CHAPTER 2
Samia
The broad-shouldered man with the reddish hair falling in his bright blue eyes is looking at me again.
Staringis more like it.
He’s stared at me for days and days like he’s digging into my brain, excavating into what isn’t there.
It’s meaningless telling him to leave.
He won’t go, and I’m weary of telling him, so I’ve stopped wasting my breath.
I’ve tried to ignore him, pretend he’s not there, but he doesn’t make it easy.
He knows it’s futile being here.
I don’t want him around; he makes me feel a type of way.
I’m not sure if it’s good.
The stare penetrates and makes me want to scratch my skin off.
Mom and dad said I could trust him.
On the surface, he looks trustworthy. Maybe.
Or I should say, he hasn’t given me an obvious reason not to trust him.
Every day, it’s the same thing. He brings me a fudge latte with extra whipped cream and a plain glazed donut. I don’t get fancy with donuts. All those fancy frosted ones are nice, but I’m a simple girl and like what I like.
Tired of those blue eyes on me, I sigh and shoot a glare across my parents’ family room. It’s still weird to be home again. I haven’t lived here in years, since I was eighteen and moved out of State for college.
“Do you have to stare?” I snap, “I’m not going to disintegrate if you look away.”
That sensation in my belly of how he makes me feel a type of way stirs again, and I press a hand over my stomach when he flashes a smirk my way.
That right there is my gut instinct telling me I shouldn’t trust him, however handsome he is. No way.
Bad boys gonna bad boy.
That’s a fact right there.
I might have lost a few things recently, which has left me feeling less than confident. Still, I am Hunter Madsen’s daughter, and there isn’t anything he hasn’t taught me about trusting my instincts with unscrupulous people, especially in shady situations.
“I enjoy looking at you, dreamgirl.”
The pulse of annoyance makes me scowl, and he grins wider, showing white teeth against his tanned skin. Get a damn haircut, I want to tell him when he keeps brushing the reddish locks out of his eyes, but I don’t. I don’t engage him in much conversation at all.
It doesn’t feel right.
My head is all wrong, and while it is, I can’t trust anything.
Especially my thoughts and feelings.
Or the way my belly dips whenever he calls me his dreamgirl.
Pft. Yeah, right.
I know myself, and I’m no one’s dream.
“You don’t believe me?” He asks, and despite his large stature, well over six feet at a guess, he rolls to his feet effortlessly in a slick move and comes for me until I hold my breath at his nearness.
The body on him is frighteningly big. He is not bulky, but his muscles have definition beneath the well-fitted casual clothes he wears. He has a pleasing appearance if you’re into the whole underwear model look. I’m sure he’s someone’s idea of a wet dream.
He smells like the beach and masculine wood.
Is that a thing? I feel like it’s a thing. I should Google it, but there’s a freaking hot guy in my face.
Nothot.
I can’t think he’s hot with his torn jeans and big worker boots. Not when he’s so annoying all the time.
Because I’m sitting at the table, he rests his hands on either side of me so he can lean down, putting his ocean eyes right in my vision.
“Back up.” I hiss.
“You don’t believe me, do you, dreamgirl? How much I love looking at you.”
“Stop.”
“I could stare at this face for a hundred years.”
My belly twists, and my head hurts.
“I stared at your face, and I was gone.”
“I wish you would get gone.”
He smirks and leans closer, drowning me in his scent and overpowering presence.
Though I have warning bells clanging. Danger! Danger! I remind myself my parents trust him with me. There’s no way dad would let him through the door if he didn’t. There’s no way they’d be in England if they thought he was trouble.
And then he grasps my face.
It’s not a hard grip. I could pull away if I wanted to, but he’s stunned me.
This isn’t the first time he’s touched me.
The freaking idiot touches me a lot, and I hate it.
Don’t I?
Then why aren’t I kicking him in the balls?
Do I believe him on some level?
I must do.
Maybe.
I want to believe someone.
“My dreamgirl. I’m gonna make this right.”
And then his lips touch mine. Gently, softly, just a slow kiss until I push him away and scrape his kiss from my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Don’t do that again, asshole!”
He grins and rises to his full height.
“Fuck, my cranky girl is still in there, isn’t she? You’re always moody when you wake up, but I have ways to improve it.”
I don’t want to know.
The guy I know as Kian MacNamara streaks a hand over my hair, looking at me strangely, in a way I don’t get, no matter how much he tells me differently.
I don’t know him in the way he’s implied. He’s a passing acquaintance, a family friend at best. Our parents are close friends. We attended the same school, but we were never friendly.
My memory loss has only affected the last few months of my life. Nothing major. Or so I thought.
But I would have remembered him.
“I’m gonna bring you back to me, Samia,” he rasps, and that’s when the smile drops from his face, and he looks almost like he’s in agony. And somehow, that hurts my belly even more. “You’ll love me. I’ll remind you of our life together.”
No, I won’t.
It’s been months already since the accident, and he says this same thing every day.
No amount of coffee or bad boy smirks will make my brain normal again.
This is my normal now.
And Kian MacNamara is not part of it. I’m sure of it. Aren’t I?
“Move on,” I tell him blankly, wishing he’d leave me alone.
He must hate this.
He’s stuck, too.
“Never,” he hisses.
And god help us both because I believe him.
My undiluted feelings are raw, balancing on the surface as if one slight puff of air will launch them from the highest clifftop. Who knew having a brain injury, from being knocked down by a New York tourist bus, would cause such havoc in my life? It was one careless mistake I don’t even remember making, and now my life is upside down and doesn’t make much sense.
Especially not the man with the intense eyes who won’t stay away from me.
It’s strange, really.
Not much on the surface has changed. I retain my entire childhood and most of my adulthood. I know I’m Samia Madsen, twenty-six, the daughter of a famous model and her bodyguard. They’re fantastic parents who love me and are still deeply in love with each other.
There are no blank parts about my graphic design business. I worked for a branding specialist company during my first year out of college but went freelance when my customer list grew. It’s not bragging to say I’ve had some big clients in the last few years, including working for a political campaign, a rock band, and TV shows. I’m currently working on a campaign for my mother’s modeling company. My work is varied and enjoyable, and I can do it from my couch if I choose to. None of those abilities have left my brain. I also retain all the memories of each vacation in England to my mom’s homeland.
But Kian MacNamara wants me to believe we’re in a relationship? Cool story, bro. I believe the first moon landing was also scripted in a Hollywood studio.
I still don’t know how it happened that night because I know I wasn’t drunk, far from it. Drinking has never been my recreational sport. More than one friend has called me a square for not being into the party scene. I’ve always had access to VIP places but rarely take advantage of that. But when you grow up going to infamous events and see what fame-chasing celebrities get into because of alcohol and drugs, you learn pretty early not to make that your complete personality.
So what if I get called boring?
I excel at being boring, thanks very much.
That’s why it’s unbelievable how that man claims to be my man. Ha. Right. The chances were higher that he would have a sex worker to keep his bed warm. You only need to be in Kian MacNamara’s presence for five seconds to know he exudes warning signs from every pore on his body. I’m not the woman he’d choose to date. Unless it was for a bet, but this isn’t high school games.
My last two boyfriends were night and day compared to Kian. That’s how I know this can’t be true.
It would be cruel to prank the head-injury girl.
But then I swing back to the fact my cranky dad trusts Kian. He even insisted I rely on Kian for any issues while they took a business trip to London to oversee the open house auditions for my mother’s modeling house.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
And while I slyly glance over to find him watching me, wearing a cunning smirk, I slurp on the coffee.
Trying to find answers somewhere in my head that are no longer there.