IT WAS MORNING, DAY three of Ash and Mischa maintaining the most basic of polite conversation at home and work, nothing more. Not that he was counting. His mantra had become I don’t care. And one of these days, he might start to believe it.

“So, you said it didn’t matter what time you had to be at the school, but I talked to my teacher, and made sure you could go first, because then you don’t have to leave work in the middle of the day.” Kelly was the exception to the long, sullen silences. Whenever she was in the room, she projected non-stop sunshine.

The half hour difference between the start of class and the end wouldn’t make enough of a difference to matter, but he appreciated that she thought about it. Mischa smiled. “Thanks. I’ll be there.”

“Yay.” Kelly clapped. “After work, can we all do something? Get ice cream? Skate park?”

Ash sighed. “Just stop. He’s not a permanent fixture, or your personal escort. When this is over—which could be any day—he’ll just be my boss.”

“Fine. I’ll stop appreciating the one good thing you’ve brought into our lives.” Kelly scowled and stomped toward her room.

God. This was awkward, and the hurt etched on Ash’s face was heartbreaking.

It was a good thing Mischa didn’t care.

“You don’t have to do this.” Ash might as well be talking to her coffee. She’d perfected not looking him in the eye in such a short span of time.

“I don’t, but I promised her.” No reason to make the kid suffer because he and Ash were on the outs.

Ash pushed away from the counter. “Thank you for that. I’ll see you at the office.”

Right. And she’d drive herself, because that was what she did. And he’d let her, because it wasn’t his problem.

****

MISCHA STOOD AT THE front of Kelly’s class, near the door, looking at about thirty teenagers in various stages of boredom. Kelly was next to her teacher’s desk, giving him an introduction that sounded suspiciously like brighter highlights from his Wikipedia page.

She was as vibrant here as at home, and the way she presented herself to the class radiated intelligence.

A few expressions shifted toward interest when she got to the part about him being a producer for the MD Skate line of video games from Digital Media, but curiosity faded when she wrapped up with his current line of work.

She grinned at him, then hurried back to her desk, as he stepped forward.

“Who here is interested in architecture?” he asked the class.

He got a couple of rolled eyes in response and Kelly frowned. Okay, so it wasn’t as exciting as skating, but he hadn’t done that for years. Besides, he had a point. He just hoped they stayed with him long enough to make it.

“No one? There’s not a single one of you who wants to know how buildings work?”

A kid in the front row yawned.

“If I wanted to hear boring shit, I’d listen to my dad talk,” someone else said.

“Jimmy. Language.” That was the teacher.

Mischa wanted to tell Ms. Miller it was all right, but he wasn’t going to undermine his authority. He figured he’d make his point, that sometimes people had to do boring work to get by, and then he’d talk about what they really wanted to hear. Maybe that wasn’t his best plan. He was here to entertain, not teach.

That didn’t stop him from asking Jimmy, “How much did those Nikes cost you?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Charming kid. Mischa didn’t mind though. Despite the mild aggravation radiating toward him, he’d take restless teenagers over uptight investors any day of the week. “Because Dad bought them with money he earned from his boring as shit job?”

“Mr. Dozniyov, please.” Warning lined Ms. Miller’s tone.

A few kids snickered, and he gave her a wide smile. “I’m sorry, Ms. Miller.” The flush he got in return told him he could flirt, and get away with a lot. Even if he was in the mood, this was her class and her rules.

“I’m just saying, why would I be an accountant, when I could make money playing video games?” Jimmy asked.

And that was the opening Mischa wanted. He looked at the boy. “Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Make money playing video games.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Lots of people do. It’s a real job.”

“I get that. I even know some people who do it.” A wave of no way’s spread through the room. He hid his smirk. This wasn’t about showing off, he wanted to make them understand. It had been a while since he did a classroom presentation, but most of them followed the same loose script. “I’m asking if you can do it.”

“You have to be the best.” Jimmy sounded as if that should be obvious. “I’m not yet, but I will be.”

“So how do you know your dad isn’t the best fu—”

Ms. Miller cleared her throat.

“—freaking accountant ever.” Mischa corrected his language.

“I just know.” Jimmy fiddled with his pencil, rolling it back and forth between his fingers.

“You’re a hack,” someone else said. “I bet you can’t even stay on a board anymore.”

“He can.” Kelly was indignant.

Mischa was losing them. Time to adjust the script. Before he could mentally fast forward, he heard the familiar clack of wheels on linoleum, and saw a board rolling down the aisle toward him.

Instinct overrode common sense. In a fluid series of motions, he planted one foot on the board, used the other to flip the edge while he jumped, and kicked the board into a 540, coming down on the tail, and spinning it up to hand wheels-in-hand.

Applause and whistles rolled around the room. He handed the skateboard to the teacher with an apologetic smile. She didn’t look too upset, though.

Mischa turned back to the room. “Now can we talk?”

“Real estate is boring.” That was a kid in the middle of the room.

“It’s what I do. What did you think I was going to talk about?”

“Do more tricks,” someone else said.

“No.” He was firm, but kept his voice kind. The point of the discussion was supposed to be that even the cool looking jobs were hard work, but he’d sidetracked things more than he intended.

A girl next to Kelly raised her hand. “How did you learn to do that?” She didn’t wait to be called on.

That was a good opening. “Lots of practice.”

“Everyone says that.” That was Jimmy again.

Mischa took off his suit jacket. “May I?” he asked Ms. Miller.

She furrowed her brow, but nodded, and he draped his coat over the edge of her desk. Next he unbuttoned one sleeve, and rolled it up to expose his arm. There was another round of oohs and murmurs, about the tattoos, and he was pretty sure one came from the teacher.

He drew his finger along a distinct white line that ran down the inside of his forearm. “See that?”

A few kids said, “Yes.”

“I have more of these than I care to count. Most from endless hours of practice, but some from competing. Just like a professional video game player, I had to be the best to make it.”

“But what if you’re not?” asked the girl next to Kelly.

“Then you’ve got a bar to reach toward. It doesn’t mean you have to stop.”

“But what if you love it, but you suck, and you can never get better? Like, you have asthma or something?” There was frustration in her voice.

“Then you do what you can, and remember there are a lot of angles to every business.” The familiar words tugged a thought that was just out of his reach. What was it? “In the X Games, for instance, there are physical therapists, PR people, coaches, maintenance. No athlete does it on their own. Neither does any mechanic, or salesman.”

The conversation was back on track, and he continued to answer questions, while his mind raced ahead on its own path. That fucking property he owed Wolfram for. How much he’d enjoyed designing it. Bringing the vision to life. And how much he loathed trying to sell it.

Not because he hated to see it go, but it was the selling part of it. He didn’t care for trying to convince some wallet to take a chance on something he knew was fantastic, if they couldn’t see its appeal.

Hell, he’d rather be doing this full time, than try and sell another building to another stuck-up real estate asshole.

And then his time was up.

“Can I have my board back?” It was the girl next to Kelly.

“Do another trick first.”

Mischa opened his mouth to say no, but Ms. Miller cut him off. “One more would be all right.”

He planted the wheels, did another standing kick flip, and finished by sliding the board back to its owner. He bowed to the applause. “You’ve all been wonderful. Be nice to your next guest.”

“I’ll be right back,” Ms. Miller said to the class, then followed him into the hallway. “Thank you for your time.” She was blushing. “You’re incredible with the kids.”

“They make it easy.” He grinned.

“And you’re Kelly’s...?”

“Sister’s fiancé.” The lie slid out without hesitation. It was to keep things simple. That was all.

She ducked her head. “I see. Lucky lady. You’re welcome back any time.”

The latch on the classroom door clicked, and Kelly stepped out. Ms. Miller turned away from Mischa. “Two minutes to tell your guest goodbye, Miss Wolfram.”

“Okay.” Kelly nodded. The moment her teacher was gone, she gave Mischa a hug. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

She stepped back enough to look him in the eye. “I have to tell you something.”

This kid was going to master we need to talk before she should. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I’m sorry in advance.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and her voice was quiet. “But if you and Ashy break up, I have to hate you. You can’t tell her that. You’re my idol, but she’s my hero.”

How was he supposed to argue with that? “I understand. Go back to class, and we’ll see you tonight.”

He wandered toward the parking lot, the entire presentation playing on a loop in his head. How was it that a room full of fourteen-year-olds made him question his career choices?

It was stress. That made the most sense. Too much going on. Once he resolved things with Wolfram, he’d feel better about everything.

And make up with Ash.

But that wasn’t up to him. And he didn’t care.

Who the hell was he fooling? It was going to be a while before this didn’t gnaw at him.

He cranked the music when he got in his SUV, but it didn’t drown out his thoughts. The entire trip back to the office, he fluctuated between wondering what to do about Ash, and questioning his job.

When he reached his office, a FedEx envelope sat on his desk, Wolfram’s return address on the label.

Irritation and dread surged inside. He ripped the tear strip, to open it, and slid out the paperwork inside. A note on company letterhead sat on top.

Mr. Dozniyov,

Enclosed is the transfer of title paperwork needed to complete our transaction. I’d like this signed and returned the day after your contract expires.

Of course, if you’ve sold by then, feel free to shred this document.

Sincerely,

Ralph Wolfram

Mischa wanted to fling the envelope contents across the room, but it wouldn’t be the kind of satisfying he needed.

Part one of the argument with Ash nudged his thoughts. The things she said after the party. Taunting. Pointing out her breaking up with him hadn’t done any good on the business front.

But he knew that wasn’t what the split was really about. It hinged on her insecurities.

So why was the conversation bouncing around, insisting he pay attention?

It didn’t matter. Right now his focus needed to be on how to minimize damages to the firm when this deal collapsed.