Page 24 of Sweet Poison

I remember those blue eyes that remind me of clear skies on a hot summer day.

The girl looks up, her blue eyes meeting mine, and there’s a flicker of shock in her expression. Her pretty red lips part slightly, but no words come out. The intensity of her gaze, which had seemed shy and reserved at first, now falters, and she quickly drops her eyes to her lap, a deep blush spreading across her cheeks. Huh… how pretty. Her hands fidget in her lap, and she shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

Dammit where have I seen those eyes?

The room’s chatter fades into the background as I watch her. Her reaction is unexpected. I’m not used to shy women. Not really. I wonder if she’s a fan of mine.

I stare at her longer, taking in her appearance. She has long, rich caramel curls that cascade down her back like a river of honey, each strand catching the Christmas lights and shimmering with a depth that seems almost tangible. Her sun-kissed skin glows, a warm, radiant hue that tells me perhaps she enjoys spending time outside. Even sitting down, I can tell she’s small. A hell of a lot shorter than me. I can also catch a glimpse of her figure and what a sexy as fuck one that is. Her curves are the kind that make you catch your breath.

But what has me unable to look away from her is her face. That face of hers could rival any model I’ve seen strutting down the runway or that has spent a night in my bed. There’s something almost surreal about her, a magnetic pull that’s like when artists get lost in their own masterpieces, unable to see or think of anything else.

I study her as she looks down, her pretty eyes focusing on her papers, and I’m struck by the sight of her plump lips, which form a soft, almost pouty line. Even her mannerisms—nervous but charming—are captivating.

The fuck is happening to me? No other woman has ever captivated me. Nothing except racing.

As she shifts slightly, her face is illuminated with that golden glow of the Christmas lights and the chandelier overhead, highlighting her striking features even more—the smooth curve of her cheek, the delicate arch of her brown brows, and the pretty pink on her cheeks hinting at embarrassment.

She’s embarrassed?

I’m not used to that reaction from women. Overexcited to meet me? Yes. Flirtatious? Yes.

Embarrassed? Never.

Huh.

This girl’s reaction, the way she’s blushing and avoiding my gaze, only makes my interest for her grow. I’m unable to look away. I just want to look at her more and nothing else.

Fascinated, my eyes move from her makeup-free face down to her choice of clothing, and a rare smile tugs at the corners of my lips. How odd… Her simple outfit is so different from the bland professionalism of her colleagues. She is dressed in high-waisted light blue jeans that fit her like they were made just for her—casual yet stylish. The jeans hug her curves in a way that accentuates her figure without being overly flashy. But it’s the oversized white shirt that truly catches my eye. The shirt has a cartoonish mushroom printed on it with the words: “Don’t be a turd, save the planet.” It’s so absurd but endearing compared to the more serious attitudes of her colleagues that it makes me fight a smile. The shirt’s message is cheeky. I’ll give her that.

Too damn hippy for my taste but cute.

As I take in her captivating beauty, and her quirky shirt—I’m struck by how she stands out in a room full of people trying to blend in. And maybe that is what caught my attention when lately nothing ever does.

Only one person had the power to have all of me and my attention.

The shirt’s message and the cartoon mushroom evoke memories of the girl with the wild heart from my past. The damn shirt and the brown curls have unlocked a long-buried memory that keeps popping up every time I am reminded of her.

Just as I’m about to remember more about my Wild One, an overly excited voice cuts through my thoughts. It’s the dark man with the eager grin, who’s now standing up and making his way toward me. The rest of the nerds follow, approaching with the same enthusiasm that’s both annoying and tiresome as fuck.

The other one. The one with the ugly vest is first, extending a hand with a firm grip and introducing himself as Dr. Ethan Jensen. His voice is steady, boring, and professional, and I nod in acknowledgement, though my attention keeps drifting back to the girl in the oversized shirt.

Next is the too damn friendly, dark skinned guy who introduces himself as Dr. Bernie Castillo. His handshake is accompanied by a warm smile and a stream of useless information about his research’s mission, which I ignore while my gaze keeps slipping back to the girl still seated by the window.

As of now none of these nerds have gone fan crazy over me so either they’re real professional or they give zero fucks about me.

At that moment, one of the women who introduced herself as Dr. Maya Dávila comes closer, her eyes widening with recognition. She gasps, a sound so animated that it shifts the atmosphere.

“Oh,Dios mío, you’re Madden Hunt, aren’t you?” she screeches, her voice carrying a mixture of excitement and disbelief. “The two-time Formula 1 champion! I had no idea you’d be here. I mean, it’s an honor, really!” She practically bounces on her black heels as she shakes my hand. I shakeher hand until her enthusiasm morphs into something more personal. She lingers a bit too long with the handshake, her fingers brushing against mine with a touch that feels intentional rather than accidental. Her gaze holds mine a moment longer than necessary, and her smile turns flirty. “I’m a huge fan and so is my Dad! Oh, my. I had no idea you are the owner of the hotel,” she says, her tone now laced with a flirty undertone.

I offer a polite nod, and I don’t hide the subtle irritation that flares up.

Bored with her pointless attempt to flirt, I acknowledge the other woman before my eyes find Mushroom Girl, who is still seated quietly, her face angled away as though she’s trying to become invisible. Her earlier reaction—the shock and refreshing shyness—lingers in my mind, making her an even more intriguing enigma.

Forgetting everyone else in the room, I take a step closer to her, my gaze softening as I do. “And you are?” I ask gently, trying to not spook her. She seems like the type to be easily spooked.

Mushroom girl looks up from her notebook slowly, her doe eyes meeting mine looking surprised and shy. The blush on her cheeks deepens, but there’s also a flicker of curiosity in her gaze that suggests she’s more than just nervous. She hesitates, as if struggling to find her words, her fingers nervously playing with the edge of her green notebook. After a long moment, slowly and hesitantly, she stands up. The movement is deliberate, like she’s trying to gather her courage. My gaze lingers on her, and I find myself captivated by the transformation. At this moment she reminds me of a caterpillar transforming into a colorful butterfly.

My breath gets caught in my throat as her beauty hits me all at once. If sitting down she was lovely, standing, she’s even more striking. Compared to everyone in the room she’s the shortest. Her petite size emphasizes her delicate and etherealpresence. And there’s something about the way she stands—slightly poised, with a subtle grace that makes her appear almost otherworldly. Fuck. She reminds me of a fairy from a fantasy book, pretty, delicate and enchanting, with a presence that feels both fragile and captivating.

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