Page 15 of Charmingly Obsessed

A drop from the towel in her hand traces a path down my cheek.

She watches it go, then resumes her work, pressing the edge of the damp, warm towel to my face again.

Her expression is so damn focused, so intent, it’s like she’s diffusing a bomb, not just dabbing at a billionaire’s busted nose. Like she’s trying to save me.

That’s Diana. Patient. Composed. Methodical. They’d probably fast-track her into the astronaut program based solely on the meticulous order of her spice rack or the neatly aligned rows of serums in her bathroom. I’ve seen her planner. It’s a work of art. A goddamn military campaign of organization.

Her lashes, ridiculously long and dark, tremble unexpectedly. A delicate, almost imperceptible shift as her gaze moves from my battered nose to meet my eyes. And fuck, there it is again. That look.

Like staring into a storm-bruised sky just before the heavens unleash holy hell.

I always thought that her blue-gray eyes hold something ancient and vast, along with an impossibly brilliant flare like the sun flaring through the viewport of a shuttle burning up and disintegrating on re-entry.

There’s always an answer hidden in the depths of her eyes. An answer to a question I haven’t even figured out how to ask yet.

She leans in, just a fraction, her touch feather-light as she glides the cloth over the bridge of my nose. The scent of her, some subtle, clean fragrance mixed with the lingering sweetness of those damn pastries, wraps around me, tightening the invisible chains she threw around me years ago.

“Does it hurt?” she murmurs, her voice a soft whisper, like the first rustle of new leaves in spring. So fragile. So goddamn beautiful it makes my chest ache.

“What? This?” I try for nonchalant, but my voice cracks, raspy and raw. I don’t even bother to clear it. “It’s nothing. Keep going.”

Liar.

It hurts. Everything hurts. Not just the throbbing in my face.

It’s this… this constant, grinding ache deep inside, a wound that’s been festering for three goddamn years.

I’ve been living in a box since that day.

A dark, narrow, suffocating box, the date of my entombment seared onto the inside of my eyelids like a brand.

Three years ago I lifted my head. My office. Sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. And Diana Bilova had just stepped through the doorway. She hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in her stance, caught between advancing and retreating. And then, she looked at me. Directly at me.

And in that instant, I was lost. Sealed inside that moment forever. Trapped in a long, narrow, silent tunnel, no bigger than the distance between her slender, uncertain figure and me, sitting behind my fortress of a desk.

I still live there. In that fucking tunnel.

Every so often, something shorts out in the darkness, the crackle of phantom electricity a stark reminder that I’m still, somehow, alive.

And the phantom of hers appears. The way she looked at me.

The way I imagined the sound of her voice, the precise inflection when she’d finally say my name.

She was the new hire, after all. She had to say it.

I got stuck. Right there. In that moment. When her gaze met mine for the first time.

And there’s no way out of this box. No escape.

For as long as I can remember, I knew I’d have a family. A wife. Maybe kids, maybe just us. But together. Always. An anchor. A constant. Like my parents, before… before everything went to hell.

I’ve always found those cynical, “manly” proclamations about love being a fantasy, a weakness, utterly exhausting.

Sappy romance? The sacred bond between two people?

What the fuck could be more meaningful, more exhilarating, more fundamentally human than finding that one person you want to navigate this chaotic world with? Forever.

Cynicism is for the weak. The dull. The pathetic.

I knew I’d have a wedding. Three hundred guests, maybe more. And when I lifted her veil, my heart would pound out a single, desperate plea: Never let go. Never let this end. Never forget this moment.

I knew I’d meet her. Maybe not immediately, but soon enough, I’d know. The click. The recognition.

All my past relationships fizzled out around the seventh or eighth date.

Sometimes I slept with them, driven by a detached curiosity, a need to be certain.

Sometimes, it was obvious long before that.

They were wonderful women – smart, charming, beautiful.

Women, in general, are far too good for this fucked-up world.

Letting them go was never difficult. They deserved happiness, real happiness, not the lukewarm placeholder I could offer.

Sometimes, I’d wonder what she would be like. My one. Like some ridiculous fairy tale, a single perfect flower stretching towards the sun, waiting just for me. And one day, I’d find her. Drift in like a breeze and recognize her instantly.

Guessing was the hardest part. I wasn’t drawn to a specific “type.” I liked them all. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Tall, petite. Quiet, boisterous. Seriously, what’s not to like about women? They’re magic.

“…Mykola?” Diana’s voice, soft and hesitant, pulls me back from the precipice of memory. Back to the here and now. Back to her, dabbing at my face with that damn towel. “Are you sure the bone’s okay? It looks… swollen.”

My nose is fine. Probably. A little broken, maybe.

I almost wish it were worse. A real injury.

Something that would require… extended care.

Weeks of her fussing over me. Maybe then the chaos raging inside my head, this relentless, grinding obsession, would finally find a tangible focus, settle down, give me a moment’s fucking peace.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I try to smile. It probably looks like a grimace. She frowns, her brow furrowing in that adorable way that makes me want to kiss the worry lines smooth.

I probably have “DESPERATE FOOL” tattooed across my forehead in flashing neon letters. It’s always been my curse. I feel too much, too intensely. And it all spills out.

Not like Diana. Diana, who accounts for everything.

Organizes, structures, plans. Precise. Contained.

No wonder she thinks I’m a fucking clown.

A buffoon who crashed into her life and set it on fire.

Well, clown isn’t the worst option, I guess.

Better than being the cruel, unhinged bastard I actually was that day.

The one who hurt her. Savagely. Unbearably.

“You think… you think they won’t come after you again?” she asks, her voice small, laced with a fear that’s all for me.

I watch the delicate, almost translucent skin of her wrist, the way her other hand presses awkwardly, protectively, against her chest, right over her heart. I don’t know. I don’t think. I just watch her. Drink her in.

Then, I force myself to meet her eyes again. And again, just watching. Not thinking. Just feeling this raw, consuming need.

“There’s nothing to avenge,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “A fight’s a fight. It’s over.” For them, anyway. For me… this is just another battle in a war I’ve been losing for three years.

Aren’t bruised, heroic noses supposed to be kissed when they’re being tended to by beautiful, concerned women? Isn’t that in the script somewhere?

I don’t feel ashamed, not anymore. Not for wanting her this badly. Not for reaching out like a beggar, desperate for any crumb of her attention, her touch. That time, the time for pride and pretense, ran out two and a half years ago. The clock stopped.

I just want to survive this.

When the homeless guy on the corner asks for spare change, he’s just trying to survive too. We’re not so different, him and me. Both desperate. Both broken in our own ways.

“It hurts right here,” I murmur, my palm brushing against my cheekbone, deliberately pointing to a spot inches from my lips.

My fingers find hers, light and warm against my skin.

I don’t look away from her eyes. Those incredible, mesmerizing blue-gray eyes, now threaded with faint veins of malachite green that, in the right light, would probably shimmer gold.

My phone rings. A shrill, obnoxious intrusion. And since it’s not vibrating, set to my usual discreet corporate drone mode, that means it’s Larrington. Fuck.

Diana startles at the sound, nearly dropping the towel. She brushes her lips against mine, a fleeting, accidental touch that sends a jolt straight to my groin, before pulling back, her eyes wide.

“Don’t answer it,” I murmur, my fingers tangling in a loose strand of her silky, light hair. It’s softer than I imagined. I want to bury my face in it. I want to bite it, gently, roll it between my teeth. Instead, I just let the silkiness of it sink into my skin, stroking it carefully, reverently.

I always liked all women. All types. But it turns out, when it came to love, to this soul-deep, consuming obsession… I did have a specific preference.

One. Specific. Preference.

Five foot seven. Slim but with unexpectedly lush thighs. Eyes like a stormy sea. Hair like spun moonlight. A voice like whispered secrets. And a stubborn streak a mile wide hidden beneath a veneer of shy composure.

Just like Diana, so yeah . From the crown of her head to the delicate curve of her ankles. From her slightly protruding, adorable ears to those surprisingly wide hips on her otherwise slender frame.

“It’s… uh… some Larrington,” she mutters, glancing at the glowing screen of my phone.

I’m surprised she took the initiative, actually picked it up. But then, again, organized people . They can’t stand missed calls. It probably offends their sense of order.

I sigh, a sound like a bag of cement hitting the floor. So much for a proper kiss for the wounded hero. That accidental brush lasted barely half a second. Probably my quota for the day.

“And Larrington,” I say, my voice heavy with resignation as I reluctantly take the phone, “never, ever brings good news.” I jab the answer button.

“I’ll… I’ll just wait in the kitchen,” she says quickly, already backing away, eager to escape. She slips out without a single backward glance.