish enough to cause havoc. I don't need to because I've made my own plans. Once I meet the buyer, I'll quiz him about his intentions. If I'm not satisfied, I'll put my foot down. In my heart, I believe my mother will listen to reason if faced with the right information.

After all, it's not the buyer's mind I have to change. It's hers.

There's a knock on the front door. It's a crisp, solid triple tap. Mom and I exchange a look at the sound. I throw the paper towels into the office and smooth down the front of my red blouse. She checks her hair in the many mirrors before motioning for me to go first. "Let him in, Katerina. And be nice."

Pfft. As if.

But when I enter the front room, I see that he has already let himself in. I'm furious at the cockiness this stranger has. Who the hell just walks into a business without waiting for permission?

Then he turns toward me.

And it's ... hard to feel angry.

He towers over me, his figure cutting a perfect triangle in his cobalt suit. The black belt around his middle gives him a taper, hugging his thick trunk to show off how fit he truly is. When he angles his chin down to gaze at me with his light blue, nearly silver eyes, my headache disappears.

In its place, heat slips through my blood and leaves me dizzy.

I've never seen someone as sexy as him. Not this close, anyway. He lifts a large hand, his long fingers scrubbing lightly over his chin as he smirks at me. "You're not Irina," he says.

"Oh, uh, no." Clearing my throat, I offer him my hand. "I'm Katerina, her daughter."

He grips my palm, the warmth and power traveling through my skin until my scalp tingles. Oh, dammit, this is bad. I'm supposed to hate this guy's guts. That's what I was ready for.

Not ... this. This confusing electricity...

"Mr. Ivanovsky!" Mom weaves between us, taking his hand, giving it a few excited shakes. "I'm so glad you made it! I hope parking was all right? These streets, sometimes people just leave their cars without any consideration. If there's trouble, tell me. I know a man who will tow⁠—"

"No, no. It's fine." He surveys the room after he withdraws his hand. "So, this is your studio. It's smaller than I thought it would be."

A flicker of annoyance dampens my attraction. "It's still bigger than any other studio in the entire area."

"Right. You had that fact on the tip of your tongue," he notes. Mr. Ivanovsky turns in place, then walks around us, exploring the main dance area. He's not waiting for us to lead him around.

Baffled, I shoot my mom a look, trying to say, What's his deal?

She ignores me and hurries after him. Sighing, I follow along, wanting to keep an eye on what he does next. Strolling along the perimeter of the mirrors, he watches himself in them before he crosses the room and stops.

"Even if it's bigger than other dance studios," he says, looking at me in the reflection. "It's small."

I tense under his hard stare. "It's big enough."

"Not for my purpose."

"And what's that?" I ask cautiously.

Instead of responding, he returns to exploring. When he reaches another wall, he runs his thumb down the mirror, squinting at the smudge. My mom hisses in my ear. "I told you to wash those."

I frown. This man clearly doesn't care about the mirrors.

"I asked what you plan to do with the building," I say.

He mumbles to himself, pulling out his phone.

Storming toward him, I grab his elbow. "Hey! Stop ignoring me!"

He stiffens at my touch. I might as well have grabbed the tire on a four-wheeler. Slowly, he turns just enough to glower at me. His face is stoic, but beneath it burns a vivid, intense energy that threatens to buckle my knees.

"If you want my attention so badly, ptichka, there are better ways to get it." Shifting backward, he forces my hand off of his body.

"You're here to make an offer." Refusing to back down, I swallow the dry spot in my throat. "Talking business usually involves talking."

"Katerina, please," my mother says, rushing up beside me. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ivanovsky. My daughter can be very blunt."

"Call me Sasha." He darts his silvery eyes at me. "And it's quite all right. I'm used to dealing with overeager people who don't know their place."

Oh, he did not just say that. Making fists, I brace myself in preparation for telling him where he can shove his offer. But before I can say anything, Mom stands in front of me and claps her hands with a big smile.

"Shall we go to the office?" she says. "You can go over the paperwork."

Sasha flicks his attention from me to her, then back again. "Only if your charming daughter is okay with that."

His smirk is like a fishhook. It tugs into me with such force that I'm afraid I'll never yank it out. And when it's gone, I can still feel its presence throbbing against my flesh. I fight the instinct to roll my eyes. Ugh, why does he have to be so easy on the eyes?

"That's what I've wanted from the start." Once he sees the numbers, there's no way Sasha will want to buy the studio. It's a money pit. He won't want to fix it, not the way I do. This kind of labor involves memories ... It involves genuine love.

One look at him, and I know that's an emotion he'd never understand.