Chapter 126 Chapter 126 The Couch
I run my hand over the back of a couch.
Too rough.
Then another.
Too soft.
I sigh, loudly, letting the sound carry just enough to be obnoxious.
I look over my shoulder. Ivan follows behind me, silent and looming as always. Gemma and Alek are ahead, moving at an actual productive pace while I drag this out. We’re in some pretentious furniture gallery—only one-of-a-kind pieces, the kind of place that prides itself on not having anything remotely practical. No cookie-cutter furniture here, just overpriced statements.
I’ve already walked the floor three times.
Not because I needed to.
Just to be annoying.
Why did Ivan even come? He’s barely been working on the club with Stanislav lately. It’s… complicated, living with him again. Bitter and sweet in all the wrong ways. After what he said to me—after how things ended in Italy—it still stings. His words cling to me like smoke, impossible to wash out.
The hate inside me brews just for him.
Asshole.
“Nothing looks good to you?” the sales guy asks.
I glance at him.
He is… for lack of a better word, ugly. Not offensively so, just painfully average in a way that makes you notice. Blond hair, blue eyes, red, splotchy cheeks like my old soccer coach. His suit fits well, though, and he smells amazing—clean, expensive, deliberate.
I do it.
I shouldn’t, but…
I look him over, slow enough to be obvious. “Some things look good.”
He smiles wide, and somehow his face turns even redder.
“Mike!” he says, extending his hand.
Behind me, I hear Ivan mutter a curse in our native tongue. Sharp. Irritated.
Good.
“Elle!” I reply, placing my hand in his.
“Let me know if I can help in any way,” he says, adding a wink like he practiced it in a mirror.
“I will!” I return the grin, just as big, just as fake.
I take another slow lap around the floor before finally stopping. A petrol green sofa catches my eye—low, plush, almost like stacked pillows disguised as furniture. I run my hand over the microfiber. Soft. Finally.
I sit down and bounce a little, testing it.
Gemma laughs from somewhere behind me.
“Can I borrow your husband?”
She doesn’t even wait for an answer before pushing Alek toward me.
I grab him and shove him down onto the couch. A sinister grin spreads across his face instantly, because of course it does. I swing a leg over him and straddle his lap, bouncing slightly as I test the cushions.
A couple of people in the gallery laugh under their breath.
Ivan doesn’t.
I don’t have to look to know he’s pissed—I can hear it in the sharp exhale through his nose, like a damn bull ready to charge.
“It’s… um… good,” Alek stutters.
I lean down closer, my voice low. “Why are you stuttering, Alek? This is not our first time.”
His grin falters just enough to make it worth it.
I slide off him and stand, raising my arm to catch Mike’s attention.
“I like this one.”
“Okay! Let’s get the paperwork started,” he says, eager—too eager.
We move quickly to the back of the gallery. He grabs a tablet and hands it to me, and I start filling out the forms—delivery details, setup, all the boring logistics. He hovers nearby, watching just a little too closely.
“Did your boyfriend like it?” Mike asks, glancing past me—either at Ivan or Alek. They’re standing close enough now that it’s hard to tell who he means.
I know exactly what he’s doing.
And I let him.
“I’m single,” I say lightly. “The blond guy is my friend’s husband, and the other one…” I shrug. “He’s just some asshole.”
Mike snickers under his breath, clearly entertained, and leans into the flirting while I finish signing everything. I hand him my card, complete the payment, and start to turn away.
His hand catches my wrist.
“You’ve been flirting with me,” he says, not accusing—curious. “What I can’t figure out is why.”
I arch a brow. “Why would you say that?”
“Because,” he says, studying me, “women like you don’t date men like me.” He pauses, and something almost vulnerable flickers across his face. “You date guys like the asshole.”
My eyes flick to Ivan.
Fucking gorgeous asshole.
His face is unreadable, cold, like always. I don’t know how he does that—how he strips every trace of emotion away until there’s nothing left to grab onto.
I step closer to Mike, closing the space between us just enough to make it deliberate. My fingers smooth over his tie, slow and intentional.
“Are you going to ask me out,” I murmur, “or are you going to let me walk out?”
He hesitates for half a second, then straightens. “Okay. I’ll play. Can I take you out this weekend?”
“Yes.” I pull back slightly. “Call me.”
I pause, then add with a small wink, “All my info’s on the paperwork.”
And just like that, I walk away.
Gemma doesn’t even wait until we’re fully clear of the store. The moment we hit the sidewalk, she turns on me.
“Please tell me you are not going out with him.”
Alek’s arm is draped over her shoulders, casual and possessive. Ivan walks beside me—but not close. Never close. There’s at least two feet of space between us, like an invisible line neither of us will cross.
The sun hits my eyes, blinding for a second before they adjust. We’re meeting my cousin and Tiana for lunch, and after all that walking, I’m starving.
“Why not, Gemma?” I stop in my tracks, turning to face her.
“Well…” she hesitates, then sighs. “Seriously? You’re going to make me say it?”
“Obviously I’ve been seeing guys above my caliber…” The words come out sharper than I intend. I pause, swallowing against the sudden weight in my throat. “He seems nice enough. And just maybe I’ll be enough for him.”
The air shifts.
Gemma’s expression softens immediately—sympathy flashing across her face before something else replaces it. A grin. She wants to push, to tease, to poke at the cracks.
“James still texting you?” she asks, looking up at me through her luscious lashes.
“Maybe.” I smile back, lighter this time.
“You owe me details.”
“I do not.”
I only gave details to Mia.
And even then, not everything.
She’s been in love with him—James—for longer than she’d ever admit out loud. She is a fan girl. His band is bigger than I thought. Still I keep certain things to myself. Like his scars. Those aren’t mine to share. They never were.
But I do enjoy his texts.
The pictures.
The way he lingers in my thoughts longer than he should.
Even though I told him—very clearly—that he was a one-night stand. That I wouldn’t be seeing him again. Wouldn’t be sleeping with him again.
Not like Ivan.
Never like Ivan.