“Did a cold shower help?” Yasha asks. He’s sitting in my office with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, a shit-eating grin on his face that makes me think he knows exactly what I was doing upstairs. “It would be great if you could at least pretend to be professional for once in your godforsaken life.” “Do you mean actually pretend? Or do you mean the way you’re ‘pretending’ to marry Cora? ‘Cause I think I can manage the first one.” He places his feet flat on the floor and sits tall with a faux-serious scowl on his face. “How is this? Yes, sir, Mr. Pushkin, sir. Right away, sir. Very good,
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