That’s impossible! Google has to be wrong on this one. Right?

But I know I’m just denying reality.

Google is always right, and so if it says that hickeys typically last five to twelve days – then it must be so.

A growing sense of disbelief fills me as I continue reading. Moreover, according to the all-knowing search engine, some hickeys – depending on their severity- can last even longer.

My gaze swerves to my reflection, and I feel myself turning red as the sight of the huge, dark red mark on the side of my neck once again confronts me.

Yup. That’s totally the illustrated definition of severe.

My heart sinks and jumps at the same time. It’s just as hopelessly confused as I am about the entire thing with Mr. X. Five days have already passed, and I still can’t believe all those things have happened.

A part of me is still convinced it’s all just a dream. It has to be a dream because it’s only in dreams that men like Mr. X would want someone like me.

Right?

When Ginger finally drops by for a sleepover, I’m only able to wait until she closes the door before I spill everything out. Considering how she interrupts my story with “No fucking way” every five minutes, I’m guessing everything sounds as unrealistic to her as it does to me.

So I must be dreaming.

Right?

When I finally finish recounting the whole Twilight-Zone episode between Mr. X and me, we’re done with dinner and already helping ourselves to the box of cheesecake Ginger’s brought over.

“This is so good,” I tell her.

“No, babe.” Ginger shakes her head with a laugh. “This cheesecake is just good. It’s your story that’s so good.”

I can’t help laughing a little at her answer, but even so I say wryly, “It’s so good there has to be a catch, don’t you think?”

My best friend rolls her eyes at me. “There you go again being paranoid. How many times do I have to tell you? Life isn’t out to shit on your parade. Bad things happen. But good things do, too, so stop focusing on the bad stuff.”

“But this is too good,” I protest. “Mr. X---”

“Can’t we use his real name?” Ginger interrupts me with a frown. “It just feels weird calling him that. Makes the whole thing too kinky.”

I shake my head. “Mr. X is the only way we should refer to him. It’s safer that way.”

“You’re so paranoid,” Ginger says with a sigh.

“Always better to be safe than sorry.”

“Fiiiiine. Mr. X it is. Now back to your dilemma.” A look of feigned puzzlement crosses her face. “Oh, wait. What’s the problem again? Mr. X the hottie wants you, and so all you have to do is tell him when you want him to kiss you again. Right? So what’s the problem with that again?”

I make a face. “Ha. Ha.”

“I’m asking, like, for real. What is the problem?”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “You know what my problem with the whole thing is!”

“Yeah, I know,” she retorts, “that’s why I’m sure you also know that what I’m saying here is there’s isn’t a problem in the first place. What he’s proposing in not so many words is a fling. That’s it. A fling, so no need to overthink it.” She takes a piece of cake, making a show of savoring it, and the symbolism isn’t lost on me.

I grimace. “Very funny.” What she’s asking me to do may be a piece of cake for her, but not for someone like me. “I just can’t do it,” I say for the nth time.

“Then…” She blows a kiss.

I can kiss my chances goodbye, I translate dourly.

God, why did I even think it was a good idea to ask Ginger for advice?

But I’m already grabbing my phone and my best friend lets out a whoop for joy. “Are you texting him?”

“No.” I don’t look up from the screen. “I don’t have his number. I’m sending him an email instead.”

Ginger nods approvingly. “Smart girl.”

Gnawing on my lip, I study what I’ve typed so far.

---

Me: How do I make my move?

---

That should be okay, right?

“Don’t overthink it,” Ginger reminds me.

Oh. Right. So I take a deep breath and press Send.

I lift my gaze to my friend, saying weakly, “I can’t believe I just emailed him.”

Before Ginger can answer, we hear my phone vibrate, and we gasp simultaneously.

“That’s unbelievably fast,” Ginger exclaims. “He must really have the hots for you.”

“He does not.” But even so, the thought makes my cheeks burn with pleasure, and my fingers shake a little when I open my email---

Oh.

“It’s my newsletter from a journal sub box,” I say in disappointment.

Ginger makes a face. “I’d like to think that has to do with sexual Submissives---”

“Of course not,” I gasp. “It’s a subscription box, for God’s sake.”

She yawns. “Boooooring.”

And then my phone vibrates again.

“How many boring newsletters are you expecting today?” Ginger demands.

I slowly shake my head. “That’s it.”

And as soon as I say the words my heart jumps to my throat.

It has to be him this time.

Right?

“You’re killing me here,” Ginger groans. “Just read it!”

I reach for my phone, and the first thing I see when I click my inbox is his name.

Stephen Blackmore.

I look at my friend, stunned. “It’s him.”

Ginger squeals. “Oh my God, what did he say?”

Swallowing hard, I click on his message.

---

Mr. X: Stalk me.

Stalk me, he says. A few days ago, that would have been a walk in the park. I know his schedule by heart. I know the people he hangs out with at the hospital. I know everything a stalker (not that I’m one) could know about him.

But that was then.

It’s different now. He knows I’ve been stalking him, and everything’s changed because of that. I mean, does he really expect me to continue following him around, staring at him, even knowing that he’s aware of my unspoken obsession of him?

And besides, what if this is all a cruel game to him? What if it’s not just a fling? What if he’s a rich weirdo who’s thinking of re-enacting Cruel Intentions in real life?

Then again, if I voiced my worries to Ginger she’d only tell me I’m overthinking it again, won’t she?

More days pass, one after another, but I tell myself there’s nothing to worry about. I still have all the time in the world – or so I thought, until one morning I check my reflection in the vanity mirror and I’m startled to see that the mark has almost completely faded.

Oh no!

Didn’t he say he’d consider things done between us if I haven’t yet made a move once his mark is completely gone?

What if he really meant it?

The thought sends me into a flurry of action, and fifteen minutes later I’m speeding out of my apartment and heading off for work. I make it half an hour earlier than usual, which is perfect.

Mr. X tends to get to work earlier than usual, too, and so I have ample opportunity to…

To…

Never mind what I’ll do or say, I think to myself, feeling reckless for once. Right now, what’s important is getting to him before my mark disappears.

Butterflies swoop around my stomach as I take the elevator to his office. The entire tenth floor is empty save for the two nurses at the station. When they look at me suspiciously, I totally get it. After all, what kind of business can a lowly pencil pusher from Accounting like me have here?

I park myself at the corner, away from the nurses’ watchful stares but perfectly positioned to see him step out the moment his office door opens. At around this time, he’d be making his first round for the day, so any moment now he’d be---

And there he is.

Mr. X emerges from his office, gorgeous and sexy, and with his lab coat over his suit, stethoscope around his neck, and clipboard in hand. I’m about to call out to him when I see a beautiful woman follow him out of his office.

Oh.

I recognize her right away. She’s another cardiologist – not as good as he is, of course, but still one of the best in their field.

They start walking towards my direction and I’m torn between running away and keeping still. If I don’t move, maybe they won’t notice me? I duck my head unthinkingly as they come closer, and their conversation gradually drifts to my ears.

Are you ready for tonight’s operation, Dr. Martine Peppers asks him.

I’ve prepared for it, is Mr. X’s calm reply.

I’m feeling a little nervous, the other woman confesses. It’s not all the time you’re asked to operate on a man like Sir Bartholomew.

Oh! Understanding comes in a flash, and I turn away before the pair reaches me. Sir Bartholomew is a rather prominent political figure in Britain and his sudden arrival via helicopter has sent the entire hospital in a mini uproar. His presence here has been kept under wraps, with management making it clear that anyone who’s thinking of tattling to the press would have a hefty price to pay.

I definitely can’t disturb him today. The thought has me reaching for the side of my neck unconsciously, and pain squeezes my heart when I realize what that could mean.

If I let today pass and the mark is completely gone by tomorrow---

My fingers dig into my palms.

But if I approach him now and distract him from the operation---

The choice is clear.

My heart feels a little heavy as I head back to the elevator, but it’s more sadness than regret because I know I’ve done the right thing. And maybe, I think fatalistically, things are meant to happen this way.

I press the Down button and bite back a sigh of frustration when I realize I still have to wait for the elevator to finish its trip up before I can get in.

Drat.

Behind me, I hear a couple of footsteps and I stiffen. Please let it not be them---

“I’ll see you later then.” It’s Dr. Peppers.

My heart sinks.

There’s a second of silence, and Mr. X must have nodded since Dr. Peppers then continues, “Maybe we can get together for drinks afterwards?” Her voice has suddenly become throaty, and my eyes fly towards the digital screen of the elevator in desperation.

Hurry up, elevator! I feel them stop right behind me, and I have a silly urge to run away. This is so not good. Why do I have to be the third wheel in this party?

“What do you think?” I hear Dr. Peppers ask.

“I think it’s better to keep things platonic between us.” Mr. X’s tone is polite and dismissive.

I manage not to gasp aloud at his reply. Such words would have totally crushed me, but Dr. Peppers only laughs it off, and I’m quietly impressed.

“You really are a bastard.” But the words are spoken in a low, breathless tone, and I realize that Mr. X’s rejection just seems to have turned her on.

Oh wow.

She really is quite the woman – but doesn’t she mind that I’m here, with a functional pair of ears?

The elevator doors slide open, and I hurry inside, sticking to the corner and keeping my head bowed. The two follow me in, and the elevator doors close. Silence hums inside, which for some reason feels even tenser. Dr. Peppers’ phone starts to ring, and she picks it up right away. “What is it?”

When the other woman starts talking briskly about another operation, I can’t help but raise my gaze, thinking that I might peek on them---

And our eyes meet.

Oh!

The knowing glint in Mr. X’s blue-gray eyes tells me he’s been aware of me from the start, and my face burns. Actually, every inch of me burns and I don’t even know why.

The elevator stops on the eighth floor, and Dr. Pepper steps out without looking back at Mr. X, still busy talking.

The elevator doors close, leaving just the two of us.

“You were going to leave without even trying to talk to me, weren’t you?”

Knowing it’s useless to lie, I simply nod.

“Because of Dr. Peppers?” he asks bluntly.

I shake my head.

He frowns. “Then why?”

“Because I overheard your conversation about Sir Bartholomew,” I mumble under my breath.

There’s a moment of silence, and he murmurs, “You really are something.”

Something…like what? I look at him uncertainly, but the elevator has reached my floor, and when he only nods at me, I realize I’m being dismissed.

Hurt squeezes my heart once again, but I keep my chin up as I step out of the elevator.

The doors close behind me.

My knees threaten to buckle.

I guess that’s all I meant to him.