Snobs Novels & Stories

Hadn't been paying that kind of attention. I was paying it now. He was probably around my age, mid-thirties, with the kind of face that suggested he spent more time thinking about ideas than maintaining a careful professional appearance. His hair was slightly too long. His clothes fit in a way that suggested he'd gotten dressed without considering whether they coordinated. There was something about him that suggested he operated on a completely different frequency than the rest of the world. "Adrian," he said, extending his hand. "I've heard you're excellent at strategy."

Annamaria's POV The silence that followed was deafening, and for a moment, I feared I might have also gone deaf too. I had no idea what was going on, but I didn't let that stop me one bit. I stared at the men in front of me. They were nothing like Sarah had described, and the mere sight of them struck something in me. The shorter one, who stood at my right, had a small smile on his face. It looked genuine, but I didn't miss the way his eyes wandered. With his black hair and brown eyes, he looked like a pretty normal guy.

he chuckles, his words causing me to freeze and slowly turn to face him. Shooting a soul penetrating glare his way, I grimaced as it seemed to have no effect on him, "maybe next year, Sebastian, Embry won't be joining us at Christmas dinner this year" I gloat. "Really, well try telling mom and dad that" he mocks as I just about stop myself from throwing this plate at him.

I could tell he was still talking but his words were nothing but background noise to me. His eyes. His smile. The stray unruly strands that always escaped his bun no matter how neatly he tried to make it. I can’t help the near silent giggle at the thought of his helmet hair. The faint smell of tobacco on his clothes. I’ve always hated the smell of anything cigarette related but he smells so good despite the fact. His aftershave I believe is the reason for that. His Six-foot One stature. His smartly and professional looking outfits he randomly puts together, even when he's wearing his motorbike jacket and boots or just slacks and his cardigans in the mornings. His voice. God, that man’s voice

Just her and the work and the plan laid out in the notebooks stacked neatly at the end of the bench. She pulled the first notebook toward her. Opened it. Her own handwriting from three years ago. Neat and precise and completely certain about everything it was doing. *Subject profile: Damien Voss. CEO Voss Industries. Age 31. Psychological assessment consistent with primary psychopathy with elevated fixation markers. History of obsessive attachment to objects and concepts. No documented romantic relationships. Suspected olfactory sensitivity above baseline. Potential susceptibility to compound V7 estimated at 89% based on psychographic modeling.*

I suck in a breath through my nose, immediately regretting it as that same thick smell fills my lungs again, heavy and sharp, mixed with sweat and sex and something else underneath that makes my stomach turn. Shit. I take a step forward anyway… I don’t have a choice, and my shoulder bumps into someone before I can even see clearly. “Watch it,” the guy snaps, but his voice changes the moment his eyes land on my face. He looks young, probably around my age, dressed too clean to be one of the guests and too relaxed to be staff. His gaze drags over me slowly, then drops to my hands, to the tray, then back up again. “You don’t look okay,” he says, lowering his voice.