Chapter 17
Evelyn
The rest of the week crawled by with the delightful agony of a migraine wrapped in a business suit.
I made it my mission to stay as far away from Alexander Hunt as humanly possible.
If there was a wall, I hid behind it. If there was a hallway, I took the other one.
If there was a piece of office furniture between us, I thanked every god in existence.
I did my job with military precision.
I emailed him instead of speaking.
Cold. Efficient. Deadly professional.
Attached please find…
Per your request…Confirmed.
Noted.
Regards…Regards.
Like he was a stranger.
When I did have to step into his office, which I tried to limit to dire emergencies, global catastrophes, or actual schedule conflicts—
I kept my spine stiff, my tone polite, my eyes strategically aimed at the folder in my hands instead of his mouth, his jaw, his everything.
We exchanged stiff greetings when absolutely necessary, like two diplomats from warring nations negotiating a ceasefire.
Meetings stayed brief. Calendar adjustments were rushed.
And during conferences, I sat behind him—quiet, invisible, absorbing nothing because my brain short-circuited every time I remembered what that body had done to me.
Somehow the week flew by, probably because my entire energy went into not combusting every time his cologne drifted into the room.
By Thursday night, I let myself believe I might actually survive this.
That maybe this ridiculous crush, this afterglow hangover, this…
whatever chemical insanity my hormones were currently staging, would fade.
I even Googled it. Apparently, after sex—especially intense, emotionally charged sex—people experience biochemical bonding sensations that mimic being in love. Mimic.
Not actually. And apparently, it goes away over time. All I have to do is wait it out. Ignore the butterflies. Ignore the heart stutters. Ignore the way my pulse betrays me whenever he says my name.
Easy.
Sure.
Except it doesn’t help that I had the best sex of my entire life and am now painfully aware that I will never, ever experience anything like that again.
And then Samantha, menace that she is, told me to get a vibrator.
“Girl, if he ruined you for the whole male species, at least get a backup plan,” she said.
“We’re going to the sex shop after payday. ”
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly detached a retina. Where is the quiet, reserved Evelyn who couldn’t even say the word sex without combusting into a blush? Where is the Evelyn who avoided human interaction like it was a health hazard?
Now I'm fantasizing—fantasizing—about what he did to me, thinking about doing it again, and contemplating buying battery-operated solutions. Just more complications I don’t need.
Maybe I should ask HR if I have leave days and take a break. Disappear for a week. Breathe. Reset. Stop feeling like a live wire every time he enters a room.
Because if this continues, something is going to snap. And I’m terrified it might be me.