Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“I’m trying, Natasha.” His voice cracked slightly.
I peered at the man who should’ve been my enemy. His entire family should’ve been my family’s enemy. But they weren’t. MacKenzie Boy Four—the son right before Lachlan—married a girl I knew who had been trafficked by the Chelomey Bratva. Of course, that name … Chelomey had gone extinct since the girl Jamie loved, Jordyn, had saved me during my senior year in high school. Thus, the alliance between my family and his.
Even so, an alliance wasn’t enough. I craved him. Wanted him more each day.
The Russian in me should’ve remained poised. And the Black girl in me should’ve appeared composed. A front. Nope. Ever since I took the plunge, I flocked behind Lachlan MacKenzie, and even when I felt like the only woman in Lachlan’s world, one thought scared the daylights out of me.
Would Lach ever truly be mine? Could he love me more than baseball?
2
LACHLAN
For the first six months, we’d been inseparable during phone conversations, getting to know each other, flirting. Then we started dating. Now, after a year and a half strong, I saw her in a new light. Still. Silent. Glowing like light had caught her at the right angle. Natasha stood in the center of the gallery I built for her. She had to know I saw her.
She’d never once been second in my mind, even when the world kept yanking me five different directions. Practice. Photo shoots. Interviews.
Now she stood in the middle of it all.
I didn’t want her to leave. Didn’t want to comply with my fifty-million-dollar Dodger contract or other contracts I’d signed. Didn’t want to do anything without including her.
Natasha’s eyes shined, happy tears collecting in her gorgeous hazel orbs. “You did this, for me?”
I stepped closer, resting my hand on her waist. “Yeah. Had to.”
Natasha didn’t need grand gestures. She wasn’t the type to be impressed by this hotel penthouse or the Nike boxes stacked in my closet. Or even the two million I gave to Whispers of Hope, her foundation. She’d appreciated it. But she’d appreciate it when I visited the kids stuck in the oncology ward. She’d grown up surrounded by power, diamonds, a private jet. Cancer. Still, I wanted to give her something only I could give her.
Time. Thought. Devotion. And maybe the food that awaited us near the French doors. The cold prevented an outdoor meal, so dinner was served on a white-linen table, sheltered by silver domes. For the next hour, candlelight flickered across her gorgeous face as we chatted and ate.
In no time, Natasha dropped her linen napkin on the table, drawn back to the canvases.
“You framed a part of me I thought nobody even noticed.” She glanced at an image that had taken some calling around to her old college professors to grab.
“Allow me to become your personal curator for life.” I climbed out of my chair and planted my kneeling body between her legs.
Her laugh was low, breathy, the kind that hit right in the center of my chest and stayed there.
I kissed her cheek. Soft. Intentional. Then her temple. Slower. Reverent. My lips lingered just inches from hers, so close I tasted the hesitation and heat hanging between us.
Not asking. Not assuming. Just patient.
Natasha leaned in. Her forehead rested against mine. Her voice a breath. “You’re making this hard. It’s easier to kiss you out and about while wearing hoodies.”
I smiled. “That’s the idea.”
Her fingers curled into my shirt. Mine slid around her waist, pulling her against me like I needed her closer to breathe right. Her lips brushed mine once—just the barest graze. I swear my entire body paused.
She kissed me.
And nothing was shy about it.
It was slow, deep. Hot, achy, hungry in a way that told me she wasn’t just kissing me now. She was kissing all the times we hadn’t. All the weeks of almost during those rough months at the beginning, when she hesitated. All the maybes that hovered every time we stood too close. All those hours of phone calls.
I groaned against her mouth. One hand tangled in her short waves, the other pressed the small of her back like I could memorize every curve she let me hold. Cherish.
She was fire in my arms. Soft, fierce, and restrained.
When she pulled away, her lips were swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d run a mile. And her eyes—damn, those eyes—held mine like they could read every unfinished promise I made her.
“I still have to go,” she whispered.
My hold remained firm because nothing about this felt temporary. Not anymore. I pressed my mouth to hers again. Tasted Natasha’s lips again.
“I’ve got a jet to catch,” she said, eyes closed.
“Rublyovka. Your parents are already there,” I said between kisses.
“So let me go, Lach,” she murmured. “If you don’t let me go … I won’t go.”