The Fixed Trilogy: Forever With You(121)

Mirabelle put on her sunglasses and settled back into her chair. “I wish it were for you though. You’d make an awesome boyfriend.”

I forced a smile, swallowing the nasty taste in my mouth. “Tell you what—I’ll save the notes for when I need them.”

I needed them now, but not the way Mirabelle assumed. I’d never need them that way. She was a bright kid, but she was absolutely wrong about one thing—I wouldn’t make an awesome boyfriend.

But she’d never know that. I never planned to get close enough to a woman for her to find out.





Chapter Three


After



It’s been two days since the symposium at Stern, and I’m still thinking of the brunette beauty who entranced me that night. I’ve returned to the portfolio over and over to read her bio and stare at her picture. Her face is ingrained in my mind and I’ve not even seen her close up in real life.

I had tried to see her, of course. After ditching Celia, I’d rushed to the meet and greet, eager to find Alayna Withers. I intended to offer her a job on the spot. Whatever position she wanted, I’d give it to her. It was completely crazy and like nothing I’d ever done before, but there was something about her. I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t lose the desire to know her.

Then she didn’t show for the meet and greet. To say I was disappointed was putting it mildly. I was also enraged and confused. Enraged because she’d wasted our time. My time. Who didn’t show to meet with the top professionals in the business? There were six candidate and ten execs. She would have received an offer. Hell, she would have received five offers. Ten, even. And I would have topped each and every one to make her mine.

There was where my confusion lay—why did I give a shit? I’m not a completely emotionless man, but nearly. The feelings I do have are tame, controllable. Practical. This irrational desperation for someone I don’t even know—it rattled me. It rattles me now, these days later when my desperation has increased.

Never in my life have I felt this way about someone.

Is it sexual? An overwhelming need to get laid? It has been a few weeks since I’ve had a woman in my bed. Maybe longer. I haven’t had the interest lately.

But now, as I study her picture and remember her assuredness, her vivaciousness, my cock stirs.

I try to convince myself that’s what my interest is—physical. Or that it’s her mind. Maybe that’s it—I’m intrigued by her ideas, her innovative way of thinking, so much so that it arouses me. Because what else can explain her effect on me?

I’m so consumed with figuring out the answer, so in need of exploring my fascination, that I called my investigator earlier in the day to look into her further. I told myself it was about business. Perhaps she didn’t show up at the meet and greet because she’d already been offered a job. If I find her, I can counter.

But I know it’s more than that because if she doesn’t accept a job, I’ll have to find another way to get close to her. I need to know if this preoccupation has staying power. It fleetingly occurs to me that the intensity of my fixation is very similar to the way I used to feel when starting a new experiment. I dismiss that notion immediately. This is different because for once I’m not interested in another person’s emotions, but rather my own.

It’s about damn time.

Though I’m not sure I like it.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I lean forward at my desk and try to erase Alayna from my thoughts. My efforts are interrupted by the buzz of my secretary. “Yes, Patricia?” Maybe it’s my investigator now.

“Your two o’clock is here. Dr. Alberts.”

“Fuck.” I hadn’t meant to say that aloud. “Fine. Thank you. Send him in.” I’ve forgotten about my appointment with Alberts, even though I’ve been seeing him regularly for over two years now. The truth is I don’t want to remember my appointment. He’s helped—I wouldn’t be able to resist the temptations that I do if it weren’t for him—but lately I’m restless. I miss the excitement of my old life. My days now are drab and endlessly the same. Perhaps it’s why I’m so intrigued with Alayna Withers. Seeing her that night, I felt something for the first time in years. For the first time since I quit playing the game.

I stand and circle my desk to greet Dr. Alberts when he walks in. Though I don’t need to, I gesture to the sitting area then take a seat on the edge of the leather couch, crossing a leg over the other. Alberts sits in the armchair as usual. This is our routine. He’ll suggest I lie down, I’ll politely decline. He’ll pull out his electronic notepad and jot notes when I answer his prompts—the same prompts he gives me week after week. How are you feeling? Are there any new life stressors? How will you deal with those? Have you had any inclinations to play?

I’m bored before he’s even begun, and I can’t bear to go through the moves yet again.

He must sense my mood—or my constant shifting gives my anxiousness away—because he varies from the ritual right away.

“What’s on your mind, Hudson?” he asks.

I run the tips of my fingers across my forehead, contemplating the answer. I could blame my anxiety on work. There is much to be concerned with there, such as the rumblings at Plexus, one of my smaller subsidiaries, where I fear I’m losing control of the board. Before the Stern symposium that was my major focus. After, Plexus is barely on my radar. How can I concentrate on silly business when I can’t get the thought of deep brown eyes and a silky confident voice out of my brain?