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At the counter, Sam placed a cup on the pickup platform and called out, “Holland.”
The girl gave me a withering glare and then walked over to pick up the cup, which afforded me a great view of her tight round ass. Jesus. I couldn’t have told you why, besides the fact that my dick was acting like an attention-starved puppy suddenly, but I didn’t want her to go. I wanted her to stay, to talk to me. Even if it was just to continue telling me I was a jerk.
“Holland,” I called to her back.
She spun, her mouth a tight line as she prepared her next shot. “Yes, asshole?” Her head cocked to one side, spilling that glossy hair in waves over one shoulder, one breast. My dick hardened even more as I imagined that hair falling down around her face while she rode me.
“Have dinner with me.”
“Get a life,” she said, turning back around and picking up her things. She packed a laptop into a bag and then passed me one more time, her hips swinging as she purposefully ignored me and exited into the lobby.
Holland was the first thing I’d really wanted in as long as I could remember.
—
I’d never thought of myself as a stalker.
Mostly I’d thought of myself as a son, a swimmer, and CEO of Cody Technology. I’d thought I was a good guy—blessed in every way. I’d never had to go looking for things. They were handed to me. They just were.
But that was before.
Everything I’d believed about myself had been washed away in one sudden flash of metal and blood. Everything I knew about Oliver Cody turned out to be a lie, and the tether I’d had to my own life was severed.
For eight weeks now I’d been a ghost, haunting the house I grew up in, the life I had lived. I was like a shadow, flitting through a washed-out landscape of black and white, unable to feel, to taste, to desire. Until I’d seen Holland.
The girl in the coffeehouse—Holland O’Dell—was the first spot of color I’d seen in two months…and maybe a lot longer than that. Every cell in my body had jumped to attention when she’d spoken to me, when those crystal-blue eyes had pinned me down, full of fury and heat. She was gorgeous—all flowing red-brown hair and indignation making her skin flush.
I’d gone home that night and logged in to the company servers for the first time in months, pulling personnel files until I found her. Which felt a lot like stalking.
And then I’d tried to forget her, but it hadn’t worked. My body buzzed when I thought of her name, and those furious eyes danced behind my eyelids when I tried to sleep. My dick turned to iron when I let myself think about the way her shoulders had pulled back when she was angry, making her perfect breasts jut out and challenge the fabric of her prim and proper button-down shirt. I wanted to weigh one of those breasts in my palm, cup it and take it into my mouth…
It was pointless trying to banish her from my thoughts. I had nothing else to think about. The only solution was to get closer to her, to get more. Maybe it would work like the desperate sugar cravings I’d had as a kid—if I let myself have as much of the thing I craved as I could stand, it would make me sick and I wouldn’t want it anymore.
Maybe I’d get sick of Holland. And then I could go back to what I’d been doing before I met her. Trying to figure out who the hell I was supposed to be now.
—
The bar across the street from the Cody Technology campus was called Twisters. I’d always thought it was a stupid name for a bar. It didn’t stop me from sitting there for the better part of the next week. Each afternoon I went in, nursed whiskey and succeeded in talking myself out of going across the street looking for Holland O’Dell. Going over there to look for her just a few days after she essentially told me to go fuck myself would be closer to real stalking than I was comfortable with, though sitting at Twisters and thinking about it probably qualified, too. Each day I gave myself every good reason I could think of not to cross the street. But after four days of holding back, I realized none of those reasons were as compelling as the memory of her clear blue eyes.
At five-thirty, I got up and walked out, dodging traffic on Wilshire as I made my way to the four tall buildings that made up Cody Technology. I didn’t let myself look up at the way the towers stood proud against the smoky blue of the sky. Adam and I had done that together. We’d done all of this together—built this company, designed these buildings.
It didn’t matter now.
I nodded at the security guards who looked startled to see me again. I couldn’t blame them.
The coffeehouse was empty when I got there, except for Sam, who stood faithfully behind the counter reading something on his phone. He glanced up when I entered. “Hey, Hale,” he said. “Americano?”
“Sure.” Hale was the nickname I’d been given by a sports columnist in college, when she dubbed me and another swimmer “Hale and Hearty.” I’d answered to it for so long I didn’t even think about it now. Rob was about the only person at work who didn’t call me by my nickname, and that was because he’d known me since we were little kids. Pre-nickname. I watched Sam pull the espresso, trying not to feel disappointed that Holland wasn’t just sitting here, waiting for me. “How’s the music, Sam?”
He set my coffee on the counter. “Making progress. It’s slow,” he said. “But I’ve got a couple producers listening to the demo I made. One of them is talking about a movie soundtrack—they’re looking for a new sound.”
“That’s good, man.”
He smiled and I turned away. That was about all the polite conversation I could handle. If I stood there any longer, the next question would come from him. There were only a few topics to ask me about, and I didn’t want to talk about any of them. So I found a table in the back corner and settled in to sober up with my coffee. I stared into my cup. What the hell had I been expecting? That she would magically be here, and I’d do what? Sweet-talk her into pulling me out of my self-flagellating slump? Convince her to sit down, chat with me? Charm her into bed? I shook my head. Not only was I masochistic and potentially clinically depressed, I was delusional. The plan was to sit here, drink my coffee, sober up, and go home.
When Holland O’Dell walked in the door at six, however, my plans changed.
She walked to the counter and greeted Sam with a warm smile, leaning in as she ordered, in a way that made me irrationally jealous. I felt that same spark I’d noticed the first time I’d set eyes on her. A glow of something—an indefinable buzz on some elemental level inside me. This girl had something I needed. Maybe it was chemical. That was all I could think. But whatever it was, whatever this girl had, I wanted it. It was the first certainty I’d felt in the better part of a year.
