“Blake, I need a favor.” Heath’s voice is slightly tinny through the speaker. “Willow and I are up to our eyeballs in wedding planning, and we completely forgot about getting her security deposit back from her old landlord. Could you swing by and pick it up?”
Two weeks ago, Heath’s girlfriend—and now fiancée—Willow had a huge leak in her apartment that practically flooded the place. Fortunately for Heath, it was the perfect excuse to have Willow move into his big cabin in the woods. And now the two of them are engaged to be married.
“I’d go myself,” Heath continues, “but we’ve got the caterer coming in like twenty minutes, and Willow’s about to have a meltdown.”
I glance out the window at the movers loading up the last of the boxes. “Yeah, sure. I’m pretty much done here anyway. Just send me the address.”
“Thanks bro, you’re a lifesaver. I owe you one.”
“More than one,” I joke. “But who’s counting?”
Heath laughs. “True that. Okay, gotta run. Thanks again!”
The line goes dead, and a moment later, a text pops up with the landlord’s address. I grab my keys and head for the door, trying to ignore the nagging emptiness in my chest.
As I navigatethe suburban streets, my mind wanders to my love life. Or lack thereof.
It’s not like I haven’t tried. I’ve dated, even had a few short-lived relationships. But nothing’s ever felt right. No one’s ever made my heart race, my palms sweat, my soul ache with longing.
No one except her.
I can still picture her so clearly. Those captivating eyes, that teasing grin, the way her body fit so perfectly against mine. I fell hard and fast that night in Vegas, harder than I ever have before or since.
She was young, probably too young for me. Barely twenty-one. But the connection between us was undeniable, magnetic. From the moment I saw her sitting alone at that bar with her nose buried in a romance novel, I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
I remember the thrill that ran through me when she looked up at me and the way her cheeks flushed as I introduced myself.We talked for hours about books and life and everything in between.
She was so smart and so passionate. So different from any woman I’d ever met. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I couldn’t get enough of her sweet laugh, her quick wit, or the way she bit her lip when she was thinking.
I knew it was a bad idea to hook up with a stranger in a club bathroom. I’ve never been that kind of guy. But with her, I couldn’t help myself. The need was too strong, the desire too overpowering.
It was the best sex of my life. Raw and primal and so fucking perfect. The way she moved beneath me, the little gasps and moans she made, the way she clung to me as she came apart in my arms...
I thought it was the start of something incredible. I thought we had a connection, something real and rare and precious.
But then she got that call. I heard her say something about her sister and a car accident. And just like that, she was pulling away from me and mumbling apologies as she fumbled with her clothes.
I begged her not to go. I begged her to talk to me and let me help. But she just shook her head with tears in her eyes and fled. I tried to go after her, but she disappeared into the crowd and I lost her. I searched for hours, asked everyone I could find if they’d seen her.
But it was like she’d vanished into thin air.
I’ve thought about her every day since. Wondering where she is and if she’s okay. If she ever thinks about me the way I can’t stop thinking about her.
Maybe pining over a woman I barely know is pathetic. A woman whose last name I didn’t even get. But I can’t help it. She got under my skin and into my heart in a way no one else ever has.
And now, more than a year later, I still haven’t been able to shake her. I haven’t been able to bring myself to touch another woman or try to move on. Because deep down, in a part of me I rarely let see the light of day, I’m still hoping. Still clinging to the faintest chance that somehow, someday, I’ll find her again.
I pull up to the curb and double check the address Heath sent me. Yep, this is the place. It’s a lower middle-class neighborhood, with small single-family homes and chain-link fences. Not exactly the Ritz.
As I make my way up the cracked sidewalk, I steel myself for an awkward interaction. Let’s just get this over with.
I raise my fist and knock on the door, paint chipping under my knuckles. A muffled “Coming!” sounds from inside. I rock back on my heels, hands shoved in my pockets.
The lock clicks and the door swings open. And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Because standing there, eyes wide with shock, is her.
Julie.
