I blinked. Blinked again. Did Alex Volkov thank me? I’d expected him to take the cookies and shut the door in my face. He’d never thanked me for anything in my life.
Except maybe that one time I passed him the mashed potatoes at dinner, but I’d been drunk, so my recollection was hazy.
I was still frozen in shock when he added, “Do you want to come in?”
This was a dream. It had to be. Because the chances of Alex inviting me inside his house in real life were lower than me solving a quadratic equation in my head.
I pinched myself. Ow. Okay, not a dream. Just an incredibly surreal encounter.
I wondered if aliens had abducted the real Alex on his way home and replaced him with a nicer, more civil imposter.
“Sure,” I managed, because hell, I was curious. I’d never been inside Alex’s home before, and I was curious to see what he’d done with Josh’s place.
He’d moved in two days ago, so I expected to see stray boxes lying about, but everything was so polished and put together it looked like he’d been living here for years. A sleek gray couch and eighty-inch flat-screen TV dominated the living room, accented with a low, white lacquered coffee table, industrial-chic lamps, and Josh’s abstract painting. I glimpsed an espresso machine in the kitchen and a glass-topped table with white-cushioned chairs in the dining room, but otherwise, there wasn’t much furniture to speak of. It was a drastic difference from Josh’s messy but cozy collection of random books, sports equipment, and items he’d collected from his travels.
“You’re a minimalist, huh?” I examined a strange metal sculpture that looked like an exploding brain but probably cost more than my monthly rent.
“I don’t see a point in collecting items I don’t use and don’t enjoy.” Alex placed the cookies on the coffee table and walked to the bar cart in the corner. “Drink?”
“No, thanks.” I sat on the couch, unsure of what to do or say.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat opposite me, but it wasn’t far enough. I caught a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive-smelling, with a hint of spice. It was so delicious I wanted to bury my face in his neck, but I didn’t think he’d take too kindly to that.
“Relax,” he said dryly. “I don’t bite.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“Your knuckles are white.”
I glanced down and realized I was clutching the edges of the couch so tightly my knuckles were, indeed, white.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” I winced. Talk about a cliché line. “No photos though.” In fact, I didn’t see any personal effects—nothing that showed I was in an actual home and not a model showroom.
“Why would I need photos?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Probably not . Alex didn’t joke, except for that one blip in his car a few days ago.
“For the memories,” I said, like I was explaining a simple concept to a toddler. “To remember people and events?”
“I don’t need photos for that. The memories are here.” Alex tapped the side of his forehead.
“Everyone’s memories fade. Photos don’t.” At least, not digital ones.
“Not mine.” He set his empty glass on the coffee table, his eyes dark. “I have a superior memory.”
My snort slipped out before I could stop it. “Someone has a high opinion of himself.”
That earned me a shadow of a smirk. “I’m not bragging. I have hyperthymesia, or HSAM. Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. Look it up.”
I paused. That, I hadn’t expected. “You have a photographic memory?”
“No, they’re different. People with photographic memory recall details from a scene they’ve observed for a short time. People with HSAM remember almost everything about their life. Every conversation, every detail, every emotion.” Alex’s jade eyes morphed into emeralds, dark and haunted. “Whether or not they want to.”
“Josh never mentioned this.” Not once, not a hint, and they’d been friends for close to a decade.
“Josh doesn’t tell you everything.”
I’d never heard of hyperthymesia. It sounded fantastical, like something out of a science fiction movie, but I heard the truth in Alex’s voice. What would it be like to remember everything?
My heart rate picked up.
It would be wonderful. And terrible. Because while there were memories I wanted to keep close to my heart, as vivid as if they were happening right before my eyes, there were others I’d rather let fade into oblivion. I couldn’t imagine not having the safety net of knowing horrible events would eventually recede until they were only faint whispers from the past. Then again, my memories were so twisted I remembered nothing before the age of nine, when the most horrible events of my life had occurred.
“What’s it like?” I whispered.
How ironic the two of us were sitting here: me, the girl who remembered almost nothing, and Alex, the man who remembered everything.
Alex leaned toward me, and it was all I could do not to back away. He was too close, too overwhelming, too much .
“It’s like watching a movie of your life play out before your eyes,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it’s a drama. Sometimes it’s horror.”
The air pulsed with tension. I was sweating so hard my top stuck to my skin. “No comedy or romance?” I tried to joke, but the question came out so breathless it sounded like a come-on.
Alex’s eyes flared. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn honked. A bead of sweat trickled between my breasts, and I saw his gaze dip to it briefly before a humorless smile touched his lips. “Go home, Ava. Stay out of trouble.”
It took me a minute to gather my wits and peel myself off the couch. Once I did, I all but fled, my heart pounding and knees shaking. Every encounter with Alex, no matter how small, left me on edge.
I was nervous, yes, and a bit terrified.
But I’d also never felt more alive.
5
Alex
I slammed my fist into the mannequin’s face, reveling in the sharp burst of pain that jolted up my arm at the impact. My muscles burned and sweat dripped down my forehead into my eyes, blurring my vision, but I didn’t stop. I’d done this so many times I didn’t have to see to land my hits.
The smell of sweat and violence stained the air. This was the one place I allowed myself to unleash the anger I kept under careful wraps in all other areas of my life. I’d started Krav Maga training a decade ago for self-defense, but it had since become my catharsis, my sanctuary.
By the time I finished pummeling the mannequin, my body was a mess of aches and sweat. I toweled the perspiration off my face and took a swig of water. Work had been a bitch, and I’d needed this release to reset.
“Hope you worked off your frustration,” Ralph, the owner of the training center and my personal instructor since I’d moved to D.C., said dryly. Short and stocky, he had the powerful build of a fighter and a mean mug, but deep down, he was a teddy bear. He’d knock my lights out if I ever told him or anyone else that though. “You looked like you had a personal vendetta against Harper.”
Ralph named all the training dummies after TV characters or real-life people he didn’t like.