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My only one-night stand that I shouldn’t have met again.
And he’s staring straight through me.
5
ANASTASIA
This isn’t real.
I must be hallucinating.
Or maybe I’m dreaming again, stuck in an imaginary moment and never woke up this morning.
But the more I stare at the man in front of me, the more tangible this becomes. He’s not disappearing.
Why isn’t he disappearing?
He usually vanishes about now. He becomes one with my dreams and stops bothering me.
Not now, though.
Now he’s coming inside the elevator—where I currently am.
Oh, shit.
The need to run hits me out of nowhere and it takes everything in me not to jump out of the elevator like a monkey.
My mission is put to an abrupt halt when the doors slide closed with brutal finality. Now, it’s only he and I in the car.
And I can’t breathe.
Damn it. Damn it.
Listen, brain, this is about the worst time for your meltdown. Help me out here, please.
I inhale deeply through my nostrils and exhale through my mouth a few times. That’s it.
The buzzing in my ears slowly subsides, and it helps that he faces the door, cutting off that intense eye contact. Or maybe I’m the only one who thought of it as intense.
His back is the only thing visible as he focuses on his phone and scrolls through it.
I’ve forgotten how larger than life he looks, how broad and tall he is. How physically perfect he is that it’s impossible to focus on anything but him. He’s wearing another Armani suit, dark gray, like the expression on his face when he walked in.
It’s been only a few seconds since then, but I could swear that he saw me, that he made eye contact. Did he not recognize me?
It must be the different clothes, hair, and thick glasses. Right. He couldn’t possibly relate Anastasia to Jane. We’re not the same anymore.
A brick the size of my laptop sinks to the bottom of my stomach, and it’s completely illogical. I shouldn’t be feeling this way because he didn’t recognize me. If anything, I should celebrate it. I should feel lucky.
But that’s the last sensation inside me as I dig my nails into the heel of my palm.
Then I peek at him, at the stranger from that night, and I’m once again struck by his majestic presence. He seems different than back then somehow, more serious, hard. Stuck-up.
And I can’t help thinking about his dominant orders when he fucked me.
Those dirty, dirty orders that subconsciously make me clench my thighs.
I internally shake my head in an attempt to push those images away.
