Page 23 of Off-Limits as Puck

Even if it kills me.

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.”

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