Page 25 of Endless Obsession

Just after noon, I look up to see Charlotte walking to one of the small, round iron tables out on the patio. My pulse instantly leaps into my throat, my senses all on alert—but I feel a sharp jab of disappointment when I see that Jaz is with her. The two women settle into seats on opposite sides of the table, saying something to their server that I can’t quite catch, and I wonder if I should call it a loss for today. Finish my chapter and my coffee, and go home to deal with all of the things that I should actually be doing today. Come back tomorrow, and the next day, and however many days after that it takes to get Charlotte alone.

That would be the smart way to handle this. With her friend as a buffer, it’s entirely possible that Charlotte might turn any advance I make down flat, completely shutting down the prospect of anything between us after my interruption of her lunch.

But I can’t make myself leave. It feels like a physical impossibility, like I can’t just get up and walk away. I watch as the server brings them water and takes their order, and I keep thinking again and again that I should just go, and try another day.

I can’t. I can’t walk away from her. That’s just another reason that I should, but when I get up from my table, I already know that the direction I’m going to go in is toward what I’ve come to want more than anything else in the world.

Fuck the consequences.

“Excuse me, miss.” My voice, when I stop a foot away from their table, is my own. Not the polished British accent that I use at Masquerade, that Charlotte heard last night, but my own second-generation Russian accent, the mixture of my family’s thicker accent that I’ve grown up with all my life and the Americans that I interact with daily. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help myself.”

It’s the truth. I couldn’t help myself. And when Charlotte looks at me, her head swiveling in surprise, the expression on her face is worth the chance I took.

This woman is going to be mine, no matter what I have to do.

8

CHARLOTTE

I’m glancing at my phone, checking for any urgent emails from work, and half-listening to Jaz tell me about her plans for this coming weekend, when a voice cuts through the air and makes me go very still.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Just the sound of his accent is enough to make me curious, to make me look at him instead of waving him off, the way I’m instantly inclined to do. I don’t want some strange man interrupting my lunch with Jaz, but when I look up, I’m glad that I did.

The man standing just next to our table is gorgeous. Tall, well-muscled, his arms rippling with tattoos that run all the way down to his hands and over his fingers, and climb to just above the open collar of his shirt. I can see a light dusting of blond hair on his chest, lighter than the dark blond hair on his head, and a glimpse of broad pectorals beneath the open buttons. There’s more ink across his chest, and the first thing I think is that I want to know just how far down the tattoos go.

Did that night at the club really change me that much? I’m not the type to ogle men. Not the type to think about a stranger sexually—even one this attractive. But I can feel my cheeks heating as I try to force myself to look up at his face.

He smiles at me, and for a second, I think I feel a flicker of recognition. There’s something to his smile, a sort of self-satisfied, almost cocky smirk that reminds me of the man from the club. But he can’t possibly be the same man. For one, I can’t picture that man dressed so casually. There’s an informal, relaxed air to this man that’s completely different from the formal, precise way the masked man at Masquerade behaved.

That man had a British accent, too. Not the sort of Americanized Russian accent that this man speaks with.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help myself,” he continues. “I know it’s awfully rude to disrupt your lunch, but I couldn’t risk never getting the chance to meet you.”

“I—” I blink rapidly, trying to get my thoughts under control, to think about this rationally. This man is a stranger, someone who just came up to me out of nowhere to flirt with me, and it should put me off. But either that night at Masquerade did crazy things to my libido, or my anger with Nate unlocked some deeply hidden part of myself, because all I can think is that I want to give him my number just so I can find out what he looks like with his shirt off.

And so that I can keep hearing him talk to me in that incredibly sexy accent. Every word out of his mouth sends a tingle through me, making my pulse race a little faster. I want to hear him say different things in it. Dirtier things.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his smile turning regretful, and I realize that I’ve waited too long to respond. “This was far too rude of me. I’ll go. I apologize again.”

“No, wait.” Jaz is the one who speaks up, pushing her chair back. “I’ll grab my lunch to go and meet you back at the office. Sit down. Chat.” She offers the man a brilliant smile, and then looks at me with an expression that very clearly says get it together, Charlotte.

“No, Jaz—we were having lunch. I don’t want you to—” Even as I protest, I realize that I do want her to leave so I can talk to this man. His opening lines, his approach—none of this would have worked on the Charlotte that I was a few days ago, but in my current headspace…and especially after what happened at Masquerade, I want to try new things. I want to be open to new experiences.

I want to be impulsive enough to have lunch with a drop-dead-gorgeous stranger who approached me.

“It’s fine. I promise.” Jaz is already getting up, grabbing her phone and her purse. “I’ll just tell the hostess to box up my order. I have some interview applications to go through anyway. The work just piles up, you know?” She smiles at the man. “Don’t make me regret this,” she warns him, and then she’s gone, already tapping away at something on her phone.

I realize why when, a second later, her name lights up my screen.

Jaz: You’re looking at him like he’s the second coming of Ryan Gosling. Just find out the man’s name, for God’s sake. And if he asks you out, say YES.

Jaz: Also, his accent is delicious. Don’t you want to hear that moaning your name? Yes, you do.

“I—” I look up at him, feeling like I’m floundering. “Well, you might as well go ahead and sit down.”

He hesitates, then does exactly that. “I know this is all really presumptuous,” he says, and the apology in his voice sounds sincere. “I think I lost my mind a little, when I saw you. I can’t imagine that you’re single, but if you are—I’d really like to buy you lunch.”

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