Listen, brain, this is about the worst time for your meltdown. Help me out here, please.
I inhale deeply through my nostrils and exhale through my mouth a few times. That’s it.
The buzzing in my ears slowly subsides, and it helps that he faces the door, cutting off that intense eye contact. Or maybe I’m the only one who thought of it as intense.
His back is the only thing visible as he focuses on his phone and scrolls through it.
I’ve forgotten how larger than life he looks, how broad and tall he is. How physically perfect he is that it’s impossible to focus on anything but him. He’s wearing another Armani suit, dark gray, like the expression on his face when he walked in.
It’s been only a few seconds since then, but I could swear that he saw me, that he made eye contact. Did he not recognize me?
It must be the different clothes, hair, and thick glasses. Right. He couldn’t possibly relate Anastasia to Jane. We’re not the same anymore.
A brick the size of my laptop sinks to the bottom of my stomach, and it’s completely illogical. I shouldn’t be feeling this way because he didn’t recognize me. If anything, I should celebrate it. I should feel lucky.
But that’s the last sensation inside me as I dig my nails into the heel of my palm.
Then I peek at him, at the stranger from that night, and I’m once again struck by his majestic presence. He seems different than back then somehow, more serious, hard. Stuck-up.
And I can’t help thinking about his dominant orders when he fucked me.
Those dirty, dirty orders that subconsciously make me clench my thighs.
I internally shake my head in an attempt to push those images away.
What’s he doing at W&S anyway? Please tell me he’s only here on a visit and doesn’t actually work in the same building as me.
That would be just…cruel.
Just when I’ve left everything behind, something has decided to follow me. And not just something. Someone.
The British stranger who should be in New Jersey where I left him after he fucked me senseless.
“Do you work here?”
I jolt at the deep tenor of his voice, and an electric sensation zaps through my entire body. I almost forgot just how commanding his voice is, how it’s a bit mellow and cool to the ears.
God, just why does he have an accent?
He’s asking me, I realize. Either that or he’s speaking to a nonexistent person. I realize I’m praying he sees a ghost lurking in the corner. That would be less catastrophic than the alternative.
Next step of denial: hope that he’s merely curious about a random stranger in the elevator.
Though he doesn’t strike me as the type.
“Yes,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “I…started today.”
Please, let it go. Please.
My prayer is obviously not answered when he asks, still not facing me, “Which department?”
“IT.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jane.” My voice is lower now and I hope he doesn’t notice it, he doesn’t sense the tremor behind it.
But what he does is worse.
He turns around.
As in, he’s now facing me and I have a full view of him, of his chiseled face, sharp features, and piercing eyes that are glaring at me now.
He so infuriatingly beautiful, so handsome that there should be a rule against it. And when he glares? It makes him inexplicably hot and scary at the same time. His lips are set in a line, as disapproving as his eyes.
“That’s not true, now, is it? If I remember correctly…your name is Anastasia.”
Shit.
Fuck.
No.
He recognized me. Even with a completely different appearance, he recognized me. He shouldn’t have, but he did. And holy hell, did I tell him my real name? How could I be so careless, just how?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I feign nonchalance even though I’m physically pushing back against the metal railing.
It’s a cheap tactic, but it should be effective. People are mistaken for others all the time. This shouldn’t be any different. Besides, I did everything in my might to become the opposite of who I am. I wouldn’t be recognized by those I’ve known for years, let alone someone I spent a few hours with.
He steps toward me, or more like, he stalks, moving fluidly and with predatory steps that nearly make me wheeze.
Or maybe it’s the way he keeps staring into my eyes as if he’s ripping every single one of my fa?ades apart and digging his fingers into the broken parts inside me.
It hits me then, the reason why I’m hyperventilating. I’m being burned alive by his sharp hazel eyes. They’re crushing and melting me and I have to stop looking at them.