Love Interest(11)

What I’ve realized over the past four weeks is that Alex Harrison’s personality is like a charge. He makes people happier. Makes them feel more at ease. I’ve noticed it happen, again and again and again. Alex has an ability to endear people to him on their very first impression.

I have never related to someone less.

But for the first time since our elevator exchange the day he started, his focus on me feels singular, undiluted. Like this man is taking the full measure of me and expending no energy on a single other thought. It’s making my head spin, making my body react in a way I don’t want to be held responsible for. In fact, the way I’m physically drawn in only makes me more frustrated at the royal flush poker hand the universe dealt him. He’s attractive and rich and charismatic and smart. With millions of adoring HR reps.

Where is the fatal flaw?

“If it wasn’t about work, what did you really want?” I ask.

“I saw Dougie…” Alex drifts off, looking at a spot above my head. He doesn’t say it—touch you—but I blush anyway, like I’m the one who did something wrong. “Thought you might need an out from that conversation.”

I think about saying, I didn’t, or I could have walked away on my own, or even thank you. What comes out instead is “Why don’t you like him?”

Alex shoots me a flat look. “What gave you that impression?”

I take another sip of my drink, feel the crisp alcohol slide down my throat. “You seemed about as thrilled to see him as my boss is after his expense touchbase with the COO.”

Alex smirks. “Well, the COO is a nightmare. Did you hear about his ex-wife? Benny was giving me the scoop last week.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Alex rolls his eyes. It’s a gesture I’ve become distinctly familiar with, since he rolls his eyes at me a lot. “I dislike the subject.”

“Why do you dislike the subject?”

“Aside from the fact that he touched you inappropriately?”

“I’ve fared worse.” According to his alarmed expression, this doesn’t appease Alex. “Aside from that.”

He walks forward and leans against the rail, looking out at the river. I turn my head toward him as a drop of condensation from his beer bottle falls to the street, stories below. “He’s got history with my father. If you must know.”

This piques my interest. A CEO and a board chairman at odds with each other? “What kind of history?” I ask, too curious to play it cool.

Alex shakes his head, humming out a gentle laugh. “It’s hilarious you think I would just tell you that.”

A laugh slips out of me, too, escaping me against my will. It is hilarious that I thought he’d tell me that. We play nice at the office, but Alex isn’t naive, and I’ve never been any good at subtlety. He knows I’m not his biggest fan. Why would he tell me anything personal?

“That’s a first,” he murmurs, half smiling. Then adds, “That was a real laugh, too.”

I want to shove the sound back down my throat. “How do you know it was real?”

He leans in. Smelling like expensive cologne I’m probably allergic to and freshly laundered sheets. “I know it was real,” he says, “because I’ve never once been around you when your heart wasn’t pinned to your sleeve.”

Um …

What on earth is a girl supposed to say to that?

Nothing, apparently. Alex doesn’t give me enough time to string together words in rebuttal, but he also can’t hide the blush that creeps into his cheeks just seconds before he says, “So. How does it feel to be the internet’s latest dream girl?”

When I only continue to look at him dumbly—still reeling from the heart-on-my-sleeve comment—he adds, “What, didn’t you hear?”

Oh, I’d heard. After the “Healthed-Up Hot Chicken” video went live two days ago, I got eight hundred new Instagram followers overnight and half a dozen texts from people I used to know. It had felt fun at first, and then fake. Then fun again, and stressful, and back to fake.

“I’m nobody’s dream girl.” My voice comes out hollower than I mean it to. My mind flashes to my ex-boyfriend, then away before the familiar sting of memory settles onto my skin like a sunburn. “People can’t like me if they don’t really know me.”

Alex frowns. His eyebrows draw together, asking a question I can nearly hear: Who really knows you?

I could count the number of people on one hand. That’s the difference between us.

“Well.” He scratches at his jaw. “Unlike you, I have a pathological need to be liked.”

I snort. “Why is that?”

“If I had a therapist, I’m sure they’d have ideas.” His tone is dark and amused. Then, as if brushing past the admission, he shoots me a pointed look. “It’s why you’re so frustrating.”

“Because I don’t like you?”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Makes me bitter.”

“At least we’re in that together.”

He drains his beer and deposits it on a waist-high bar table in the middle of the balcony. “Hang on. Has something I’ve done made you bitter?”

“Oh, come on.” I wait. He waits. “Alex, you can’t be serious.”