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But I couldn’t let that happen, could I?
Nah, I might’ve been a nerd, but I wasn't a fucking spineless one. So my eighteen-year-old self decided I’d stop them. I mustered enough courage to walk all the way to her house and tell her I loved her.
Thing is, when I got there, there was a limo parked up-front. Her pretentious boyfriend was wearing a suit, and he was down on one knee; even from the distance, I could see an engagement ring glistening in the box he was holding up.
I turned on my heels as fast as I could, and the rest you already know: twelve years of drinking, fucking, and being a badass motherfucker.
Hey, I did alright.
But still…I never stopped thinking of her.
“Are you gonna do this or what?”
“She’s married, and—”
“You don’t fucking know that, do you? It’s been twelve years, for God’s sake! For all we know, she’s turned into a fucking monster, and you should have a harpoon on your hand. Either way, get in there, take a hard look at her, and move on with your life. It’s been too long, man.”
“Fuck, alright,” I mutter, and only then do I realize that my hands are shaking.
What the fuck’s wrong with me? Feeling as if I’m in a daze, I open the limo door and climb outside. The air’s cold, and there’s a slight breeze. I fasten my jacket and cross the road, still barely believing I’m actually doing this.
Inside the Bradford, I ask the portly doorman for Katherine.
“Not supposed to say,” he confides, “but I can’t say no to Alexander Reeves, can I?”
No, you fucking can’t, I think to myself, although all I do is politely thank the guy and take the elevator upstairs.
My heart feels like a jackhammer inside my chest, and even my vision is blurred. Maybe I’m just drunk. I mean, what the fuck—I can’t be nervous over a girl, right?
Stopping in front of her apartment door, I suck in a deep breath and knock.
I stand there for God knows how long, and then I hear soft footsteps coming from inside the apartment. When the door swings back, my heart stops.
There she is.
Katherine.
Two
Katherine
My first instinct is to reach for a mace.
He smells of whiskey, he has an old leather jacket on, and I can see the tattoos peeking from under the jacket’s sleeves. And even though it’s past nine p.m., he still has his sunglasses on.
If it weren’t for the fact that this man—whoever he is—looks like a sex god, I would’ve probably closed the door by now. As it is, my feet are glued to the floor as I mentally take in every detail of his well-built frame.
Chiseled jaw, stylishly dishevelled hair, and lips that seem as if they were designed for nothing more than kissing. And the way his shirt hugs his torso, Jesus…I swear I can see the outline of his abs from here.
Keep your mind out of the gutter, I admonish myself, preventing my gaze from going further down.
If above the waist he looks this good, I don’t even wanna start picturing what he’s hiding below his waistline. Without saying a word, the man reaches for his sunglasses and slowly pushes them down the bridge of his nose, peering at me over the rim of the lenses.
I look him straight in the eyes, cock one eyebrow, and place my hands on my hips, waiting for him to say something.
“Kat…?” he asks me, and my knees suddenly grow weak.
That voice…these eyes. No, it can’t be him.
