Page 78 of Hard to Resist

Contrary to my initial plan, erasing Cullen from my mind has been a chore and I’m slacking off.

I’m a little curious as to how long he plans to keep this up. Surely, he’ll eventually get bored if I keep ignoring him. And when that happens, he’ll just move on to someone else and I’ll be forced to accept it. He is a wildly attractive, rich, single man. There are probably plenty of women waiting to snatch him up who aren’t afraid of his ex-wife.

I hate that idea.

Cullen had barely been mine before he was taken away.

Well, I suppose I let him go—but it was unwillingly, so it’s a gray area.

I should block his number, is what I should really do, and not torture myself with the daily reminder of his existence. It is unhealthy, and I have my work to worry about.

I pop my earbuds in before dropping the case into my work tote and double checking that I have everything. I scroll through the music library on my phone as I leave the apartment and bounce down the four flights of stairs, trying to decide what mood I feel like for my commute this morning.

I click on one of the auto-generated playlists.

Heartbreak Pop Meltdowns for Sad Girl Hype Energy.

Well, that’s a little rude.

The songs look good though.

I hit play, allowing the noise to filter through my earbuds and distract my mind from a man I shouldn’t be thinking about.

I push out the apartment building door, a gust of wind whipping my hair around. The music clearly isn’t helping, because the first thing I see is a hot man whom I think is Cullen leaning against a light post.

Come on, Verity, get a grip. Stop hallucinating the man.

I turn right onto the sidewalk, taking my usual route to the subway stop five blocks away. Another pedestrian gets way too close, almost brushing my shoulder as they walk past even though there is plenty of space.

Scratch that. Not walking past, walking beside me.

Seriously, what is this person’s issue?

Don’t they know the universal law of mind your distance?

I whip my head to the side, a bitch glare already prepped that would effectively tell them“Seriously? Back up, buddy.”

That plan fails because it’s the hot man from the light post.

The man whom I thought was Cullen.

The man whoisCullen.

Shit.

My feet malfunction, causing me to stumble, and my brain is too caught up on Cullen that it fails to process my lack of balance. The concrete comes fast, looking to kiss my forehead and promise what is sure to be a concussion.

A strong hand grips my elbow, pulling me back into a hard body. One of my earbuds tumbles free, plopping onto the sidewalk.

“Careful, angel.”

The timbre of his voice buzzes against his chest, which my cheek is currently pressed against.

I push away, taking a healthy step back from the tempting man.

I thought it would help, not being connected to his body, but now I’m forced to look at him. God damn it. It is seven in the morning, and he looks like he is ready for a photoshoot. It should be illegal for this man to wear suits this well. He has an expensive leather backpack slung over one shoulder and is carrying a brown paper bag in his left hand.

His stubble is darker than normal, almost like he took a day or so off from shaving. It does nothing but sharpen his jawline and make me want to run my hand along it to feel the pricks.

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