Forbidden Surrender (Forever 1)

We hadn’t seen any sign of Vincent Sorenson after that night at the bar. When we were exploring the wilderness around Cape Town, I was half expecting him to pop out of a forested area nearby locked in a mortal engagement with a panther, or make a dramatic appearance by falling out of the sky with a parachute. Something death defying. But there was nothing.

That night, Vincent had been so close to me I could smell the masculine scent of whiskey and spice from his clothes. I remembered his mouth lingering close to mine as he trailed my fingers down the chiseled expanse of his torso. I wondered how his lips would feel against my exposed neck. Would his kisses be soft or desperate?

I shook the thought out of my head as I flipped through Vincent’s file. He had studied mechanical engineering at Berkeley, though his professors would have said he had majored in surfing, and mechanical engineering was just his pastime. He graduated and promptly took up a life of surfing and seasonal jobs. But a few years later, he designed and built the first prototype of his surfboard camera by himself in his apartment—he seemed like he knew how to use his hands and was obviously into mixing business with the rest of his life.

I recalled the texture of his hands from when he pulled my hand to his chest at the bar. They were neatly maintained but strong and calloused from all his outdoor activities. A slow heat gathered in my core as I imagined him sliding them up my thighs—I had resisted him in Cape Town but I wasn’t sure I could resist his intimate touch again.

I shook my head. One encounter with Vincent Sorenson and I was already squirming in my panties. Since when did I start fantasizing about near strangers, and potential clients at that? Besides, anything happening between me and Vincent was bound to be a dead end. Those women around him at the bar were a thread away from having their dresses pooled on the floor. How could I compete with that? Did I even want to? I’d made a mistake with a man like that once, but I wasn’t about to do it again.

Riley let out a soft snore, her head rolled with the tilting of the plane and stopped gently on my shoulder. She always made it seem so easy. If she wanted a guy, nine times out of ten, she got him. What would she have done with Vincent? I shook away the thought.

Whatever reason Vincent Sorenson had for not contacting us, I just hoped it didn’t have to do with me shooting down his advances. I put the papers carefully back into the folder and tucked them away. Vincent was only a dangerous fantasy that needed to disappear. I leaned my head back and pulled the itchy airline blanket over my head, hoping to get some sleep before we arrived in New York.

***

My legs were rubber and sweat drenched the shirt on my back. I was willing my legs to move but they wouldn’t. The air was the consistency of mud. What was I running from?

Run. Just run.

Fear coiled in the pit of my stomach and I wanted to vomit.

Someone was behind me. Blue eyes burning hot and cold at the same time behind thick spectacles. How can he be so fast? He grabbed my arm, twisting it behind me. Pain flashed through my shoulder, but I couldn’t open my mouth to scream.

The shrieking of my alarm clock woke me up. I ripped my sheets off, damp with sweat. Damn it, I’d thought I was over that. I shook my numb right arm, aware I must’ve been sleeping on it all night, and clumsily hit my hand against the nightstand in confusion before I realized the alarm clock had fallen on the floor. Reaching down, I picked it up and squinted at the red letters. 7:00 a.m. I got up and snuck into the bathroom, noting Riley’s bedroom door was still closed. She didn’t have to get to work until nine, and she usually slept in until the absolute last minute.

My heart rate had slowed to normal by the time I finished my morning shower and dressed myself for work. I took the elevator down, sipping on my breakfast smoothie. Broccoli, oatmeal, protein powder, orange juice, a banana and yogurt: it was the breakfast of champions. Riley introduced me to it as a hangover cure, but it quickly became my go to morning snack. Looking at my reflection in the elevator doors, I decided I’d definitely dressed the part of a professional in my white blouse, a-line skirt, and black heels. Heck, if I had a few million dollars I’d trust myself with the money.

I power walked the streets of the Lower West side until I reached the subway station, only slowing to step over the manhole covers to avoid getting my heels stuck. At the intersection, a herd of commuters merged with me. Men and women in business suits moved in perfect synchronicity, all without any conversation.

That was the strangest thing about New York City I had never gotten used to. People could be right on top of one another but no one ever said a word. It was similar in Boston where I went to college and worked for a year afterward, but before that I lived in Coppell, Texas, where nearly everyone knew your name. You just felt more like a person when people actually recognized your existence.

I still thought of Texas as home, even though I hadn’t been back in years. My parents still lived there but we’d been out of touch since I left for college. They were workaholics and expected the same of me—at the expense of my childhood and a real relationship with them. I wasn’t bitter, but I also wasn’t fond of their attempts to steer my life. They had their own lives now and I had mine.

The waves of commuters swept me along with them into the Bowling Green Station. I supposed ignoring strangers was a coping mechanism when you lived in a city of eight million. You couldn’t learn the names of everyone even if you wanted to.

Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the elevator on the forty-eighth floor of the gleaming steel and glass structure that was home to Waterbridge-Howser. A marble accented mahogany reception desk greeted me. Aluminum letters spelling out the company’s name hung tastefully on the wall behind the desk. The conference room to the right was empty, the view of the park filtering through it. Every detail was designed to demonstrate wealth and power. Appearances were important in this business.

I navigated through the cubicle maze to my desk. We weren’t packed together as tightly as possible, but it wasn’t the open office plan of a design studio either. Tall dividers gave analysts their privacy as they investigated investment opportunities. Some analysts, like myself, were experienced enough to talk to clients directly, answering their questions and handling minor issues so the higher-ups would be free to work on bringing in more business. The managers’ offices formed the perimeter of every floor, each one with a window view. The partners of the firm had their own section of the floor, and they only ever emerged to speak to the managers.