He found me. How did he find me? He had half of my first name and an occupation. He must have been determined as hell, and my heart hammers against my ribs when I realize that he hasn’t forgotten about me, either.
I start to move toward him but stop myself. I want to launch myself into his arms, bury my nose in his neck and breathe in his cologne, but I don’t. Not until I know why he’s here.
“What, uh,” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?” I ask, swallowing so loud I’m convinced the entire salon hears it. “What do you want?”
“You,” he says, without missing a beat and my heart stops. The same answer he gave when he was on his knees in his hotel room. I squeeze my eyes shut to clear the memory, half expecting him to be gone when I open them again.
Spoiler alert: he isn’t.
“We sleep together one time three months ago and you have to hunt me down?” I ask. “It wasn’tthatgood.”
“Is that so?” He asks, the corner of his mouth twisting into a smirk and revealing a dimple.
“Uh huh,” I say, holding my ground and crossing my arms over my chest. Suddenly aware that the salon is still much too quiet and everyone is watching.
“Not even when I had my—”
“Okay,” I say, cutting him off. Ignoring the stares and choked laughs from around me, I grab his arm and drag him toward the door. “Outside. Now.”
“It was nice to meet you, Eric!” I hear Mya shout as the door closes behind us.
Once we’re a safe distance from the front doors of the salon, I turn to face him andgoddo I regret it. It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to really look at him, and I forgot how beautiful he is. I’d convinced myself that my memories weren’t real—that no one is that good looking. But he is. He’s breathtaking. It’s alarming, really.
His dirty blonde hair is a little longer than it was the last time I saw him, the ends touching his ears now, and it has a slight wave to it, but it’s still in its signature messy style. His toned, tattooed arms are covered by a leather jacket, but I remember them anyway. Remember every inky line like I just saw them this morning.
When I meet those familiar blue eyes again, they’re already boring into me, and I can’t stop my mind from flashing back to the last time I looked into those eyes. As his body moved in perfect rhythm on top of mine. The way we clung to each other like we never wanted to let go. Like we couldn’t hold each other close enough.
I want you to stay.
His cheeks and jaw are covered in a short beard, but those damn dimples are on full display as he flashes me a smile that says his mind is exactly where mine is right now.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you either,” he says, cutting through the silence.
“Again,” I say, trying to maintain my composure. “It wasn’t that good.”
“We did more than just have sex that night. Or don’t you remember anything else?” I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “You want to lie and tell me that you didn’t have fun that night? That it wasn’t one of the best nights of your life?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks burn.
It was. It truly was. I’d never felt connected to someone I barely knew like I did that night. And the sex? Easily, hands down, cross my heart and hope to die, the best sex of my life. He ruined me for anyone that will come after.
Not that I’ll ever tell him that.
“And how many women have you been with since?” I challenge. He doesn’t say a word, and that is enough of ananswer for me. “That’s what I figured.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “What do you want, Eric?”
“I want to offer you a job.”
“A…job?” Alright, that was…not what I was expecting.
“I want you to write my biography.”
“Youwhat?Why?”
“You’re a writer, are you not?”
“I mean I—”
“You’re a writer,” he says, leaving no room for argument. Like he’s absolutely certain of the one thing I’m terrified to let myself believe. “And I have a story to tell.”
“I write shitty romance novels that no one wants to publish,” I say. “I’m not a journalist.”
