The Soldier - S.R. Jones Page 0,18
second time he came in, I was serving. I felt my cheeks warm as he smiled at me and asked for a latte in the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.
Oh, his voice. Deep, but rough, raw somehow. It matches his accent. I thought maybe he was Russian, and when we finally got to chat a little, my suspicion was confirmed.
We have shared interests. I love dogs; he loves dogs. I love reading the classics; he loves reading the classics. Well, those might be the only things we talked of that we have in common.
The reason Konstantin is so dangerous to me; however, it’s more to do with the one thing I know for sure we have in common. This man has a wildness to match my own. Hell, he has a wildness to obliterate my own. His isn’t hidden deep away like mine. His is on the surface, open, and only covered by a barely-there veneer of civility.
The door opens, and Konstantin enters with a gust of wind and a splatter of rain, before he shuts the door and runs a hand through his thick dark hair. Today, his hair is shiny and wet with rain. Water droplets even cling to his curly dark lashes. Those lashes are the only soft thing in a hard face.
Deep gray-blue eyes sweep the room and pause when they land on me. I can’t move for a long moment, paralyzed in the tractor beam of his charisma and focus.
He smiles and raises one hand. I raise mine and wave back, then realize I’m waving at him with the cleaning cloth. I flush and turn back to the table, focusing on the task at hand. Why does this man make me feel this way?
Sometimes, I wonder if it is purely all a flight of fancy. Maybe, because he’s Russian and I’ve been on such a Russian reading jag of late? Falling into those romantic tales of hard times and historic events can make you lose your mind a little. It followed on from a long period of reading Chinese literature, and before that French; all of it tragic.
“I’m finished.”
The voice to my right makes me jump, and I turn to see my colleague, Alisha, standing beside me.
“Oh, okay.” I smile at her. “Don’t get too wet.”
“I’m already wet,” she says in a whisper, with a big wink.
I frown, not getting her meaning, then follow her gaze to Konstantin.
Ugh. Alisha is incorrigible. A total flirt and sex obsessed. She’s also gorgeous in a way I categorically am not.
The idea she’s noticed Konstantin and thinks he’s hot pisses me off.
“You’re filthy,” I tell her with a forced smile.
“Bet you anything not as filthy as him. He’s hot as fuck. I’d climb that big bastard like a tree.” She watches him order his coffee.
“He came in on Wednesday when you were off, and he wasn’t wearing the suit,” she says conspiratorially as if it’s a great secret.
“And?” I don’t get where she’s going with this.
“It was boiling, remember? He had on a t-shirt and jeans, and oh. My. God.” She fans her face. “Cass, that man’s body is a crime.”
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” I hate how prim I sound, so soften it with a smile.
“Let me tell you, my boyfriend and I have a list. Five famous people we can fuck. He’s on my list.” She points at Konstantin.
“He’s not famous.”
“I know, exactly!” She rolls her eyes. “I’ve had to bump Ryan Gosling for him. So if I get the chance, I’m taking it, and my boyfriend can’t say a thing.”
I snort and shake my head, laughing despite myself. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”
“Pretty sure it is. Anyway, catch you later. I’m off.”
“Bye.” I watch her walk out the door. Her slender, long legs encased in skintight faded jeans with holes in the knees. She’s wearing a low-cut t-shirt, and I think she’s had a boob job because the tops of her boobs look like two orange halves. Her hair is long, straight, and glossy brown, and it hangs down her back in a curtain. She’s stunning, and for a moment I feel dowdy.
“How are you getting on with Stalingrad?”
I squeak and turn to see Konstantin behind me, coffee in one hand, and a plate in the other holding a cream cake.
“It’s long,” I say lamely. “And I get confused with the names, so I’ve printed a list of them off and stuck it by my bed.”
He raises one brow. “Doesn’t that make it