Page 8 of Before I Lost You

“You will be soon…”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up and crash and burn,” I tell him sadly, sighing as we walk out of the gallery.

“You won’t,” he says confidently. “This is going to work out for you. I know it.”

“Let’s fucking hope so.” I bite my lip, then say. “I really think we’re meant to be.”

“You’re acting as if you believe in fate now?” Em asks playfully, then waggles his brows when I narrow my eyes at him.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Maybe it wouldn’t be the craziest thing.”

Not crazier than me dreaming of a man I’ve never met. Not crazier than meeting him in real life. That’s for damn sure.

Emerson and I say goodbye, and before long, I’m back in my penthouse, removing a painting from above the sectional couch. I’m not sure where I’m going to put it, but it has to go. Maybe I’ll sell it on Facebook. I look at the bare wall, envisioning his picture on it. A flutter of excitement makes my stomach flip, and I smile to myself. I’ll get to see those gorgeous eyes and strands of golden hair every day from now on, and that makes me happier than I want to admit.

The knowledge that I’ll have a picture of him—my obsession, according to Emerson—to stare at every day, is a bit alarming. I’ll probably look at it for hours, imagining a life with him. I really hope he calls me and we can set up a date; it would make me feel less creepy. Would he be turned off by the knowledge that I purchased a photograph of him and hung it in my livingroom? I guess there’s only one way to find out. There has to be some kind of etiquette for this, like maybe not hanging a photograph of a man you want to date before you’ve started dating, but I think I’m past the point of caring.

I keep waiting for his face to be revealed in my dreams, but it hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t know if it ever will. What if I’m left wondering forever if they’re the same person? But no, they have to be. Their hands look the same, and they have the tattoo in the exact same spot as well. That can’t be a coincidence—it’s too uncanny. And even if I did believe in coincidences, this would still be pushing it.

Shaking my head, I go to my room and change into work attire, putting on black slacks and a button-down white-and-black striped shirt. Once I’ve put my dress shoes on, I grab my keys from the entryway table along with my wallet and get in the elevator. This is what I need. A distraction. Doing something to keep me occupied until I get a phone call or text. Or until I don’t and I have to move on. Either way, I shouldn’t wait around for it.

But even I know I will.

Chapter 4

MORE THAN A MOMENT

It’s Friday, and Kenneth still hasn’t contacted me. I’m embarrassed to say I’ve been waiting by my phone all week, and that literally every text and phone call I receive makes my stomach flutter with excitement. Except it’s never him, and all I feel after is disappointment. But that’s just the story of my life, isn’t it? I can’t get the guy I want when I finally decide I’m looking for something serious. What kind of joke is the universe trying to play on me? It’s not funny at all.

Maybe getting that picture of him hung up on my living room wall was a mistake. I’ve had to see it every time I come into my penthouse, and it just makes me sadder by the day because I still haven’t heard from him. What if I never see him again? What if he never contacts me? Or—even worse—what if I never stop dreaming of him? Oh, fuck. That would be absolutely miserable. Either way, I’ve decided to drown my sorrows in liquor tonight, and though I’m craving sex, I don’t want another mediocre encounter.

I’m meeting Emerson and our coworkers at the bar, and as I get closer to it, I see them huddled outside in a group, talkingloudly and joking as usual. It’s mostly Emerson; he’s usually the life of the party, whereas I’m more introverted. How we became best friends is beyond me. I’m grateful for it, though. I’d be lost without him, that’s for damn sure. My days would be lonely, and I wouldn’t have anyone to hang out with. I think everyone just took pity on me and is friends with me by default. I definitely wouldn’t hang out with them if he weren’t present. It would be awkward.

I finally reach them, coming to Emerson’s side and clasping his shoulder as I greet the rest of the group. Everyone gives me a warm smile and continues with their conversation, and Em turns to me and smiles too, asking me how I’m doing. I tell him I’m okay, though tired, which isn’t a lie. I’ve worked my ass off this week. I’m ready to sit down and have a few drinks, then take my ass straight to bed.

The guys finally decide to move the gathering inside, and we sit at one of the tables in the very back. There are eight of us, so we don’t fit at the bar because of how crowded it is here. Emerson asks for my order, and I tell him a dirty martini, which he snorts at. So I like martinis, sue me. I just grin at him and shake my head, but he comes back with my drink before long, setting a Long Island Iced Tea next to me that I’m assuming is his.

The guys are rowdy tonight, talking about work, then the hockey playoffs and the game coming up tomorrow night, and also about who’s going to get laid tonight. I smile and nod at the right times, sipping on my drink, but my heart isn’t in it. I want to leave, if I’m being honest.

Emerson’s hand suddenly comes to my thigh and squeezes tightly, jolting me. I turn my face to look at him, and his eyes are wide, a grin on his face. I tilt my head to the side in question, and he flicks his eyes toward a corner, though I don’t follow his gaze. He huffs, then leans in.

“Right across from us, dumbass.” Em says excitedly, “Your boy is here.”

“What?” I ask, voice high-pitched, looking that way. Just to make eye contact. He’s already staring at me with a contemplative look in his eyes, and he smirks when my own widen. “Holy fuck,” I whisper.

Emerson leans into me, his lips close to my ear, and Kenneth’s eyes narrow and his lips purse as if he’s tasted something gross. I look away from him.

“If this isn’t fate, I don’t know what is,” Emerson says against my ear. “I knew it was gonna happen for you.”

“Doubt it,” I huff. “He still hasn’t texted or called.”

“So go make it happen.” He squeezes my leg again. “He’s still staring at you like you’re his next meal. I think he wants you.”

“Quit getting my hopes up,” I growl. “He’s clearly not interested.”

“Go talk to him.”

“No fucking way,” I reply, shaking my head vehemently. “I’m not doing that.”