He was twenty-five.
And she was…not.
Answering the call, she greeted him cheerfully, saying, “What’s up?”
“Hello, Erie.” Although Sergei Grachyov was six years younger than her, he was in many ways more mature and formal than she could ever be, and the difference in their phone etiquette was the least of it.
“I’m sorry I missed your call,” Sergei murmured in that sexy Russian accented voice of his.
“It’s okay.” Fredericka’s voice was gruff. “It wasn’t anything important anyway.”
“You are my friend,” Sergei countered. “That makes everything you say important.” He checked his watch. “Shall we have dinner and discuss it?”
“Umm—-” Even after all these years, Fredericka still wasn’t used at the way distance seemed to have different definitions for her and Sergei. He lived in Los Angeles, and she lived in Miami. And yet here he was, suggesting they have dinner.
“Time’s up. I shall fly to you then.”
“Sergei! I was—-”
“Worrying over nothing,” he finished dismissively for her. “It’s only dinner, pchelka. It’s not as if I expect you to share my bed in exchange.”
Fredericka turned beet red. “I hate you, Sergei.” She knew he had only said the words knowing it would make her blush.
The young Russian billionaire said lazily, “Ooveedeemsya.” See you.
The call ended, with Sergei ensuring he had the last word.
Fredericka stared at her phone.
Younger men were so…