63

His scent hits me hard, its masculine notes of spices and woods turn my head dizzy and seep through my bloodstream so that it’s the only thing pumping in and out of my heart. It must be because it’s been some time since I felt this or him. It’s been a long time since he’s been this close, surrounded me with his warmth, or touched me. God. His hand is on my wrist. And it’s like a blazing fire is about to spread all over my skin. It doesn’t, though, because as soon as I can stand on my own, he releases my wrist and steps back. There’s always some sort of safe distance between us now. And I hate the distance. I hate space. But what I hate the most is the man standing in front of me, looking as handsome as ever in his dark suit, with his hair styled, and his face as hard as granite. It’s because of him that I gambled with my heart and failed. Or maybe it’s because of that stupid vanilla heart that’s still trying to revive itself back to life at the mere sight of him. Hearts don’t understan