My Shameful Secret Read online

  “Rest?” It’s barely three in the afternoon, and I have to rest?

  “You need to,” he says easily, “because I don’t intend to let you sleep tonight.”

  Oh.

  “If you think I fucked you hard earlier, that was already me being gentle.”

  OH.

  I shake my head dazedly, wondering if he’s pulling my leg. But then he looks so serious that I can’t help blurting out, “Are you for real?”

  Ethan only gives me a silky smile that can mean nothing and everything. It’s entirely frustrating, but it’s also infinitely sexy for some reason, and my heart skips a beat.

  “Rest now.” His voice is gently commanding as he turns me on my side and pulls me close, my back against his chest.

  It feels good being close to him like this.

  Too, too good that I can’t help feeling just a little bit afraid---

  “Ethan.”

  “Mm?”

  “Is it silly,” I whisper, “that I feel scared right now?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Things will only get better---” His lips press against my hair. “Because I’ll never stop watching you.”

  * * *

  The End

  My Shameful Secret: Stalker

  Chapter 1

  Since most people think crunching numbers is the most boring thing to do, most automatically think of those who do it for a living – aka accountants like me – must just be as boring.

  I wouldn’t say…I disagree.

  At twenty-five years old, I still can’t think of anything particularly exciting that I’ve done. I’ve lived in Florida all my life, and I’ve never gone past state borders. I’ve never smoked, never done drugs or booze, and yes, I’ve never been kissed either.

  It’s not that I’ve shied away from the prospect of any of these things happening. I guess life’s just slipped past me when I wasn’t looking. Almost my entire life I’ve been busy trying to make ends meet – first because of my ailing grandparents, and when they’ve passed away I continued spending my free time working because…

  Well, because it was all I knew.

  Work – especially when it has to do with accounting – is the one thing I’m good at. It’s my haven, my safety net – ask me anything about it, and I can happily talk for hours. But outside it I’m lost.

  Ginger – my best friend – says it’s because I’m too insecure and self-conscious, worrying excessively over what people think of me.

  Maybe.

  Could be.

  I guess I’m just too insecure and self-conscious to take any kind of risk on figuring myself out.

  The accounting department I work in is part of the state’s largest private hospital. There are almost fifty of us employed to handle patients’ accounts, and even with our numbers there really isn’t a week that we don’t have a mountain’s load of paperwork to deal with.

  Most times, I don’t mind. Working with numbers is what I love, after all. But there are a rare few instances when it does get to me –

  Like now.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice is stilted, and I have to force myself to meet the mother’s gaze. “This is the most that I can do to adjust your account. But you still owe the hospital $5,403.”

  Ten minutes later, and the mother runs away sobbing, her balance still unsettled – and so is the future of her daughter, who’s been confined in Intensive Care for the past eight days.

  I stare down at her papers and take deep breaths while fighting back tears. I know I’ve done my best. But I also know it will never be good enough…just as I know that there isn’t anything else I can do.

  Checking my watch, I let out a low, trembling sigh of relief when I realize I’m up for a break. Thank God. I need a breath of fresh air.

  My fellow accountants give me looks of sympathy as I walk past their cubicles, and I smile weakly in thanks. They know how I feel. Been there, done that. And it’s what we hate most about our jobs.

  I check my watch again as I exit our office, which is located at the basement floor of the hospital. It’s an unusual site for an accounting department, and knowing that there are ten floors’ worth of ill and possibly dying people above me sometimes makes me feel claustrophobic.

  Pushing the morbid thought aside, I consider what to do next. Since it’s not yet four, maybe – just maybe I can still catch him at the cafeteria?

  Deciding it’s worth a try, I use the shortcut via the service passageway to make it to the back entrance of the cafeteria. My cheeks warm when the first thing I see him.

  Mr. X.

  He’s seated in his usual corner table, a familiar look of concentration on his handsome face as he studies the papers before him. His lab coat is folded neatly over the back of the chair next to his, and he’s dressed in an elegant dark gray suit, which I know from the rumor mills is Italian and handmade.

  Probably worth more than my entire year’s salary, I think ruefully.

  His real name is Stephen Blackmore, and aside from being the son of the hospital director he’s also considered one of the world’s most successful cardiologists.

  Ironic choice of specialization, I can’t help thinking, considering how he’s also incredibly good at breaking women’s hearts outside work.

  After loading my tray with hot coffee and a sandwich with potato salad on the side, I head to my usual spot – a table that diagonally faces Mr. X’s, thus allowing me to surreptitiously study him as much as I please.

  As I start munching on my sandwich, I take out my Hobonichi planner-slash-journal and start writing my observations.

  * * *

  1526H

  You’re alone at your table again, Mr. X. Why is that? I know today’s operation was successful so it must be that hush-hush deal you’re arranging for the hospital. I feel bad that you’re not giving the credit you deserve, with how much you’ve been doing behind the scenes on behalf of the hospital’s charity ward.

  If only I can help you!

  * * *

  I put my pen down and finish my sandwich. After taking several sips of my coffee, I turn a little to my right, and I’m rewarded with his complete profile. I watch him drive his fingers through his hair – a silky dark shade of brown – and marvel at how such a simple gesture can be so strikingly sexy and elegant at the same time.

  I watch him glance at his watch – a custom-designed Panerai according to our department’s chief gossipmongers – and when a brief frown crosses his face, I start writing again.

  * * *

  Are you late for something, Mr. X? I know you love your work, which you know I find admirable – but you should also take care of yourself a little bit more. I hope you at least remember to eat three times a day. You can’t help others if you don’t stay healthy.

  * * *

  I finish my coffee and sigh afterwards, feeling refreshed. Ah, I feel so much better now. Nothing’s as effective as a fake date with my imaginary boyfriend.

  The next day at work is pretty hectic. A massive fire had broken out from an office building a few blocks away, and majority of the victims have been directed our way. Since most of the injuries are minor, there’s only a short interval before patients are transferred from E.R. to Accounting.

  “Listen up, everyone.” Our department head, Tony, claps loudly to grab our attention, and silence descends in the conference room. “We were supposed to make an announcement about this in a few days, but with the fire, well, I guess it’s a good thing everything’s in place. A new program has recently been installed in our system that now allows faster processing of victims of natural disasters and major-scale accidents and events. Fees will be automatically and heavily discounted. We’ll tackle the specifics later on, but just make sure to press on the Disaster Relief button when you start a patient’s account, and the system will automatically generate the necessary computations. Any questions?”

  Most people’s hands shoot up.

  “That’s great. I’m glad you all get it. Now go!”

  Everyone groans but it’s belied by the grins on our faces. It’s been our tradition of sorts that Tony ends each meeting with an offer for a Q&A that he never follows up on. Quite a silly thing, but when you’re working at a hospital and constantly confronted by the proof of how ephemeral life is – it’s the silly things that keep you sane.

  Twisting my hair up and making sure that my hair net is securely in place, I head over to my cubicle and start processing patient accounts. The new program works like magic, and I wonder if this was the “deal” that Mr. X has been brokering.

  Hours pass, and most others have already stepped out for their breaks when I finally take mine. Before heading to the cafeteria, I make a detour to the E.R. to see if there are still new patients being rolled in. Through the glass doors, I’m surprised to find Mr. X, a clipboard in hand while he speaks with a small group of doctors and nurses. And since neurosurgeons are never stationed at E.R., he can only be working there on voluntary duty.

  Oh, Mr. X, I think with a silent sigh. It’s times like this I want to kiss you so bad.

  I grab a can of coffee from the vendo and decide to kill a bit of time hanging outside the E.R., just so I can have the pleasure of watching Mr. X in action.

  A couple of registered nurses start to stroll past me, and my ears prick up when I hear his name being mentioned.

  “She’s making it seem she dumped him, the bitch,” Nurse #1 huffs angrily. “I was there when she made this whole scene at E.R. Apparently, she’s got this major awards show to attend tonight and she absolutely wants our Doctor BlackDreamy to be her escort. When he told her he had the victims from the fire to take care of, she blew up a fuse in front of everyone and threw him an ultimatum. It’s her or the hospital.”

  “And
what did he say?” Nurse #2 asks eagerly.

  Nurse #3 smirks. “Someone took a video of this and posted it on our chat group.” She pauses in front of me and the others stop beside her as Nurse #3 fishes her phone out.

  I try not to be obvious as I crane my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the said video.

  Nurse #3 taps on her screen, and the video starts to play.

  I inch a little closer to them, just enough to see---

  “I can’t hear it,” Nurse #2 complains.

  Nurse #3 sighs and turns up the volume. “Let me play it again.”

  Thank God, I think gratefully, since I wasn’t able to hear it either.

  The video plays from the start again, and this time I catch Mr. X’s distinct voice saying very coolly, “It was nice knowing you.”

  Ooooooooh.

  And the three other nurses have the same reaction, even high-fiving each other. That was definitely a cold way to end a relationship.

  I totally approve, Mr. X.

  “Wait,” Nurse #2 says. “There’s more.”

  And there is.

  My jaw silently drops when I catch a sight of the model slapping Mr. X on the face in the video.

  Oh my poor Mr. X!

  As the nurses walk away, I hear one of them say, “That woman’s so full of it!”

  “I know, right?” I think it’s Nurse #3 speaking, with her high-pitched voice. “Did she really believe Dr. BlackDreamy would drop everything for her just because she can work a catwalk? Puh-leez. Our doctor isn’t that shallow. He’s not impressed by stuff like that. Now, if he gets to know someone like us---”

  Her friends giggle.

  “He’d totally value our worth. We’re hot and smart, and let’s say we’ve got this medical conference to attend. He’s totally going to choose to escort me---”

  “You mean us,” Nurse #2 says drily.

  Nurse #3 ignores that as she finishes triumphantly, “That model was just a flash in the pan. When it’s the real deal, he’d totally choose his woman over his work.”

  Their voices fade into silence as they walk away, and I shake my head, thinking, They don’t get him at all.

  Glancing back at the E.R. I spy Mr. X talking to an elderly couple, a gentle expression on his gorgeous face.

  I bite my lip.

  Don’t do it.

  Now’s not a good time.

  But the temptation is too much to resist, and before I know it I’m already taking out my Hobo from my pocket and hurriedly scribbling down my thoughts.

  * * *

  1854H

  I overheard a couple of RNs talking about you, Mr. X. They saw that model giving you an ultimatum, and how you chose work over her. They think that if it were another woman – someone like them, apparently – it would be different.

  But I know it won’t be, and that’s okay.

  You won’t be you if you had changed, just for another woman. I love how dedicated you are to work, Mr. X. And if it means that you’d bail on me from time to time because you have lives to save – I’d totally support you. I’d be at home, waiting, knowing that when you get home, all you want is just a hot meal, someone to massage your shoulders, a willing ear or maybe a (hot?) body to hold close at night.

  I’ll be all that for you, Mr. X.

  * * *

  I put my journal back in my pocket and close my eyes, allowing myself a moment to fantasize about the scene I wrote down. After our late dinner, we’d talk over coffee, and then we’d go up and he’d suddenly swing me up in my arms and say---

  Thank you.

  And I’d say shyly, There’s no need.

  There’s every need, he’d counter, and I’m going to return the favor. He’d give me a wolfish grin, I’d blush, and when he takes me to bed---

  Embarrassment floods my entire being when I realize where my thoughts are heading, and I quickly open my eyes to put a stop to it. Ducking my head, I quickly walk away, only to bump into someone hard.

  Ouch!

  That was one hard wall. Rubbing my head gingerly, I look up, intending to say sorry, but instead I end up turning white when I realize who it is.

  Mr. X.

  His blue-gray eyes blaze down at me, a look of faint impatience on his handsome features. “Apologies.”

  His curt voice makes me want to shrink and I take an involuntary step back. Without meeting his gaze, I mumble, “It’s my fault, sir.” And then I run away, heart in my throat, and I don’t ever look back.

  It’s only when I reach my cubicle that I allow myself to breathe---

  Oh my God. That was my first up-close-and-personal encounter with Mr. X, and I just had to give him an impression I was this jumpy, flighty idiot.

  “Idiot,” I mutter to myself.

  Even so, I need to write it down. I dip my fingers into my pocket---

  And that’s when I find out I’ve lost my planner.

  Chapter 2

  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.”