Page 18 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

While I walk to the subway, with my coffee in hand and pastry secured in my oversized purse-slash-laptop-bag, I probably look like an absolute fool with a dopey grin on my face.

As if on an infinite loop, I replay the entire evening in my head—from the moment he hit on me at the bar to the last image of him asleep in the bed. I’ve got his address, but I left him behind for a reason.

It’s best it was only a one-night stand.

Guys like Wick are fiction. He’s a figment of a long-held fantasy. They don’t exist in the real world.

The lives of mere mortals cannot contain them.

With each passing day, the constant recapping makes the memory so dreamlike that I start to doubt whether it happened at all. How many women go home with a wealthy, handsome man who can blow your back out so hard, your spine disintegrates?

My confidence, though, that’s become unshakable. My memories may be fading, but the residual energy from my night with Wick lingers. I can’t help but feel empowered mentally, emotionally, and physically.

My mind has played tricks on me, though, thinking I see him at every corner or convincing me someone is watching.

It’s impossible, of course. I didn’t even give him my real name.

My sex-starved brain supplies desperate specters of his big form at Baked In, a glimpse of gold-green eyes on the street, and a flash of black hair at the bank.

Fuck Trent. And fuck Wickham, every night in my dreams.

Before I make it to the office, I toss the mostly empty coffee cup into a trash can to hide the evidence of its existence from Violet.

It’s the second Monday A.W.—after Wickham—and I slide into my chair in my office.

Sunlight streams through the glass windows and illuminates the blondewood desk like a spotlight. I’ve got revisions to deal with, but I’m excited to see this project through.

I’ve always loved my job, but mornings like this emphasize how much I’m meant to be where I am.

Parsens is one of the preeminent architectural firms in the nation. That I’ve survived not only four years here but received accolades and even an industry award is astonishing.

I work clean and stay organized.

I keep my head down.

I don’t engage in any drama.

I dismiss the stress.

It’s why Alan considers me his right-hand woman in Mixed Use.

“Shitty Monday, Annie,” Violet says in a sing-song rhythm as she plops a coffee cup onto my desk. She falls into the client chair on the other side of my L-shaped desk and leans away to put her feet up.

Vi has been bringing me coffee since my first day at Parsens. I don’t have the heart to tell her I stop at Baked In. It’d be easier to give up Marni, but I also can’t have a good day without it.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “The sun is shining. Coffee’s hot. It’s a brand-new day.”

She goofily rolls her eyes. “Listen, if I’d known his dick was that good, I’d have stolen him for myself.”

I grind my teeth to meter my response. It’s no use engaging with my best friend on Wick. She’s still mad I didn’t leave my number. She told me to show up at his house in lingerie.

When Vi first teased me about sharing him so she could get the star treatment, I slammed the lid on the copier so hard, it cracked the glass.

It made her laugh until she peed herself.

She’s committed to doing it ever since, insisting she’s only “desensitizing” me.

I hate that I love her.

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