Don’t get your hopes up. I think of this over and over as I head up to Lost and Found the next day, which for some reason opens two hours later than all the other offices in the hospital. I mean, seriously. What if some person had lost his car keys? Or someone had misplaced her heart and soul (like I did)? Why make that person wait for two more hours than usual just so she’d know if she should commit suicide or not?

My heartbeat is speeding faster than a Formula One racecar when the roll-ups are finally out of the way, and the clerk flips the door sign to Open.

The clerk, a middle-aged woman with eyeglasses, greets me with a smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” My voice comes out a croak.

A sympathetic expression falls on her face. “It’s that important, is it?”

I nod feelingly. Oh, lady, you just don’t know how much.

She hands me a form over the counter, saying, “Fill this out, and if you have a photo of the item you’ve lost, please show it to me, too. Any proof of identification of said item would be ideal.”

Oh, damn. I don’t curse as a rule, but this has to be a damning moment if there ever was. I never take selfies and I hate having my photos taken because it’s just another reminder of how average I am. So pictures of me with my Hobo? I wish.

I fill out the form as quickly as I can and give it my all when describing my journal and its contents. “No photos I’m afraid,” I say as I return the form to the clerk, “but all the details you’ll need is in there.” I see her eyes widen when she starts reading what I’ve written, and my heart slams against my chest. “So you’ve seen it?” Please God, please make her say yes.

“I’ll have to double-check first,” the clerk answers cautiously.

I shifted on my feet nervously, unable to help fidgeting while I wait for the clerk to return from the storage room behind the counter.

Please, please let her find it. I had done everything I could last night to find it. I retraced my steps several times, but there just wasn’t any sign of my Hobo. And so for the rest of the night I had tortured myself, tossing and turning in bed while thinking of what-ifs.

Whoever had picked it up could have thrown it away or tore off the written pages to make use of the journal.

That would have been ideal.

But it wasn’t the only possibility.

What if someone who knew me had picked it up, figured out the journal was mine and who Mr. X was? Or what if that person thought of uploading the content online so he or she could get help adding one and one to get two?

And worst-case scenario: what if Mr. X had picked it up and realized he was Mr. X and who it was writing about him?

“Ms. Quinn?” As soon as my head lifts up, the clerk shows me a very familiar-looking journal in her hands. “Is this your journal?”

Relief explodes inside of me.

Oh my God! Thank You God!

“Y-yes, that’s m-mine.” I’m so giddy and happy that my journal hasn’t become the cause of my self-destruction that my hands are shaking hard when I reach for the journal.

“I thought so.” She beams, and I beam back at her. “You just need to sign on our logbook for claims and we’re done.”

Scribbling my signature on the logbook, I ask, “Would it be possible for me to know who handed it in?”

The clerk takes out another book from under the counter and flipping the pages, she says, “Normally, yes, but…” She shows me the receipt page for my journal. “Maintenance found it outside E.R, but the person didn’t bother giving any personal details.” She gives me an apologetic smile, saying, “We have a rule about respecting people’s privacy if they choose not to share their identity.”

“Oh. Okay.” That’s weird. Why wouldn’t someone from maintenance want to share his or her personal details?

“I’m sorry about this,” the clerk apologizes.

“It’s okay,” I reassure her swiftly. “I just thought I’d like to thank whoever found it in person.”

As I walk back to Accounting, I feel like I’ve been reborn and I have this stupid urge to throw my arms wide open as a show of gratitude. Thank You God! I will never ever be so careless---

Oooh.

I stop dead in my tracks, stunned to find Mr. X a few feet away from me, talking to someone from Registrar. As always, he looks way, way hotter than any man has a right to be, and maybe it’s just me but I think he looks even sexier when he’s in scrubs, like now.

It could be the way those short sleeves emphasize the muscles in his arms – he can’t possibly have gotten that from lifting scalpels, can he?

Or maybe it’s how the tight-fitting scrubs mold to his lean form, which you can just tell is hard all over.

Bottom line: You’re just too sexy, Mr. X.

And when I look around me, I see on the other women’s faces that they’re thinking the same thing.

They want you, Mr. X. But they only want you for your body. I’m different. I want EVERYTHING about you---

My fingers unconsciously reach for my Hobo, but I manage to stop myself in time.

You can write about this later, I tell myself firmly. The last time I did a bit of impromptu journaling, I ended up losing my Hobo, and I’m determined not to take a similar risk again.

Since there’s no way to get to Accounting without walking past Mr. X I head to the waiting area near the entrance doors and settle down on one of the vacant seats. Now I can journal.

And so I start scribbling away.

---

1018H

I found you, Hobo! I am so sorry I lost you, and I promise never to do it again.

In other news, I actually spotted Mr. X and he’s in SCRUBS. You know what that means, right?

It’s one of my fave fantasies, of him pulling me into – I don’t know – a closet or what-not and making…You can fill in the blanks.

---

My face is burning by the time I slide the pen back into its holder and snap my journal close. Must be the stress, I tell myself, that’s making me, umm, more sensually inclined than usual.

Standing up, I take a peek around the doorway to see if Mr. X has already left---

And that’s when our eyes meet.

I quickly pull back and collapse in my seat. Please let that just be my imagination. Please.

A shadow falls over me.

Please.

I squeeze my eyes shut, still in denial. Please go away, shadow. Or at least please let this shadow be anyone but Mr. X.

Please.

More seconds tick by but I can still feel someone’s presence next to me.

Gulping, I slowly open my eyes and look up.

Blue-gray eyes once again blaze down on me, and they’ve such depths that I finally realize what it means to drown in a person’s eyes.

“You’re the woman from last night.”

Mr. X’s succinct tone makes me feel like I’m facing an FBI investigation, and I straighten in my seat a little as I stammer, “Y-yes, Dr. Blackmore.”

“You know my name.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Does he really not know that everyone working in this hospital is aware of who he is?

“From what department?”

“A-Accounting.” Unease starts to pool in my stomach. I still don’t see where this conversation is going, but I have this really nasty feeling I’m in trouble.

“Walk with me, please.”

And just like that Mr. X walks away.

I’m left gaping, my senses rattled, but the distance between us continues to grow, I hastily scramble to my feet, realizing too late he doesn’t intend to wait for me.

Oh dear.

As I hurry after him, a part of me is still reeling, unable to figure out what’s happening. When I finally make it to his side, he’s already reached the edge of the hallway, and he says coolly, “You took too long.”

Still trying to catch my breath after my unplanned sprint, I stammer unevenly, “S-sorry.”

“Your name?”

“Anisia, Dr. Blackmore.” I’m torn between confusion and an unreasonable sense of disappointment. How can this man ask me to walk with him without knowing my name?

Bypassing the elevator, Mr. X takes the stairs, and I follow him, despite feeling even more confused.

Mr. X glances at me, and my bemusement must have been visible on my face when he murmurs, “You’re wondering what this is all about.”

I bite my lip. How do I answer that?

As we take on another flight of stairs, Mr. X continues casually, “I’ve seen you stalking me.”

Right.

He’s seen me stalking---

Wait.

What?

I trip over my own feet, missing a step, and I let out a gasp as I feel myself falling back.

Long, hard fingers encircle my wrist, and then I’m being firmly pulled back.

“Careful.” Mr. X’s voice has suddenly become rough.

His touch burns my skin, and as soon as I regain my balance I try to yank my wrist away, but instead of letting go his grip tightens.

“D-Doctor?” I try to pull my hand away again, but he still doesn’t release me, and I no longer know what to do or say. I don’t even know how to feel. Terrified? Confused? Excited? I feel it all…and so, so much more.

“You heard what I said.”

The words make me jerk. “I…” Oh God. “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.” But his silky tone makes the taunt feel like it means something else, and my face burns as an unnatural kind of heat sweeps over me.

Oh God.

Is the prospect of being found out actually turning me on?

“You probably thought you were being discreet, but you weren’t.” Each word is a caress, and I can’t help emitting a low, shaken gasp when his fingers release me from its grip – allowing me to think I’m free for just a moment – before the same hand moves to the small of my back.

Oooooh.

No man has ever touched me there, and the intimacy of it makes me feel ridiculously delirious.

The hand on my back presses closer to my skin, and I instinctively yield to the pressure of his silent invitation. As we walk up the stairs next to each other, he says, “You’re always there when I take a break at the cafeteria.” His hand presses closer to my back as if to emphasize his point, and it’s all I can do to keep my knees from quaking. “You show up at the back of the hallway when I make my rounds. And on the times I leave work early, I see you seated on one of the benches facing the parking lot.”

Oh God.

He really does know everything.

“You’re aware I can have you arrested for stalking?”

A cry escapes me, and I raise my head, intending to plead with him, but before I can say a word I see him stop in front an unlabeled door.

He takes out a key from his pocket and after unlocking the door, he gestures for me to step inside. “If you please.” His tone is politely commanding, and I force my limbs to work, knowing I have no choice.

Stepping inside, I realize we’re inside a supplies closet---

No way! It’s just like a scene straight out of my fantasies!

I spin around when I hear the door close behind me. “S-sir?”

Mr. X reaches for me, and before I realize what’s happening, he already has me up against the door, his body pressing against mine.

I gasp.

And then I see the look in his blue-gray eyes.

Desire.

For me.

“You’re not the first woman to have stalked me.” His voice is still rough, but this time I understand where the roughness is coming from and my body starts to burn.

“The harmless ones I simply ignore. The psychotic ones, I let security quietly deal with.”

“I’m the harmless type,” I blurt out.

Mr. X answers swiftly, “I don’t think so.”

My eyes widen. Does that mean he think I’m a psycho?

“Because if you are, I wouldn’t have made a move.”

My mouth opens and close. Does that mean what I think it means? Does it? I want to think it does, but I’m just so inexperienced with things like this that I truly have no clue.

Exasperation gleams in Mr. X’s blue-gray eyes. “I’m saying I want you, woman.”

Oh!

“It still beats the hell out of me, but I actually enjoyed having you stalk me.”

He did?

“I’ve been impatiently waiting for you to make a move…”

He was?

“But last night made me realize that you were never going to make one.” Mr. X shakes his head in visible disbelief. “You might be content with how things were, but it was never enough for me.”

It wasn’t?

“So I’m making the first move.” Mr. X cups my face as he speaks, and my eyes fly wide open. I’m still struggling to make sense of his words when his next action makes everything clear.

His head descends.

Oh my God.

And then his mouth covers mine, and in a flash I understand what he means by making his first move.

His lips are unbelievable soft and yet firm at the same time. The taste of his kiss is sweet and forbidden, the feel of it hot, wicked, and irresistible.

It’s my first kiss, and I know I could never have asked for a better one.

His mouth presses harder, his tongue delving in, and I gasp against his lips.

“Breathe, Anisia,” he mutters.

The words penetrate the dreamy haze in my mind, and it’s only then I realize that I haven’t been breathing.

His tongue strokes deeper into my mouth, and my hands curl into fists against my side.

Oh, this kiss is just too, too good.

I dimly feel his hands reaching for mine, bringing them up to his shoulders, and as soon as I understand what he’s asking me to do, I wrap my arms around him and my body automatically molds closer to his.

He groans against my mouth, and his arms lock around me as he yanks me hard towards him, so, so close our breathing becomes one.

“Kiss me back,” he orders.

And so I do, tentatively at first, but when I hear him groan another time I gain more confidence and I suck harder at his tongue.

The heat inside of me swirls more furiously, and my heart thunders harder against my chest.

Mr. X starts to grind his body against mine, and I can’t help whimpering when I feel the unmistakable impression of his rigid arousal against my belly.

Oh, oh God.

I know I’m being shamelessly wanton, but I just can’t help rubbing myself against him at that point. It’s like I’m caught up in this maelstrom of sensation and my thoughts have no power in it.

All I can do is feel, and oh God, but Mr. X is soooo good at making me feel.

His mouth lifts from mine, and I cry out in protest.

But then I feel his mouth move down the side of my neck, and my toes curl hard when he starts to nibble on the sensitive skin.

And then I feel him start to suck.

Harder.

And harder.

I jerk against him. “N-no!” Is he actually trying to make a hickey? “Wait---”

But Mr. X continues to torture me with his branding kiss.

My hands move between our bodies as I try to push him away, but it’s no use. I try to pull away from his mouth, but his kiss has latched to my skin.

“Noooo.” But even to my ears the sound is a mixture of excitement and pleasure instead of dismay, and my face burns with shame.

Oh God.

I’m turning into a slut with just one kiss!

When Mr. X finally lifts his head, I demand shakily, “Why did you do that?” I can’t help clutching the side of my neck, wondering wildly all the while how I’m going to hide his mark.

Instead of answering my question, he says silkily, “If you want me, I’m sure you know where to find me.” And then he steps away, leaving me feeling strangely lost and empty. “The next move is yours, sweetheart.”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Liar.” But again, the word sounds more like a sexual taunt than anything else, and I can’t help shivering at the way his eyes roam over my body like they’re undressing bit by bit.

“You understand exactly what I mean. You’re just too scared to admit it.” I stiffen when he reaches for me, and my teeth sink into my lower lip when he pries my hand away from my neck. As his fingers graze the burning mark on my skin, he says softly, “If this mark disappears without you approaching me, then it’s over between us, no questions asked.”

His fingers fall from my skin. “So remember, Anisia. The next move must come from you.”