At first I only see the back of the man as he makes small talk with Mason’s PA, Deborah. She giggles flirtatiously, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Who can blame her? Even the rear view is impressive. He’s well over six foot and huge, much broader than my bosses, with a khaki green coat draped over his arm and impressive muscles bulging from the sleeves of his T-shirt.
Looks like the answer to my question is no—because this guy is a twelve. If the clitoris wasn’t enough proof that God is a woman, this guy’s physique seals the deal. I try and tear my eyes away because I don’t want to come across as thirsty. This is my boss’s brother, and anyway, I’m off men. At least for now.
He says goodbye to Deborah and turns around. He barely fits through the door, he’s so built. But now it’s not his body that I’m staring at. It’s his face. His very familiar face. As soon as I get a proper look at him, I travel back in time. To Morocco, funnily enough. Two whole years ago.
His hair is a little shorter now, his beard no longer shaggy and unkempt. His clothes less beach hottie and much more upscale thrift-store chic. He’s changed.
But his eyes? Oh boy. They are still the same twinkling wells of deep obsidian that I stared into for far too long back then. His eyes mesmerized me, they were so hypnotic.
I shake my head. Maybe it’s a mirage, conjured up by talking about my travels. If I blink and open my eyes again, he’ll be gone, or look completely different.
“Hey, Mad. I’m ready to go,” Mason says.
And everything clicks into place. Mad. The legendary Mad Dog is Maddox James? My boss’s baby brother? Youngest son of the James clan? How could this be happening?
I stand rooted to the spot, my limbs no longer capable of following simple instructions such asmove, Ellie. Get out of here before you embarrass yourself.Not that it matters. I’m pretty sure Mad Dog won’t remember me. I was one of a stream of women who passed through his life. I’m not even one he actually slept with. When the opportunity came he seemed to pause, considered it, and then rejected me instead.
Why would he remember me? I’m nothing special. But I remember him—all too well. It was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. The memory of him shooting me down in flames still makes my cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
“Great,” Maddox replies, and then his gaze wanders to me. The idiot girl standing on wobbling legs, looking like a spooked deer in hunting season.
“Oh, you haven’t met our newest VP yet,” Mason says, with apparently no idea that I’m gaping at his baby brother like a goldfish in a bag. Small mercies. “Maddox, meet?—”
“Ellie,” Maddox finishes for him, stepping fully into the office. Mason looks confused, taking in the scene.
“You two know each other?” he asks, obviously surprised.Not as surprised as I am, buddy.I couldn’t have been more surprised if Kermit the Frog had walked into the office, dancing the “Cha Cha Slide.”
I’m still mute, completely struck dumb, so Maddox answers. “Yeah, we met in Marrakech.”
Met.That sounds so simple. And maybe it is for him. I’m amazed he remembers me at all, but I guess his version of that night is very different than mine.
I’d had a bad breakup on my travels, betrayed in the very worst way by my boyfriend. Getting your heart broken by a cheating bastard is bad enough anywhere at any time. Experiencing it when you’re thousands of miles away from home, from your family, is even worse. If it had happened in Chicago, well…let’s just say my family would have words with anybody who messed with me. Words that might land them in the emergency room.
But I was far from home, and I was battered and bruised by what he’d done. I was at a low and followed advice that’s been passed down through millennia: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
Mad Dog, I’d been told by the other traveler girls I met, was not only drop-dead gorgeous but a sure bet. In fact, the phrase they used was he’dscrew anything with a pulse.Even feeling as dejected and unsexy as I did right then, I definitely had a pulse—one that sped up as soon as I saw him.
There was a night. A meal. We talked for hours. We had a moment. Or at least I thought we did. It felt like we were getting on. At the end of our date, I practically offered myself to Mad Dog on a plate, wrapped in a bow with a cherry on top. And he turned me down flat. In fact, he looked horrified at the very prospect.
So, notanythingwith a pulse then.
All of this floods back to me now, as I stand in a very different place, as a very different woman.
“Wow. Small fucking world, huh?” Mason says, clapping his brother on the back. “I don’t believe this.”
Meanwhile, Maddox is still staring at me with those rich dark eyes, his gaze so intense that a shiver runs down my spine.Howdoeshe remember that night? I cringe at the possibilities. What if he tells Mason about it, or even worse, Elijah? What if he reveals that I threw myself at him, tried to bed him? Gods, goddesses, and all that is holy, please let the office floor open up and swallow me.
“It’s really good to see you again, Ellie.” The way he says my name, like he holds it in his mouth just a second longer than he needs to, savoring every syllable, has goosebumps prickling out all over my body. It makes me glance at his kissable lips, imagining him doing other things with his mouth.Shit. How can I be turned on right now? What is wrong with me?
He extends his hand and, for an awful moment, I simply look at it. A handshake feels too formal for what we shared. The kind of thing strangers do when they meet for the first time. Despite the way he said my name, that he even remembers my name, perhaps that’s what I am to him. A virtual stranger.
I’ve always doubted my memory of that night, bearing in mind how it ended. You see, our evening before the whole sex rejection was beautiful and intimate, and we each disclosed things we never expected to. At least I did, which made his rejection sting all the more. I didn’t just want to use him to get over my ex. I actually liked him.
I take his outstretched hand, if only to be polite in front of my boss. His strong fingers circle around my palm, grip firm yet careful. And there it is. That same lightning bolt that hit me two years ago in Morocco when our hands brushed for the first time.
We were sitting together in a little village on the outskirts of Marrakech that night, sipping sweet mint tea outside a quaint café with a blanket of stars above us. Our fingers connected when we clinked our glasses, and even that limited contact sent shockwaves running through me. I’d been giddy with it, so excited for what the rest of the night would hold. Because if eventouching his little finger got me hot, then the rest of him would surely rock my world.
I thought we had a connection back then, emotional as well as physical. We didn’t just flirt, we talked. Really talked. And then I went and ruined it all by assuming that he would sleep with me.
