Will I be able to manage being with him every day? To have him in such proximity to me?
My palms become sweaty, and my cheeks feel warm. I can barely handle him telling me this.
I only hope not to be a blubbering idiot around him.
Finally, I nod, our eyes locking.
He grins.
Shit. I’m in so much trouble.
3
Cain
The thing about me is I don’t feel emotions.
But standing here, right now, in front of this stranger sent here to interview me, I can tell the very moment our gazes lock that something is different about her. I can’t put my finger on what makes this different, but a sensation I can’t comprehend is weaving its way through my blood, making my heart beat faster.
What is this?
Anger?
No.
This is something else entirely.
Intrigue?
I can’t look away from the blond woman who stands before me. I watch as she fiddles with her fingers, and instead of being annoyed by the movement like I normally would, I have a desire to ask her what’s wrong, tell her that there’s no reason to be nervous, and even, dare I say, ask her why she’s fidgeting.
It’s a strange feeling to look at someone and want to know more.
Not something that happens to me often. If ever.
But when I look into her blue eyes, eyes that resemble a deep sea with an abyss that never ends, I have to remind myself I don’t know her, and a question like that would be presumptuous.
Still, despite this, I watch her. Enthralled by the way her chest rises and falls with each inhale of breath, I’m mesmerized by the flush of her cheeks and how the color clashes against her pale skin.
I have no idea why this woman puts me off-kilter, but she does.
And it’s alarming.
Looking at her, I can see how gorgeous she is. But there are many attractive women in this world. With long hair that flows down her back in soft waves, she could be any pretty face, but something other than her appearance intrigues me.
I can appreciate beauty. To me, it reminds me of architecture. I can see the lines. The curves. But underneath, it’s only a circuit of interconnected organs keeping the vessel moving.
Like my buildings. Just a different vessel.
But when I look at Layla Marks, it’s not the same.
I drop my hands to my jeans, placing my hands in my pocket. The urge to storm out of the room, slam the door, and shut this woman out of my life rears its head. But I won’t.
I can’t.
My desire to understand is too great. This curiosity will be my poison. Einstein said the important thing is not to stop questioning, but I don’t think he had me in mind. Fixation isn’t a good thing. Objects of my affection don’t always like the outcome.
Walk away.
The thing is, despite all the reasons I should allow Simon to lead this tour, I can’t. Because it’s been a very long time since I’ve felt anything like excitement. To feel the rush in my bloodstream again . . .
I’m a parched man wandering through a desert, and she’s the water.
And I need to see why this time is different.
I continue to look at her and am curious about how her blue eyes widen with her own set of emotions. Conflicting emotions if I’m reading her correctly. Fear. Curiosity. Excitement.
She looks young. If I had to harbor a guess, she’s in her mid-twenties. There are no lines that pepper her face. Something most would take for granted, and it makes me wonder if she knows how precious life is.
My hand reaches up, and I scrub at my eyes, trying to push these thoughts away, but instead, as I squint, I see something. Her. I see the similarities.
They’re there. Clear as day.
Is that where my fascination stems from? That she reminds me of before. Of my youth.
Maybe she’s karma sent to taunt me. To remind me. She’s the Angel of Death come to claim me for my past sins.
I’ve lived a long enough life, so if that’s her goal, I’d welcome her with open arms.
At thirty-five, I’m not old by any means, but I don’t look toward the future either. I don’t get weighed down by mundane details like that. Not when I know I don’t deserve a happy ending.
“Follow me,” I say, pulling myself away from her gaze and starting to walk.
If I don’t stop watching her, I know I’ll scare her with the intensity. That cannot happen. As I stride through the corridor, I watch her reflection on the hallway walls, a perk to windows everywhere.
Her pace is fast, her arms cutting through the air to keep up with me. I slow my steps. With Layla following closely now, I lead her across the room until we are standing by the glass door up ahead. I lift my wrist, and then the wall parts open to the outside.