The worst part is the sexual fantasies. Like implied, I have replayed what actually happened that night a few times—the way her hips bucked under my mouth, the sounds she made when she released. But I’m mostly tormented with the things that didn’t happen. Things I wish happened. Things I wish could happen in the future. Things like tearing through her panties and bending her over my knee. Things I can’t think about for long without feeling like I need a confessional or a cold shower. Or both.
And it’s all day, every day that I’m thinking about her. At the office. When I’m working out. While my mother drones on to me about her latest lunch with the ladies. During the two hours I spend at Hudson’s while he shows off the twins—Holden Everett and Brett Evangeline. Even Mina, his three-year-old, can’t distract me from Genevieve—and that little girl and I are tight. I’m telling you, there’s not a woman who owns my heart like my niece, and yet the sound of her adorable preschooler-speak is underscored with memories of Genevieve’s lilting accent, and instead of encouraging Mina to say more, all I want to do is clap my hands over my ears and scream.
In other words, I’m a total wreck.
I know the solution to getting Genevieve out of my head is to find another chick to bang and fast. But she’s so present, so vivid in my mind it’s like I’m being haunted. There’s no way I can begin to entertain the idea of looking for another hookup in this state.
By the time a week rolls past, I’m so miserable that I’m ready to do something drastic to get over this woman. Like make an appointment with Hudson’s shrink. Or, worse, track down Genevieve for a repeat.
Problem with the latter? I never bothered to get her last name. And since I never planned to see her again, I didn’t take note of her room number. Besides, I was too preoccupied to notice anything in that hallway besides the taste of her tongue.
Ah, that tongue. I imagine it trailing down my skin, lower to places that her mouth never met.
It’s this thought that throws me over the edge. I have to find her.
And that’s how I end up outside Hudson’s office on a Wednesday afternoon when I know he’s still out on paternity leave.
“Hey there, Chandler,” his secretary greets me. “What brings you by my neck of the floor?”
Trish is one of those women who would do anything for me. The way she fawns when I’m in her presence—it’s almost ridiculous. She’s pretty smoking, too. If she weren’t my brother’s secretary, I would have nailed her years ago. But we work in the same building, and sleeping with a woman I see every day goes against my mission statement. So instead, we’ve developed a friendly flirtation that, I think, is pretty healthy. It definitely makes trips to Hudson’s office more tolerable.
I unbutton my jacket and perch on the edge of her desk. “Not much. Just been a little cold lately. Figured I needed a little sunshine in my life. Feeling warmer already.”
“Stop. You’re so good at flattery.” She does that thing women sometimes do where she pretends like she’s embarrassed by the compliment, but she’s really soaking it in.
“You mean I’m so good at truth.” And now that I’ve buttered her up, onto the real item up for business. “Oh, while I’m here. I was wondering if you could get me some more information about that Accelecom benefit I attended last week.”
She’s already typing into her computer. “Sure. What sort of information are you looking for in particular? The donation list?”
“The guest list.”
Trish looks up from her screen and narrows her eyes at me. “Let me guess—she’s blonde, blue-eyed, and you just have to have her number.”
Actually, she’s brunette, grey-eyed, and I’m not sure what it is I have to have from her, but like hell am I admitting to any of that. While I don’t think Trish is chatty with Hudson, I’m not taking any chances that she’ll slip and mention I’ve been asking about a girl.
So I focus on Genevieve’s father instead.
“Har har.” I feign amusement. “Not a woman. A man. About fifty, I’d guess. Distinguished. British. Seemed to be a major big-wig, but I never caught his name.” Never even spoke to him. She doesn’t need to know.
I stand to move behind Trish as I talk so I can look at the computer over her shoulder. “Maybe you could dig up some pictures from the gala that might match that description, and—”
My words are cut off by what I see, and it’s not on the secretary’s computer screen but standing right in front of me.
“Genevieve.”
“Chandler?”
For a minute I’m not sure if she’s really there or if I’m imagining her. That’s how in my head this fucking girl is. I can’t even tell the difference between reality and fantasy.
But Trish has also glanced up, so I’m pretty sure my ghost is real. I look her over, taking her in. She’s dressed for business in slacks and a matching jacket that’s open to reveal a white shirt with black trim. Her makeup is subtle, yet her eyes are as sharp as ever. Her dark hair falls down past her shoulders, and it looks longer now that it’s missing the waves from the other night. In every way, she’s less glam, less “done up”.
And damn if she isn’t two thousand times more beautiful.
I inhale slowly, remembering I’m in Hudson’s office and just thinking my brother’s name seems to calm the devil in my dick. When I exhale, I’m ready.
“It’s good to see you.” I know I should play harder to get—yes, that’s a thing guys do too—yet I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. “What are you doing here, anyway?”