At first, I thought I was imagining things. I was, after all, worse than ordinary, a 27-year-old bespectacled workaholic who cared so little about her appearance that she didn't mind leaving the house without taking a shower. I never wore makeup and had my hair up all the time so I wouldn't have to drag a comb through the occasional knots. The only reason people didn't think I was a social misfit was because Korean fashion had claimed global domination; I could now leave the house in hoodies and sweat pants and still have my outfit considered as stylish. So I was that kind of person, and Ioniko being another kind of person, you could see why I had to think I was imagining things. There were times when I would be on my desk, tapping away on my iPad when I'd feel his gaze on me. Times when I would browse the latest magazines on the racks and I'd feel his eyes following every unconscious sway of my hips. Times when his stare would just burn so effing much that my body couldn't help reacting, and I'd start tingling and aching all over. Times when I wanted to forget all my inhibitions and be just like almost every other girl at Associate and imagine him making love to me. There were lots of times that it almost felt undeniable he was staring at me, but even so. Every time I felt he might be staring at me, I simply told myself nope. Just nope, nope, nope. Could he really be staring at me while I was waiting for his sister to issue me a replacement card at the counter? Nope. Were those his eyes digging holes into my back while I was chatting with Wyatt? Nope. I was determined to never let myself think otherwise, thinking that would end things, but it didn't.