Page 11

She thinks she can run, but I’ve spent two years chasing ghosts. I’m not letting her get away this time.

I catch up to her near the east wing, those heels of hers clicking out a retreat that sounds like surrender. The hallway’s empty because the team’s not here today. I decided to arrive extremely early to catch her without anyone around.

“Dr. Clark.” I make her title sound like foreplay. “Got a minute?”

She stops but doesn’t turn around immediately. When she does, her face is a masterpiece of professional indifference. If I hadn’t seen that flash of panic in the locker room, I’d almost believe it.

“Mr. Hendrix. Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, actually.” I move closer, noting how her shoulders tense. “I’m having some memory issues. Thought maybe you could help.”

“Memory issues aren’t my specialty. Perhaps you should see—”

“It’s weird,” I continue, cutting off her deflection. “I can remember some things perfectly. Like this hotel in Vegas. The bar had these ridiculous pink drinks.”

Her pupils dilate just a fraction. Gotcha.

“I’m sure Vegas has many hotels with bars,” she says carefully. “Is there a point to this?”

“Just thinking out loud.” I lean against the wall, casual as fuck while my heart hammers. “About coincidences. How sometimes you meet someone who reminds you of someone else.”

“I have a common face.”

“No.” I let my eyes travel over that very uncommon face. “You really don’t.”

She shifts her weight, and I catch it—the tell. The same little weight transfer she did in Vegas when she was deciding whether to be bold or bail.

“Mr. Hendrix—”

“You know what’s really bothering me?” I push off the wall, closing more distance. “This woman I met. She had this laugh—kind of husky, like she’d been yelling at a concert. And she did this thing with her hands when she talked, like she was conducting an orchestra.”

Chelsea’s hands, which had been gesturing, drop to her sides.

“Sounds like you knew her well,” she says, voice steady but eyes giving her away.

“One night. But some nights stick with you, you know?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“No?” I step closer, close enough to smell that perfume that’s been haunting me. “You never had a night that changed everything? That made everyone else seem like they’re playing in black and white while you’re stuck in technicolor?”

Something flickers across her face—pain? Recognition? But she locks it down fast.

“You’re confused,” she says firmly. “Whatever you think you remember, whoever you think I am—you’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” She straightens, finding her spine. “I’m your performance coach. We’ve never met before today. And frankly, this conversation is inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate.” I taste the word, remember her using it in a very different context. “You’re right. I should probably keep things professional.”

Relief flashes in her eyes. Too soon, sweetheart.

“It’s just...” I lean in, dropping my voice to barely above a whisper. “You have the same freckle.”

She freezes. Doesn’t ask what freckle or where. Because she knows. Knows I’m talking about the one on her inner thigh, the one I spent quality time getting acquainted with.

“Right here.” I gesture vaguely at my own thigh, watching her face flush. “Shaped like a crescent moon. Funny coincidence, right?”

“You’re imagining things.” But her voice cracks on the last word.

“Maybe.” I move even closer, until there’s barely a foot between us. “Or maybe I remember exactly how you taste when you—”

“Stop.” The word comes out sharp, desperate.

“Stop what? I’m just talking about someone I used to know. Someone who told me she didn’t dance with strangers, then spent three hours proving that was a lie.”

Her breathing’s changed, gotten shallower. I’m playing with fire here, but I can’t help myself. Two years of wondering why she left, why the number seemed fake, why she looked at me in that locker room like I was both her salvation and her worst nightmare.

“Someone who wrote their number on my arm,” I continue, watching her face carefully. “Then disappeared while I was sleeping.”

“I need to go.” She tries to step around me, but I shift to block her path. Not aggressive, just... present.

“The number was fake.”

“It wasn’t—” She catches herself, but it’s too late.

“Wasn’t what, Chelsea?”

“Dr. Clark,” she corrects automatically, but we both know that ship has sailed and sunk.

“Tell me something, Dr. Clark.” I lean in close enough that my breath stirs the hair escaping from her twist. “Do you still make that sound when someone kisses that spot on your neck? The one right... here?”

I don’t touch her—I’m not that stupid—but I indicate the exact spot, watching goosebumps rise on her skin.

“This is harassment,” she whispers, but she hasn’t moved away.

“This is foreplay,” I correct. “Harassment would be if you actually wanted me to stop.”

Her eyes flash with heat that has nothing to do with anger. “You arrogant—”

“You called me that in Vegas too. Right before you climbed me like a tree.”

“That wasn’t—” She stops, realizing she’s about to admit it. “You’re delusional.”

“Firecracker.”

The word lands like a punch. Her whole body goes rigid, face draining of color then flushing red. It’s the pet name I used that night, the one that made her laugh then demand I use her real name instead.

“Don’t,” she breathes, and it sounds like begging.

“Don’t what? Don’t remember? Don’t talk about it? Don’t think about you every fucking night for two years wondering why you left?”

The last part slips out without permission, too honest for this game we’re playing. Her eyes widen, something shifting in her expression.

“Reed—”

“So you do know my name.”

She closes her eyes, looking defeated. “This can’t happen.”

“What can’t happen? We’re just talking. Performance coach and client, having a professional discussion about memory and coincidences.”

When she opens her eyes, they’re bright with unshed tears. “You know what? You’re right. You must have me confused with someone else. Because the woman you’re describing? The one who’d risk her career for one night with a stranger? She doesn’t exist anymore.”

The words hit hard. She straightens her blazer, rebuilds her walls brick by brick while I watch.

“Our session is at ten,” she says, voice steady now. “Come prepared to discuss your anger management techniques and goals for the season. If you continue to bring up these... delusions, I’ll have no choice but to refer you to another therapist.”

She steps around me, and this time I let her go. But I can’t resist one last shot.

“Chelsea.”

She pauses but doesn’t turn.

“You still bite your lip when you’re trying not to react. Just like you did when I—”

She walks away faster, heels hammering out a retreat. But I saw it the moment before she fled, she was biting that bottom lip exactly like she did in Vegas when I first kissed her. When I made her wait. When I made her beg.

I watch until she disappears around the corner, then slump against the wall. That went... exactly as badly as expected. But now I know for sure—she remembers everything. Feels it too, if those goosebumps and dilated pupils were any indication.

The question is what the fuck do I do about it?