Chapter 7
As I watch her, I make a point of remembering the sequence of each discovered detail of her as I see her for the first time.
I’m a precise person. I think in numbers and probabilities and it’s more or less the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
But the sequence dissolves even as it’s happening.
I am so fully in this moment, I already know the memory of it will feel hazy at the edges and as blinding as a supernova.
Because all the details of her are as spellbinding as each other.
She is an absolute knock-out.
And as I fall deeper into my fascination of this stranger whose name I don’t even know yet, two distinct trains of thought are warring with each other inside my head.
The first one—and I can recognize it fully because it’s been so glaringly absent for so long—is happiness.
I can’t actually remember ever feeling “happy” about anything.
Satisfied by a good decision, sure. Glad to hear from one of my brothers, of course.
Thankful that the stock market is rallying, obviously.
But none of those things bring me happiness.
This is different.
My loneliness fades out. I suddenly no longer feel broken or disillusioned or mildly depressed from that age-old knowledge that I’m destined to end up alone.
I’ve found her.
I’ve found the girl I fucking want. The one I never believed existed.
She exists.
SHE FUCKING EXISTS.
She’s here and she’s real and she’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.
It’s kind of intense.
The other emotion I feel is much darker.
It has teeth. Like I’ve just shot up heroin for the first time and the rush is all about this girl.
I can already feel my addiction to how fucking beautiful she is spearing deep into my beating heart, changing me into a man obsessed, whether she feels the same way or not.
She will. She has to. It’s my mission now, to make sure she fucking does.
I’m a logical person. This isn’t like me at all and it’s giving me a kind of vertigo.
You can’t be obsessed with her, you lunatic. You haven’t even spoken to her yet. She might be vapid or petty or totally wrong for you. Calm the fuck down.
What I’m used to is a sort of blanket disappointment that colors everything, especially every woman I’ve ever met.
Until now.
Colors—especially hers—are freakishly bright. The music sounds sweeter. In this moment, I am completely devoid of either disappointment or boredom, maybe for the first time in my goddamn life.
She notices me and those fangs she’s already sunk into my leaping heart slice deeper.
What the fuck is happening right now?
Her hair is a dark chestnut-red at the roots, lightening as it falls in reddish-blond waves over her shoulders and down her back, thick and loose. The jaunty blond ringlets at the very ends almost reach her waist. Shorter strands curl lightly around her face. Even her bangs are wavy and playful.
It’s then that she notices me.
I keep my cool but my heartbeat feels bloody and raw.
Holy fuck, her face.
I’m used to beautiful women. I’ve spent my life around A-list movie stars and pop culture icons.
This girl has a different kind of beauty. Her beauty isn’t cultivated or self-aware. It isn’t being strategically deployed and this feels ten thousand times more dangerous.
As she moves closer, I can see that her eyes are hazel and kaleidoscopic, with shards of gold, green, brown and blue competing for attention. Her lashes are long and naturally sweeping. Her mouth is full, her lips a natural shade of pink that kicks my new obsession several notches higher.
Fuck.
My cock thickens and this almost annoys me. I don’t want anything distracting me from drinking in the sight of her.
The girl’s eyes rove slowly over me. She’s taking in the details of me, like women always do.
There’s not a shred of desperation in her, which is always the most obvious emotion of women I meet.
They’re ravenous for what I can give them.
This girl just … isn’t. It’s refreshing.
And it kicks my fascination into overdrive. I can tell she doesn’t recognize me.
Which is good. I don’t want her assuming things about me that no longer apply.
All of the old rules are gone, like tendrils of smoke in a balmy breeze. Everything about this girl is new to me.
She walks toward me and I honestly can’t believe such a gorgeous creature could be real. I’m so suddenly besotted it’s disorienting. “What can I get for you, sir?”
Sir.
My cock gets fully hard but I try to ignore it, sliding off my sunglasses so I can see her without barriers.
Immense relief—or joy, or choirs of angels, or whatever the fuck you want to call it—floods me when I hear her voice for the first time.
It’s bell-toned with a smoky edge and a saucy little New Orleans accent that means she’s a born and bred local.
I love this. And I can tell by the way she asks the question that she’s not petty.
She’s the furthest thing from vapid. She’s equal parts sweet and fierce.
Our eyes meet. She’s so perfect it’s quite literally painful, like I’m staring directly at the sun.
“I’ll have a Dos Equis, if you’ve got it.” Good. My voice sounds normal. Maybe deeper and huskier than usual but close enough.
“I’ve got it. You want lime?” That soft, gentle drawl is quite simply slaying me.
Mine mine mine.
I don’t know where the caveman rush is coming from but I’m feeling it hard.
The change inside my chest feels structural, like my rib cage has loosened to make room for the bigger, more complete beat of my heart. “Sure.”
She gets my beer and squeezes the lime into it, setting it on a coaster.
The gods might as well have just squeezed magical unicorn elixir into my beer.
She touched the lime.
I take a sip. Fuck, it’s good.
She’s absolutely stunning, but there are hints that life isn’t easy for her. There are faint shadows under her eyes, like she hasn’t been getting enough sleep. Her hotel uniform is faded and looks like it’s been washed a million times. Her shoes are worn.
These details light a match under the spark of my simmering new obsession.
She needs me. “What’s your name?”
She blinks at me coyly with those outrageous lashes, making me wait. “Amelie,” she finally says.
Amelie. Even her name is perfect. I hold out my hand. “Dallas.”
Her eyes barely narrow at me. “You’re not Texan,” she reads correctly. Like this detail about me is something I should be glad about.
“No. New York, by way of L.A. and Boston. My mother used to say she liked cowboy names. I guess she thought Dallas sounded like one.”
She smiles, sliding her cool, soft hand into mine for the briefest moment. It’s enough. To lock a savagely single-minded craving into place. “Well, then, Dallas, since you’re not Texan, you can stay.”
Her smile lingers but she walks down the bar to serve another customer.
I take another long sip of my beer, watching her, barely hearing the music and the conversation going on in the background as I adjust to my new reality. For the first time in my life, I have no intention of hedging. I am all fucking in.
And there’s no way in hell I’m going back to New York this week.