Page 1 of If You Could Only Believe
Prologue
Things like this don’t happen to people like me.
I mean, there’s a reason I don’t have friends, have never had a boyfriend and my mother and sister hate me.
I’m plain.
I’m fat.
I’m weird.
And, worst of all, I have no sense of tact.
I just say whatever is in my head; that’s why I have no friends.
It’s not that I’m cruel, but I have no pride or self-measure, so I don’t pretend to not be upset if I’m upset. I don’t pretend to be happy if I’m not happy.
I don’t pretend with my thoughts or emotions, and I’ve learned growing up that that makes people very uncomfortable.
Hence, again, why I have no friends.
I wish I could say it was the same reason why I’ve never had a boyfriend, but if you go back and see the ‘I’m plain’, ‘I’m fat’ and ‘I’m weird’, you’ll see why no guy has ever been interested in me.
There’s also the question of my intelligence. I’ve been tested at genius level, and for someone that’s weird, that level of intellect just makes you weirder.
But that’s okay.
I’ve had 22 years to learn how to live with myself as I am. And I was getting along just fine being ignored and quietly going to work and earning a living where I could distance myself from my family as much as possible.
Until Michael Buchanan, that is.
Michael Buchanan was not ever supposed to notice me.
He should never have ever known that I existed.
Michael Buchanan should have been taking over the world with his brothers and meeting people who mattered.
He should be rolling around naked with super models and socialites.
He should be running Buchanan Industries with his brothers as he wined and dined heiresses.
But, instead, he’s here with me.
He’s in my apartment, closing in on me like a predator that has spotted its prey.
First, he forced me to go to that company party.
Next, he forced me to have to work with him tomorrow.
Then, he forced me to mingle with his family.
And now he was forcing me to give myself to him.
Well…not exactlyforcing, but what else did you call it when you felt like you didn’t have the power to resist or make another choice for yourself?
What do you call it when you continuously tell the gorgeous man in front of you that he needs to scoot along to someone who belongs with his kind, but he doesn’t listen?
Instead of sleeping with models and wooing heiresses, he’s smiling at you with those devil designed dimples. He’s finding ways to touch you, to brush against you.
